"How do you feel?" I ask, my voice carefully neutral despite the way my hands want to smooth over her skin, check for damage I might have caused in my loss of control.
"Sore," she admits with a laugh that holds no regret. "But good sore. Like I've been thoroughly claimed." She props herself up on one elbow, green eyes bright with contentment as she studies my face. "How do you feel?"
Like a predator who just devoured something innocent. Like a man who's crossed a line that can't be uncrossed. Like someone who's destroyed the most important relationship of his life because he couldn't resist temptation when it was offered with such perfect understanding.
"Complicated," I say instead.
Something flickers in her expression—concern, maybe, or the first hint of recognition that my mood doesn't match hers. "Complicated how?"
I can't tell her the truth. Can't explain that watching her sleep made me realize how young she still is, how much life she has ahead of her that doesn't include correspondence with killers or hotel rooms that smell like sex and poor decisions. Can't describe the growing certainty that I've just ruined something pure because I was too selfish to walk away when I should have.
"We need to talk," I say, sitting up against the headboard and immediately missing the weight of her against my chest.
The words hit her like cold water. I watch her face change, happiness fading into wariness as she reads something in my tone that she doesn't like. She sits up too, pulling the sheet around herself with movements that suddenly seem self-conscious.
"That doesn't sound good," she says carefully.
It's not good. Nothing about this is good, despite how right it felt in the darkness. Because daylight has a way of making clear what shadows obscure—that I'm twenty-four years old and she's seventeen, that I kill people for reasons I've convinced myself are noble, that she's building a life that should have nothing to do with my carefully controlled violence.
"Last night was…." I search for words that acknowledge what happened without encouraging it to continue. "Intense. Important. But it can't happen again."
The statement lands between us like a blade, cutting through the intimacy we'd built with surgical precision. I watchher face go very still, the kind of stillness that comes before explosions.
"Why not?"
Because you deserve better than this. Because you're seventeen and I'm a killer and mixing those two facts creates something toxic that will poison everything good about who you're becoming. Because I've spent seven months watching you grow into someone remarkable, and I won't be the thing that destroys that growth.
"Because you have a life to build," I say instead. "College, relationships with people your own age, a future that doesn't include whatever this is between us."
"Whatever this is?" Her voice carries an edge I've never heard before, sharp enough to cut. "Is that what you're calling it? Whatever this is?"
"Delilah—"
"Don't." She holds up a hand, stopping me before I can explain. "Don't you dare minimize what just happened. Don't pretend that what we have doesn't mean anything."
The anger in her voice is magnificent and terrible, like watching a wildfire consume everything in its path. Because she's right—what we have does mean something. It means more than anything I've experienced in my adult life. Which is exactly why it has to end.
"It means everything," I say quietly. "That's the problem."
Her eyebrows furrow in confusion, anger temporarily displaced by the need to understand. "How is that a problem?"
"Because you're seventeen years old, and I'm a man who kills people." The words come out harsher than I intended, butmaybe harsh is what she needs to hear. "Because what we have feels right to both of us, and that should terrify you."
"It doesn't terrify me. It excites me."
"And you don’t think that’s a problem?"
She laughs, but there's no humor in it. "I understand perfectly. You think I'm some naive little girl who got swept up in the drama of what you do, who doesn't comprehend the implications of caring about someone like you."
"Aren't you?"
The question hangs in the air between us, brutal in its honesty. Because part of me hopes she is naive, hopes that her understanding is superficial enough that she can walk away from this without permanent damage. The alternative—that she truly comprehends what I am and wants me anyway—is more terrifying than any law enforcement investigation.
"No," she says finally, her voice steady despite the hurt I can see building in her eyes. "I'm not. I'm someone who's seen the worst of what people can do to each other and recognizes justice when it's delivered with precision. I'm someone who understands that the world is divided into predators and prey, and I'd rather be connected to a predator who chooses his targets carefully than pretend that good intentions are enough to stop monsters."
Everything she's saying is true, which makes this infinitely harder. Because she does understand, in ways that should be impossible for someone her age. But understanding and being ready for the consequences are different things entirely.
"You think you understand," I say, forcing steel into my voice. "But you don't know what it's like to carry bodies on your conscience, to see someone's face every time you close your eyes,to live with the knowledge that you've ended lives and called it justice."
