Chapter 2
Ronan
When I got back to my apartment, the glitter clung to me like failure.
There was smudged eyeliner at the corner of my eye, and the faint ghost of perfume still in my hair.
I scrubbed at myself as soon as the door closed, tearing the halter top over my head and tossing it across the room like it had betrayed me.
He wasn’t supposed to be like that!
Storming across my living room and into the tiny bathroom, I pressed both palms flat against the cracked sink, staring at my reflection in the dirty mirror. My lips were swollen, my eyes still ringed in pink from the club lights.
I looked like a whore, didn’t I?
Fuck.
Wesley fucking Cohen had seen through me, had handled me. And that—that wasn’t supposed to happen.
When Elias let himself into my apartment half an hour later—he never knocked, never asked permission—I was pacing like a caged animal, leather shorts abandoned on the floor, my silk bathrobe wrapped around me, a glass of whiskey in my hand.
“You knew,” I snapped the second I saw him, turning on him like a knife. “You knew he wasn’t ordinary! What the fuck, Elias?!”
Elias’s mouth quirked in that infuriating way, like I was a child throwing a tantrum instead of the weapon he’d built with his own hands. He settled onto my couch like he owned the place, sprawling with the ease of a man who’d never once been told no.
“Happy birthday to him, wasn’t it?” he said lazily, ignoring the storm brewing in my voice. “Fifty. I was curious to see how he’d celebrate.”
My fingers tightened around the glass. “You sent me in blind! He could’ve killed me!”
“Alive, aren’t you?” Elias shrugged. “If he wanted you dead, you’d be bleeding out in some soundproofed room right now. But here you are—in all your dramatics. So maybe I didn’t miscalculate after all.”
I stalked closer, every muscle coiled. “You swore to me—no more surprises. You swore you’d tell me what I was walking into. You fucking—fuck,” I fumed.
“Mm. Did I?” Elias asked coyly, his verdant eyes glittering.
The words punched through me, bitter as bile. Twenty years. Twenty years since he’d pulled me from my family’s home and remade me into something monstrous. Twenty years of missions, blood, whispered orders in the night. And still, still he looked at me like I was a student being scolded.
I threw my glass at the wall, fully aware he’d mock me for throwing a tantrum.
The shattered shards of glass rained down onto the ratty carpet below, and the whiskey dripped down the already stained wall.
“He knew what I was from the first second. He didn’t just see through me, Elias—he—he toyed with me! ”
And I think I liked it, I left out. The shame of that was already eating away at me—I didn’t need Elias’s judgment on the matter.
Elias tilted his head, studying me with interest and amusement. “Good.”
My jaw clenched. “Good?!”
“Do you know why I want him gone, Ronan?” Elias asked softly, leaning forward, all lazy humor gone.
“Because Wesley Cohen isn’t like the rest. He’s not a crooked banker, or some cartel lapdog, or a politician that can be blackmailed with the right photos.
He’s independent. He’s the sort of man who doesn’t just kill rivals—he cleans house.
Every time I make a deal, build a network, expand a little further…
he’s fucking there. Removing pieces. Killing men I’ve put on the board. ”
My stomach coiled tighter with every word.
“So yes, I sent you in blind,” Elias said, voice smooth as oil. “Because I wanted to see if my best creation could crack him.”
I spat the words back at him. “I’m not your fucking creation.”
Elias smiled, slow and serpent-like. “Aren’t you?”
Silence—the kind that made my skin crawl.
Finally, I turned away, raking a hand through my hair, glitter flaking to the floor. “He’s dangerous…” The words came out low, like a confession. “You should’ve told me. You promised…”
Elias rose then, coming to stand behind me. His reflection slid into mine in the mirror above my little liquor cart, looming, a shadow I could never scrape off. His hands rested on my shoulders—too gentle, too possessive.
“That’s why he has to die, Ronan. And that’s why you’ll be the one to kill him.”
I met my own reflection, pale, exhausted eyes ringed in fury, Elias’s smirk ghosting behind me like a brand. My nails dug into the palms of my hands.
I’d get another chance.
And this time, I’d make sure Wesley Cohen didn’t walk away smiling.
I wouldn’t fail again.
Elias left a few minutes later, wishing me a sickeningly sweet goodnight.
Sleep was out of the question. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the confident smirk tugging at Wesley’s lips, the way his gaze had cut through me like he already knew what I’d try before I even tried it.
My body still vibrated with the ghost of his grip, the way he’d dominated me so effortlessly, without even needing to raise his voice.
And worse—worse than the humiliation—was that deep, treacherous part of me that was thrilled by it.
I curled into myself on the couch, robe drawn tight around my chest, trying to suffocate the thought. Elias’s words buzzed through me, an infection I couldn’t claw out: my best creation.
I hated him for saying it.
I hated him for being right.
Mostly, though, I just hated him for being him.
My pride stung, every memory of the night replaying on a loop. I should’ve been the one in control. I should’ve had Cohen wrapped around my finger, bleeding for me, begging for me. Instead, I’d been made a fool of.
A laugh broke out of me, sharp and bitter. He’d turned me into the very thing I despised most—a pretty distraction, nothing more.
I dragged myself to the desk shoved against the wall, pulling the drawer until it groaned open. My knives gleamed back at me in the dim light, little fangs lined up all neat in their velvet sheaths. I traced one with my fingertip, pressure just shy of breaking skin.
“You’ll see,” I whispered to no one. Maybe to Elias. Maybe to myself. Maybe to Wesley. Maybe to the world. “I’m not weak. Not a toy. You’ll see.”
I pictured Wesley’s throat, that rough, strong jawline tilting up under the blade. The power I’d take back when his blood slicked my fingers, when his perfect control shattered under me.
And yet—my hand trembled.
Not with fear, but something much scarier.
I slammed the drawer shut before I could betray myself further, pressing my forehead to the wood. My breath came ragged and shallow.
He’d looked at me like I was interesting. Not just Elias’s dog, not just some broken thing. He’d looked at me like I was a person.
I wasn’t.
* * *
Morning crept in too soon, painting my apartment a jaundiced gray. I hadn’t slept more than a few minutes. My robe was wrinkled, my hair tangled, my eyes bloodshot. My body felt wrung out from pacing back and forth across the floor for hours on end.
The unlocking of the front door signaled Elias’s arrival. He strolled in with a smile on his face.
“You look awful,” he said cheerfully, setting a paper cup of coffee on the counter like some benevolent saint. “Not your best, Ronan.”
I snatched it up, only because my hands were shaking and I needed something to hold onto. “You don’t get to walk in here all happy like—like this isn’t your fault.”
“My fault?” Elias arched a perfectly-groomed auburn brow, shedding his jacket and tossing it across the back of my kitchen table’s singular chair like he owned the place. “You’re the one who failed your mission. You got too distracted by Cohen.”
My grip tightened around the cardboard cup until it began to dent. “He’s… different. I wasn’t expecting—”
“Different?” Elias’s mouth quirked in amusement. “You’ve charmed and slit the throats of men who owned countries, sweetheart. Don’t tell me one silver fox has you undone.”
Heat rushed to my face—rage, shame, I couldn’t separate them. “I wasn’t undone,” I hissed.
“No?” Elias leaned against the counter, arms crossed, his smile all teeth. “Then what do you call it? Because from where I’m standing, you forgot all about killing him, turned it into a cute little date.”
I slammed the cup down so hard that coffee splashed over my fingers, burning me. “Shut the fuck up.”
Elias only chuckled, low and pleased, as if my temper were proof of something.
“I’m not understanding the issue, sweetheart.
You know that sometimes a warm bed is the quickest path to a cold corpse.
It’s what you’re known for. So why not do the same here?
Get him comfortable. Get him nice and pliant.
Then cut his throat while your hole is squeezing his cock. Simple.”
The words gutted me. My stomach churned, and for a dizzying second, I thought I might actually be sick.
Wesley’s voice echoed in my head, “Have you ever killed someone while their dick was inside of you?”
Elias brushed his hand against my cheek. “You’re a beautiful weapon, Ronan. And weapons don’t get to choose how they’re used. You know that.”
Yeah, I did.
Every assignment, every seduction, every time I’d spread myself open for the sake of a successful mission—he had orchestrated it.
I jerked back, nearly tripping over my own feet in my retreat. My heart was a hammer in my ribs, my breath jagged.
“I’ll do it my own way,” I rasped, though the words didn’t feel like mine. But they felt like the only defense I had left.
Elias smiled that serpent’s smile again. “Of course you will.” His hand lingered in the air a moment after I’d pulled back, fingers curling in a lazy little wave as if my recoil amused him.
“You’ve always been so dramatic,” he said, pushing off the counter. He plucked his jacket from the chair and swung it over one shoulder. “But that’s what makes me love you. You burn bright, Ronan. Just don’t forget who struck the match.”
He didn’t wait for a response. His shoes clicked across the floor, loud in the cramped silence of my apartment, and then the door shut behind him with a finality that left my chest hollow.
The coffee sat abandoned on the counter, gone cold. My hands wouldn’t stop trembling.
I stripped out of my robe on the way to the bathroom, shedding it like a skin that didn’t fit.
The shower tub combo was old porcelain, cracked at the rim and too shallow to sink under fully, but it was the only part of this shitty apartment that ever felt like mine.
I twisted the knobs until steam rose, curling against the mirror, and slid in before the water had even finished filling.
Heat licked at my skin, creeping into my bones. I pressed down, down, down until the water covered my face, muffling the world into a quiet, distorted hum.
Under here, I wasn’t some deadly marionette, or a failure who’d let a man’s steady hands and kind, commanding eyes turn me inside out. Down here, I was weightless. The water held me like nothing else did, blurring the too-sharp edges of my thoughts.
I broke the surface with a gasp, slicking my hair back from my face, and let my head rest against the rim. The tub groaned beneath me, pipes hissing in protest, but I didn’t care.
Here, in the warm hug of the water, I could almost believe I belonged to myself.
Almost.
Because even with my eyes closed, I could still feel Elias’s hand on my jaw.
I slid lower into the water again, until only my face remained above the surface. The ceiling blurred, and my skin prickled from the heat, but inside, I was cold. Hollow.
A thought circled relentlessly in my brain. I could just let him kill me.
When I’d spread my legs in the past, when I’d let strangers fuck me for the sake of an easy mark, I’d never once believed they saw me. I was an instrument of death, a beautiful trick.
But Wesley… He had looked at me like he was peeling back my mask with his eyes alone, like he could strip me bare with a glance and find something still beating underneath. And that terrified me.
Maybe I was looking too far into it. I probably was.
But what would it be like, I wondered, to stop running? To stop being Elias’s weapon? To stop pretending I wasn’t already breaking at the seams?
What would it be like to give in—to let that man’s rough hands close around my throat, his weight crush me down, his teeth sink in until I couldn’t breathe—and then not come back up?
The thought was poison, but it slid down sweet. My body betrayed me, shivering with something that wasn’t fear alone.
Maybe it was better this way. I didn’t deserve the clean relief of ending my life: no knife, no gun, no noose, no pills, no quiet drowning. Suicide would be too gentle, too merciful. Mercy was for people. I didn’t deserve to be considered a person.
But him—Wesley Cohen—he could take me apart piece by piece, and I’d welcome it. He could break me in two, and I’d thank him for it. And when the final moment came, when the blade slid home or the trigger pulled, it just might feel like absolution.
The steam fogged my vision, but in the blur I could almost see him—the silvery gray strands peppered throughout his thick dark hair, the steady burn of his eyes roving my body, the way he’d taken my wrist like he had a claim to it.
My eyes glanced down at where he’d left a cuff of bruises.
Did he do that on purpose, or was he just too strong for his own good? I couldn’t tell.
I pressed my nails into my knees, hard enough to leave marks. My pulse raced, and my chest felt too tight.
Maybe I wasn’t meant to survive him; maybe that was the whole point.
The thought settled in me like a stone, heavy but… comforting in a way, and for the first time in hours, I didn’t feel like I was spinning apart.
I tilted my head back, closing my eyes as the water lapped at my collarbones.
If he was the end waiting for me, then maybe I didn’t need to fight it; maybe I could finally just stop fighting everything.
Maybe I could be free.
And if he refused to pull the trigger?
Well…
I’d have to apologize to the universe for putting such a sexy man in the ground.