CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
ZARA
My chest constricts, my heart lodging itself in my throat. I don’t know what to feel about my childhood name on his lips. I assumed he’d suspected, but I wasn’t certain. And yet it still sends a shock wave through me. No one’s uttered that name since I was a child, let alone the shortened version.
“You’ve known all along.” It’s not a question or an accusation, just a statement floating into the air, so detached from my emotions.
His hand tightens on my stomach, his long fingers gripping my hip bone, pulling my back flush with his chest, his face nestled in my hair. “You look like her.”
I’m grateful for our current position because that has my knees weakening and drops of anguish spilling down my cheeks.
I wouldn’t want him to see my face right now, so I don’t consider turning around.
Being myself for this job means I truly don’t know where I end and it begins.
But with the flash of my mother’s bruised and battered body in my mind, I can’t manage to mask anything.
We stay this way—him holding me, breathing me in, and me dizzy and desperate to find my footing.
But a fresh wave of anger rolls over me as I try to process him noting the resemblance. “You knew her that well?”
“No.” He pecks my temple, the kiss lingering for a stretch. “I knew about her. I’d seen her. I was working here at the time, training under my father. Do you want the story?”
I nod, unable to find my words, but he doesn’t seem to expect them.
“My father, Hayden Noire, had an affair with the wife of one of his members—your mother. That wasn’t uncommon.” He heaves a sigh, conveying how taxing this is on him too. “I’m going to depersonalize the explanation so we can get through it. Yeah?”
Such a simple suggestion, and yet instantly, it eases my anxiety. This will sound like any of my cases, not the haunting tale of my mother’s demise.
And maybe thinking of it in those terms will assuage the immense conflict swimming in my veins.
His arms shouldn’t feel like a shield. I shouldn’t want to sink into him, not while he details her brutal death that sounds to be due to his evil father.
I’m already a traitor to my family. Just the notion of me standing like this with Axel would turn Tripp’s stomach.
But I can’t bring myself to pull away when his warmth is the only strength holding me up.
“Yeah. Depersonalizing is better.”
“The woman wasn’t really a part of our world,” he begins.
“Her husband kept her sheltered. He was protective, though that was challenging. He was gone a lot, and like most members here, he had the type of job that meant there was no guarantee he’d return.
She was loved but neglected. He brought her here—a place he believed was safe, no matter how convoluted his work became.
And she was enamored. She felt seen. The other wives understood her struggles. And Hayden began to take an interest.”
He pauses there, and I give him the space, more tears streaming down my cheeks because, of course, I already know the tragic ending. And yet I was never afforded answers or even permitted to ask questions.
“They became involved—a few whirlwind weekends when her husband was working and he’d gift her a sitter and a getaway.
But eventually, Hayden started to lose interest, and she felt guilty and desperate to hold on.
She warned Hayden that she was going to tell her husband that she’d strayed, that she wanted a divorce—something along those lines.
She and Hayden argued, and he killed her. ”
I can’t find it in me to be livid that my mother cheated on my father when the punishment she received far exceeded the crime, even though she was his everything.
Love is the bullet you never see coming.
“Beat her and strangled her?” I ask, needing to know whether my memory is correct.
He nestles his lips against my temple—not quite a kiss, just a resting place for his ragged breath—his torment palpable.
“Yes.” Another laborious inhale, exhale.
“When she didn’t come home, her husband searched for her, piecing things together and accusing Hayden.
So, Hayden did what he’d always done. He boasted about the kill and his power, citing all the leverage he had over him if it ever came out, which was enough to get the guy’s kids taken away and him either locked up or on numerous hit lists. ”
That’s probably why my father packed our home in a frenzy, throwing us into our truck and disappearing into the night. But that was several months after my mother died.
“How did the husband retaliate against Hayden?”
“He didn’t.”
Frustration rips through me. “Then why did he disappear months later? Why destroy everything his children knew?”
Axel curls himself around me, his chest deflating against my back, as if this account could get even worse. “Because Hayden Noire warned him, like he did with all his enemies, that if he died, all the dirt he had on him would be sent to multiple sources. And Hayden died within the year.”
I lose the ability to depersonalize and spit out my assumption. “So, my father was a fugitive or—”
“No.” He shakes his head, his face nuzzling my hair again. “I knew where all of the incriminating documents were kept, and I confiscated them the day Hayden died, but his enemies didn’t know that.”
I can’t help turning within his embrace, needing to see the authenticity in his sapphires when I dig for the detail that I’m guessing links our stories. “Before or after?”
A pall of shame shrouds him. This man, who never wavers from his royal bravado and menacing authority, suddenly appears broken. An urgent need to comfort him floods me, so I reach for him, brushing my fingers over his neatly trimmed dark scruff.
“Before,” he admits, agony lining his features as he melts into my touch.
So, he either knew someone was going to kill his father or he did it himself.
His mother was in their house fire though, so I don’t venture into that territory now. He’s spoken so fondly of her. There’s no way he did anything to harm her—not purposefully anyway.
“I am the star of my own nightmares.” That’s what he told me the day in the city when he begged me not to become the face that haunted his family.
That’s enough reason to keep the focus on my parents. “Do you still have the leverage on the husband?”
“In theory, yes. It would be worth little now.” He smooths my hair back as I let my hand drop to his chest. “I’m sure you have more questions, but now I need something from you.”
I tense, prepared to field an inquisition about my mission, which is more complicated than what he shared.
His admission was priceless, but it was about the past. Mine would be regarding the present, and no matter how much I adore that family out there or respect Axel, I have a harrowing decision to make. And now isn’t the time.
He gathers a few of my rogue tears on his thumb. “You told me why you became an assassin. Take a seat and tell me how.” When he notices the surprise on my face, he tacks on, “What I divulged was in essence how I became who I am. It’s a fair trade.”
It is fair. He’s honorable—as much as people in our world can be. It makes me wonder if he’d be able to kill me if I betrayed him. I suspect he could, but that it would wound him. Maybe that’s all I could hope for in anyone. Tripp and my father wouldn’t offer me more than that. This is who we are.
He steps away, gesturing to the love seat before he makes his way to the bar. I want to skip this part, ignore the ways our lives clash, and just get lost in him.
The conversation I overheard in the restroom instantly taunts me. “I heard he makes the women sign an NDA, never entertains someone more than once, and never kisses on the mouth.”
We are plainly messier than he’d prefer, so even the prospect of one night together is improbable.
I make myself comfortable where he suggested, soaking in his room, which is an apartment in itself.
We’re in what looks like a library—cozier than an office and more like a living room—lined with tall shelves of books and furnished with a love seat, accent tables, and two plush chairs.
The bar is practically a mini kitchen. I can see a sliver of his bedroom beyond an open sliding door—even the sliver reveals how massive the space is.
It’s less Art Deco in here and more warmth and cozy grandeur—wood floors and ceiling beams, amber lighting, soft whites and grays, and deep brown leather furniture that is a buttery hug.
It’s the side of him he doesn’t share with the world.
His sanctuary.
“You have a lot of books,” I say while he pours our drinks. “Have you read all of them?”
“Yes. Some people go to college. Others buy libraries.”
He’s joking, but it really is like a small library. And I educated myself with the same method—consuming every piece of literature I could get my hands on, in every genre imaginable. Based on our exchanges, this is somewhat expected yet still impressive.
He returns with a glass of wine for me and a snifter of cognac for him, taking a seat across from me in one of the chairs.
Disappointment lashes me. Despite the intimacy we just shared by the door and all the times we’ve been drawn to each other, he’s still intent on keeping his distance.
It’s for the best, but the ache I have for him grows fiercer by the day.
He cocks an eyebrow, impatient for me to begin but too dominant to waste another word on a demand.
And I hate him again for how sexy he is, with his black button-up rolled to his elbows so his corded tan forearms are on display.
His collar open, revealing a hint of ink that I’m itching to study.
His long, toned legs, spread wide in his dress pants, enhancing his commanding presence.
His ash-brown hair, with silver specks, dusts his temple.
And his eyes are midnight skies, haunted vows, and a storm in the ocean.