Chapter 11, Xan
I did not have to force her into the shower this time. She went willingly, her body visibly more at ease now. It is a first for me too—this strange feeling crawling under my skin, beyond hatred. I have known respect for Lucian, but never warmth, attachment.
Feelings have no place in my world. However, with Mira… it’s hitting differently. Do I like it? I don’t know. Yet it’s refreshing, like stepping into the chilly night air after being locked in a suffocating room for too long. Maybe I am capable of redemption after all.
Maybe.
I left her alone, giving her space to gather herself, while I made sure to leave the door slightly ajar. There is no chance in hell I will let her out of my sight. She is my main mission.
I watch from the central room, sprawled in a leather chair, a glass of whisky in one hand, a cigarette burning between my fingers. It is unclear if she knows I am watching; chances are, she wouldn’t care.
My breath stutters the moment my eyes land on her. She moves with deliberate grace, dabbing a towel over every inch of her body, her skin still flushed from the hot water. The curve of her waist, the arch of her back—every part of her is temptation itself, a siren built to ruin men.
And fuck, do I want to be ruined.
She slips into the white shirt I left out for her; the fabric swallowing her frame, hiding what I want to see. She tosses the towel aside, letting her damp, fiery hair cascade over her shoulder, water trickling down the curve of her collarbone. She steps out of the bedroom, hesitant, eyes darting around the unfamiliar space.
She is afraid. As she should be. Nothing here is familiar, nothing offers her comfort. Her gaze finally lands on me, and a glimpse of recognition—of relief—softens her expression. A small smile tugs at her lips.
“Come here.” I don’t ask. I command.
She obeys, moving cautiously, still observing every corner of the room.
“You are safe here.”
She perches on the chair across from mine, legs crossed, hands tucked beneath her thighs. We stare at each other in silence as the liquor burns its way down my throat. She wants to say something but hesitates. She reaches out—wordlessly asking for my cigarette. Normally, I would not allow it. I hate seeing my girl do something so self-destructive. But considering the events of today, I let it slide.
“Is this… where you live?”
A quiet laugh escapes me. Live?
“The Order is my home. I live where my target takes me.”
I let the words slip on purpose. I need her to trust me, need her to believe this is mutual. If I want answers, she must think I am giving her something in return. Her brows pull together slightly.
“The Order… They are the ones making you watch me?”
She takes a long drag; the cigarette crackling softly between her fingers.
“At first, yeah. But now… let just say there is a lot more personal interest involved.”
I drain the rest of my glass, the dull thud of the empty tumbler against the table filling the silence. She exhales, a ghost of smoke curling through the air as she blows it directly into my face before giving it back.
I keep my composure. That’s what she wants, and I do not give people what they want so easily. I have been trained to be cold, controlled, untouchable. Even when control is the hardest thing to hold onto.
“I suppose if I ask why you were watching me, you won’t answer?”
Too much attitude. She is right, though. I cannot tell her. Despite that, I also cannot leave without the answers I came here for. Maybe she won’t be any more willing to answer me than I am her.
“Let’s play a game, little fox.” I lean forward. “I will ask you questions. If you answer them correctly…” I pause, drinking in the way she falters. “… I will reward you.”
“What kind of reward?,” she says with a note of suspicion.
I let my lips curve into an unreadable smile.
“Answer correctly, and you’ll find out.”
Her brow arches, skepticism tightening her features. Unfazed, she stands her ground. She wants to know.
Good.
I lean back, stretching the silence before speaking again.
“Let us begin. The painting you were obsessing over the other night, right before closing the gallery—the one I gently recreated for you in that little gift you found at your door.”
Mira stiffens, looking to her palm. She traces the faint fresh wound carved into her skin, a brand she can never wash away.
“How could I forget?” she says, edged with dry sarcasm. “You made sure I never would.”
“What does that illustration mean to you?”
My tone is light, though the intention behind the question is crushing. She lets out a deep exhale. When she finally speaks, her words are brittle, drifting.
“A dream. One I have had for years. Too vivid to be a dream, too fractured to be real.” She falters, fingers twitching. “It’s always the same. Over and over. Like something trying to claw its way back into my memory.”
A cold ripple runs through me, but I force myself to stay still. “And?”
She lifts her head, a hollow void creeping into her expression. “It is the only thing I have left of my father.”
The room gets dangerously small. A beat passes, then another. The walls feel closer. I don’t like it.
Before I can think, I’m standing. Moving. Closing the space between us with eager, measured steps. My fingers find her chin, urgently tilting it upward.
“Tell me what happens in the dream. Every detail.”
She smiles, lazy and taunting. “How about my reward?”
The moment fractures. Whatever game we were playing is gone. My hand claws her face, voice sinking lower.
“Forget the reward.” The words scrape out, raw and unyielding. “Tell me what you see.”
The teasing vanishes. “I—I don’t know. It’s always so unclear, I can’t just—”
A sharp breath burns through my lungs. The frustration inside me snaps like a wire stretched too tight. My palm collides with the armrest of her chair, the impact rattling through the room. She flinches from shock, but I don’t care. I lean in, jaw clenched.
“You will remember, Mira. Because if you don’t, I will put you in a fucking bunker where no one can ever reach you until you do. Do you understand me?”
Her pulse kicks against the fragile skin of her throat. She swallows, chest rising and falling unevenly. She keeps her stance; she understands the importance. A deep breath shudders through her, her fingers curling against the fabric of her shirt.
“There’s an alley.” Her voice is barely there. “Dark. Cold. I think it’s in the city. Every time I dream of it, I feel this unbearable weight—like grief pressing down on my ribs. Like I’m losing him all over again.” She blinks, expression tightening. “Which is totally senseless. He died in a work accident. That is what I was told.”
It takes the sting of my nails digging into my palms to notice my hands have clenched into fists.
A pause. Her lips part, but for a moment, nothing comes. Then—“In my dream, it’s different… Julian always told me I was imagining things. That it was just my mind playing tricks on me.”
A sharp inhale, as if the air itself is cutting into her lungs.
“But after tonight… I don’t know what to believe anymore.” She blinks rapidly, but not fast enough to stop the tears from rising.
Something inside me twists. It should not. But it does. “What else? Tell me what happens in the alley right fucking now, Mira.”
“There… There’s a man.” Her breathing shudders. “I never see his face. Though I hear something. A voice, maybe. No, not a voice. A whisper.”
The blood in my veins turns to ice.
She presses a hand to her temple, as if trying to physically drag the thought out. “It always ends before I can see more. But tonight… when you mentioned the painting, I felt different. Like I’m supposed to remember. Like I have to.”
Silence swells between us. She speaks without knowing. The truth is right there, and she walks right past it. But I see it for what it is. This vision isn’t a dream. It’s a memory.
And if she remembers the rest—She’s dead.