Julian #4
When I turn toward the sink, my reflection in the fogged mirror is barely visible, just a dark shape with hard edges. It feels appropriate. That's all I am anymore—a weapon with a man's face, a killer who's forgotten how to be anything else.
Except when I'm with her. When I was with Isabelle, in bed, I remembered what it felt like to be human. To want something beyond the next job, the next kill, the next paycheck. To feel something other than the cold emptiness that's been my constant companion for so long.
And that's exactly why I can't touch her again. She won't want me if she knows the truth. And I've had enough loss to last me my entire life. I don't need any more.
I pull on sweatpants and a t-shirt, running my hand through my damp hair. The bathroom is still thick with steam, the air heavy and warm. I should stay in here longer, give her time to fall asleep, so I don't have to face her. But I can't hide in here forever.
I unlock the door and step out into the main room.
Isabelle is sitting on the edge of her bed, very much awake. She's changed into thin pajamas—silk, probably, knowing her—and her dark hair is loose around her shoulders. She looks up when I emerge, her green eyes fixing on me instantly.
"Feel better?" she asks. There's something knowing in her tone that makes heat crawl up the back of my neck.
"Fine."
"You were in there a long time."
I clench my jaw. "I needed to clear my head."
"Did it work?"
"No." I say it before I can think better of it. Her eyes widen slightly, and I see her throat move as she swallows.
"Julian." My name on her lips almost breaks my too-fragile self-control. "We need to talk."
"We've talked enough."
"No, we haven't." She stands up slowly, and I force myself to stay still, to not back away or close the distance between us. "You keep pushing me away. You keep telling me it's complicated, that getting involved would be a mistake. But I don't believe you."
I do my best to harden my expression. "You should."
"Why?" She takes a step toward me. "Why is it a mistake? Because of the danger? Because of whoever's trying to kill me? That doesn't make sense. If anything, that's a reason to—"
"To what?" I cut her off, making my voice as cold and cruel as I can, sheer desperation forcing me to do whatever possible to get her to stop, before I make a mistake. "To fuck? To pretend like this is some kind of romantic adventure instead of a nightmare that could get us both killed?"
She flinches at my words. "I'm not pretending anything. I know how serious this is. I know people are trying to kill me. But that doesn't change the fact that you want me."
"Isabelle—"
"Don't." She holds up a hand, stopping me. "Don't lie to me again. You want me just as badly as I want you, and you're torturing us both by pretending you don't."
"What I want doesn't matter," I say finally, forcing the words out through clenched teeth. "What matters is keeping you alive."
She closes the remaining distance between us, and suddenly she's right there, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from her skin.
"Julian, I'm not asking you for promises or commitments or anything beyond this moment.
I'm just asking you to stop lying. To yourself and to me. Why are you acting like this?"
I can feel my teeth grinding together. With effort, I take several steps back, putting distance between us once again. It feels like a dance, a push and pull that's tearing something out of me every time, like she's set hooks in me and I can't get them out.
But saving her is probably going to doom me anyway, so what does it matter?
"The answer is no," I say flatly. "Enough, Isabelle. Go to bed."
The hurt that flashes across her face is like a knife to the gut. But she doesn't cry. She just stands there, her eyes locked on mine. "You're a coward," she says quietly.
I laugh at that. That's one thing no one has ever accused me of before. "Sure. Think whatever you want, if that helps you get some sleep. You're going to need it."
Her eyes flash angrily. "You're so afraid of feeling something real that you'd rather torture yourself—torture both of us—than admit you want me."
I let out a sharp breath. "Isabelle, what happened in Ibiza was meant to be one night that turned into two. You don't know me. And if you did, you'd probably hate me. Hell, you might hate me now. That's fine. Just let me do what I need to in order to keep you alive."
She stares at me for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she shakes her head slowly. "I don't hate you. But I don't understand you either."
"Good. Keep it that way."
She turns away from me then, moving back to her bed and sliding under the covers. She doesn't look at me again or say goodnight, just lies there with her back to me and her body rigid with tension. I move to my own bed and lie down, staring at the ceiling in the darkness.
The distance between our beds is maybe six feet. It might as well be miles. All I know is that I want her. That I can't have her.
And that the space between is slowly tearing me apart.