Chapter 8 Partnership #2
"I don't know my boundaries. Daddy never—" I caught myself. "Gabriel set the boundaries. I just existed within them. And he didn't have boundaries."
"Then we'll find them together. Trial and error."
"Error sounds painful."
"Everything worthwhile involves some pain." He smiled slightly. "Besides, we're both experts at pain management."
I laughed despite myself. "That's a terrible selling point for a relationship."
"Good thing we're terrible at relationships." He gestured to the cart. "Dairy section?"
We finished shopping with less murder talk and more careful navigation of whatever this was between us.
Nathan taught me about cheese varieties while I explained the best ways to make improvised explosives from household chemicals.
He showed me how to pick ripe avocados; I demonstrated the pressure points that would drop a man in three seconds.
It was the strangest dance, but somehow it worked.
At checkout, the teenage cashier smiled at us. "You two are such a cute couple. Is it date night?"
I opened my mouth to correct her, but Nathan spoke first. "Something like that."
The girl beamed. "Well, you're adorable together. Have a great night!"
Outside, loading groceries into Nathan's car, I finally asked, "Why didn't you correct her?"
"Because explaining that we're actually planning a triple homicide seemed impolite." He closed the trunk. "Also because she wasn't entirely wrong."
"This was a date?"
"Our version of one, maybe." He opened my door for me, ever the gentleman despite everything. "Most couples don't discuss arterial spray patterns over produce, but we're not most couples."
"We're not any kind of couple." But I got in the car, arranging my skirt carefully. "We're just two damaged things sharing space."
"If you say so." He started the engine. "Your place or mine?"
"Mine. I need to check my wall, see if any new intel came in." I fidgeted with my seatbelt. "You could stay. If you want. The couch is lumpy but—"
"Bunny." He glanced at me. "I'd like to stay. You don't have to justify it."
"I do, though. Everything needs justification. Purpose. Daddy said actions without purpose were just chaos, and chaos was—"
"Weakness. Yes, you've mentioned." His hand found mine on the center console. "What if some things could just be? No purpose beyond the moment?"
"That's terrifying."
"I know." He squeezed gently. "But maybe terrifying isn't always bad."
I thought about that as we drove, city lights blurring past. This whole thing was terrifying—Nathan, partnership, wanting things I couldn't name. But Carter's death hadn't been terrifying, just necessary. Every death before had just been necessary. The Volkovs wouldn't be terrifying, just work.
Maybe he was right. Maybe terrifying was where the real things lived.
Back at my apartment, we unloaded groceries like the domestic scene we'd never be. Nathan insisted on cooking while I updated my murder wall with his morning intel. The normalcy of it all felt surreal, like playing house in a horror movie.
"Food's ready," he called.
I found him plating something that smelled incredible—actual food on actual plates like actual people. My kitchen table had never been used for eating before. The disconnect made me dizzy.
"Sit," he said gently. "Eat. The wall will still be there after."
I sat, smoothing my dress, trying to remember how normal people did this. The first bite made me moan—flavor and texture and warmth, so different from protein bars and violence.
"Good?"
"It's..." I searched for words. "I'd forgotten food could be enjoyable. Not just fuel."
"There's a lot of things you've forgotten could be enjoyable." He watched me eat with quiet satisfaction. "We'll work on that."
"After Tuesday."
"During Tuesday too. Joy and violence aren't mutually exclusive. You already know that." He gestured to my dress. "You wouldn't wear yellow to plan murders if some part of you didn't find beauty in the contrast."
"Daddy chose my aesthetic. Said good girls always look presentable"
"But you kept it. After. That was your choice."
I considered this. "I... like the way it feels. The soft fabrics, the careful presentation. It's armor, but pretty armor."
"It suits you. The contradiction."
We ate in companionable silence, two killers pretending at domesticity. Afterward, Nathan insisted on washing dishes while I refined our Tuesday timeline. He had good notes, clean observations that meshed well with my more intuitive leaps.
"There." I added the final string to connect our plan. "Dmitri goes down first, during his smoke break. Then we have seven minutes before the next patrol to get inside and positioned."
"Six minutes. Better to underestimate." He dried his hands, joining me at the wall. "Your stance work—how clean can you keep it?"
"Silent until the moment I want them to know. Daddy was very thorough about sound discipline." I demonstrated, moving across my apartment floor without a whisper despite my Mary Janes. "The dresses actually help. People listen for heavy footfalls, not delicate steps."
"Useful." He watched me move with professional appreciation. "Your hand-to-hand?"
"Efficient. Not pretty, but effective." I showed him a few combinations, careful not to actually connect. "I'm better with edges, though. More control over the outcome."
"Show me."
I retrieved one of my knives, letting it flow through my hands like water. The weight of it settled something in me, that constant buzz of anxiety quieting to focus. Nathan had gone very still, recognizing a predator in motion.
"You're beautiful," he said quietly.
I fumbled the knife.
It clattered to the floor between us, the sound enormous in the quiet apartment. I stared at it, then at him, my programming stuttering.
"I'm not—that's not—" I pressed my hands to my cheeks, feeling the heat there. "You can't say things like that when I'm holding weapons."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't know how to process it!" The words came out too loud, too raw. "Beauty is the dress, the performance, the thing that makes targets lower their guard. It's not... it's not me with a knife. That's just function."
"You don't get to decide what I find beautiful." He picked up the knife, offering it handle-first. "And I find your function magnificent."
My hands shook taking it back. "This is too much. Too fast. I don't—I can't—"
"Breathe." He stepped back, giving me space. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to overwhelm you."
"Everything overwhelms me!" I set the knife carefully on the table, needing both hands to grip the edge. "Do you understand how badly I'm made for this? For connection without parameters? Daddy gave me scripts for every situation except this."
"Except being seen."
"Except being wanted for something other than my body and how well of a good girl I am." I laughed, sharp and brittle. "I know exactly how to make you want my body. How to make you need my skills. But someone wanting me? The broken thing under all the programming? I don't have protocols for that."
"Then we'll write new ones. Together."
"It's not that simple—"
He moved closer, still careful, always so careful. "Nothing about us is simple. That doesn't mean it's not worth trying."
"What if I hurt you? What if the programming kicks in wrong and I—"
"Then we'll deal with it." He touched my face, feather-light. "I'm not fragile, Bunny. And I'm not Gabriel. I won't shape you into what I need. I want to see what you shape yourself into."
"That's terrifying."
"The best things usually are."
I leaned into his touch despite myself, starved for gentleness after so much careful violence. "I don't know how to do this."
"Neither do I." He smiled slightly. "But I'm excellent at improvising."
"Promise you won't leave." The words escaped before I could stop them, small and desperate. "Everyone leaves. Daddy left. Promise you won't—"
"I can't promise that." His honesty hurt and healed simultaneously. "But I can promise that if I leave, it won't be without warning. Won't be without explanation. And it won't be because you're too broken or too much."
"Okay." I breathed through the tightness in my chest. "Okay."
We stood there, two damaged things learning to navigate proximity without violence. It wasn't comfortable. Wasn't easy. But maybe Nathan was right.
Maybe the terrifying things were where the real parts lived.
"Tuesday," I said finally. "We paint Pier 47 red. And after..."
"After, we see what's left standing." He pulled me against him, and I let him, memorizing this new feeling of safety within arms that could kill. "One terror at a time."
I thought about Gabriel, about what he'd think of this deviation from programming. Found, for the first time, that I didn't care. Nathan was right—I got to choose now.
Even if I barely remembered how.