I guess I'm okay

“Status?” Tara’s voice sounded through the comms channel.

With a quick press on your earpiece, you responded, “Took up designated post. Awaiting target. What’s the ETA?”

“Three minutes. Target is brought to the elevator,” she said. You checked your watch. “Once you’re done, proceed to the rendezvous point.”

“Copy.”

Your focus shifted back to the building across the street. Steadying your breathing, your fingertip hovered over the trigger as you waited for the target to step out of the elevator and into your line of sight.

Sudden movement caught your eye, prompting you to look up from the scope. “You’ve gotta be kidding me…”

A window cleaner ascended on his lifting platform, climbing steadily up the building’s facade. To your annoyance, it stopped directly in front of the window for your intended shot, blocking your view of the elevator. 

There shouldn’t have been any cleaners scheduled for today—you had made sure of it—and instinct told you this wasn’t a coincidence.

After checking your watch again, you stretched your neck and tightened your hold on the handle. You spun the rifle, locking onto the cleaner and tracking his movements. 

Male, athletic physique, clad in black clothing, face obscured by a cap and sunglasses. So most certainly not a civilian, and he wasn’t even hiding it. Something metallic reflected the sunlight, drawing your attention to his hands. Your eyes narrowed to slits. Was that an MP7 he was loading?

He would ruin your shot, leaving you no choice but to take him out first. The guards inside would be alerted, your cover blown, but there was still a chance for a second shot at the target, if you reloaded fast enough.

“T-minus ten seconds,” Tara announced.

You cursed under your breath. It was a gamble, but there was no time to think of a better plan.

Forehead furrowed in concentration, you took aim and pulled the trigger, the silencer swallowing the shot. The bullet missed him by a hair—as if he had anticipated it, he had dodged to the left. Surprised, your eyes widened. It was a clean shot. How could you have missed him?

His head whipped in your direction, but you were already moving your rifle to the window behind him. Without a pause, you swiftly reloaded, scanning the inside of the building for the target. 

Your missed shot had found its mark somewhere beyond the window, sending the guards inside to scramble into action. As soon as the target emerged from the elevator, hands tied and surrounded by four heavily armed escorts, he was tackled to the ground to shield him from incoming bullets.

They hadn’t spotted you. Instead, they aimed their guns at the window cleaner, but he was already shooting at them, shattering the glass in the process. 

Heart pounding in your chest, you tried to remain calm as you searched for an opening to the target—but to no avail. Too many people covered him. The window cleaner guy was also unsuccessful, as his element of surprise had been ruined by your failed attempt to eliminate him. The two of you couldn’t get a clean shot. 

The last thing you saw of the target was a flash of purple hair before he was crowded by more guards and dragged away to another room.

Shit.

With the target gone and the guards firing at him, the window cleaner guy held onto a rope attached to his belt you hadn’t noticed before, pressed a button, and gracefully let himself be pulled upwards toward the roof.

On his way up, you locked him in your viewfinder, inhaling deeply, and on your exhale, you fired. The bullet managed to graze his leg, but he didn’t seem particularly impressed. While one hand was gripping the rope, the other held up his submachine gun and aimed in your direction.

The hail of bullets missed you—only because you had dropped to the ground, pressed flatly against the concrete. One of them struck your phone that was propped on the border, sending it flying across the roof. Fortunately, it was only a work phone for missions. 

You remained pressed to the floor as you frantically packed your gear, then you sprinted to the exit.

“Status?”

“Target got away,” you panted as you ran down the flight of stairs, adrenaline rushing through your veins. “Unidentified individual interfered. Mission aborted.”

“Copy. Extraction point was moved. There’s a car waiting.”

When you reached the ground floor, you dashed outside and straight into the black van waiting at the curb. With a frustrated exhale, you took off your cap and ran a hand through your hair. As you drove by, you looked out the tinted window to the building, but he was already gone.

Your head hit the backrest as you slumped against it. Andrew glanced at you through the rearview mirror, one corner of his mouth tugging upwards at your disgruntled state. “It went excellent, I take it?”

At your answering glare, he held up his free hand in surrender, but the amusement in his eyes betrayed him. 

You two had been locked in a constant battle of snarky comments and competitive bickering since the day you had begun working for the Hunter Agency. Despite being a team and all that, you both tried to one-up each other every chance you got. And you failing an important mission such as this one, was like a heaven-sent opportunity for Andrew to tease you. Especially considering you had recently been declared the agency’s best operative and appointed to this task because of it.

When you arrived at Headquarters, everyone was staring, their eyes following you as you made your way toward Simone. Her frantic hammering of keys on her keyboard told you she was just as tense as you were. You dropped your bag with the rifle onto her desk, prompting her to look up. A startled pause before her eyes widened.

“She already called,” was all she said, and it was all she needed to say.

Simone nodded toward Tara who was on a call. When Tara spotted you, a barely perceptible wince crossed her face. She walked over and handed you the phone. With one last unconvincingly reassuring smile, she hurried to her own desk.

In the car, you had mentally prepared for the inevitable reprimand of your superior in her familiar cold tone laced with disappointment. At the mission briefing, she had stressed how critical the success of this mission was, and now that you fumbled it, you would have to live with the consequences.

There was no exchange of greetings as you placed the phone to your ear. “You have 48 hours to eliminate the other agent, otherwise your compromised identity leaves us no choice but to relieve you of your duties,” Jenna declared, and a shiver went through your body.

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “I’ll make sure to leave no trace.”

With that, the call ended.

Staring at the opposite wall and slightly confused how Jenna had reached the conclusion that your identity was compromised, your thoughts were racing. You didn’t think he saw you well enough to recognise you, but that didn’t matter as long as your boss believed he did. In order to get out of this mess, you had to find out who he was, who he worked for, and then take him out.

Your hand tightened around the small device as you turned to your team. “Find him.”

Simone was already reviewing the footage of all the security cameras in the proximity while Tara and Nero checked for any digital footprint.

Without meeting your eyes, Nero requested your work phone for the analytics, and, with a surge of added frustration, you realised that, in your haste, you had left it behind after it got destroyed.

Sinking into your chair, you buried your face behind your hands. You had been careless, made one mistake after another like an amateur. Dealing with this required efficiency and error-free execution, so whatever happened today, couldn’t repeat itself.

You just had to find him first.

-

Your drive home was spent in frustrated silence. You parked your car in the garage next to your husband’s silver Aston Martin and navigated your way through the familiar path of your yard to your front door, your rose bushes that won you the neighbourhood garden award two years in a row lining the way.

“Hey Mrs. Shen!” a young boyish voice called out from the sidewalk. For a heartbeat, you looked accusingly heavenward, as if some kind of higher power had deliberately decided that today would be your worst day.

Hand lifted in the air in greeting, the browned-haired son of your neighbours jogged towards his house.

“Evening Caleb,” you greeted back, already turning to your door.

It wasn’t that you didn’t like him. He was a little charmer, always complimenting you and asking if you needed help whenever he caught you in your garden shed, thinking you were about to do some gardening. In reality, that was just where you had your weapons reserve. 

However, you couldn’t shake the feeling he had an infatuation with you as his compliments seemed to walk that fine line between flattering and inappropriate, each time becoming more shameless. Besides, he was the reason you didn’t hang your clothing outside to dry anymore, since some of your underwear kept mysteriously disappearing. Considering both his fathers weren’t interested in women, and with no other neighbours around, it only left him as the culprit. Or a postman, but that was unlikely.

Of course, you never mentioned any of that to your husband. Even though Caleb was just a teenage boy—despite him constantly insisting he was “mature for his age” accompanied by a waggle of his eyebrows—you didn’t believe that would necessarily keep your husband from trying to strangle him. He was, after all, a jealous man.

Not that you particularly cared, but you suspected one of Caleb’s fathers to be an arms dealer, and you simply didn’t want to start a fight with the local gang. As long as your neighbour didn’t interfere with your business, you wouldn’t interfere with his.

“Your new curtains in the living room look great!” Caleb shouted over to you, his face split by a wide grin.

“Thanks!” you shouted back and unlocked your door with your fingerprint. 

Wait. But before you could have asked how he knew you had new curtains—not even your husband had noticed them—Caleb was already gone, swallowed by the shadows behind the driveway to his house.

Shaking your head, you took a deep breath. You had more pressing problems.

“I’m home,” you announced once you were inside. The smell of your husband’s cooking wafted over to you from the kitchen as you shed your coat. He was making hot pot again. He usually reserved it for days when one of you was feeling down since it had always been your shared comfort food. The spicy broth and tender meat reminded you two of the day you first met, a memory steeped in warmth and laughter.

-

It was at an old hot pot place in Chansia City. A seemingly innocuous location, but in the backroom, nestled right next to the illegal gambling room, was where one of the city’s crime lords conducted their money laundering. The local police wanted to get rid of them in one go, a simple breach and clear operation. However, your agency favoured a more subtle approach. So they sent you to discreetly eliminate him.

The ‘discreet’ part had proven to be more difficult than expected, and due to unforeseen problems, you were forced to make a rapid escape before one of his henchmen could spot you standing over their boss, who was bleeding out on the floor, wide, empty eyes staring into space. Unfortunately, they had heard noises and began investigating.

When you re-entered the restaurant through the ‘staff only’ door, you saw him. In a booth alone, bathed in the last rays of sunlight shining through the window, he sat calmly eating his hot pot while absorbed in a comic book—a stark contrast to the gruesome scene just moments before. The way the light was caught by his silver hair cast him in an almost ethereal glow and held your gaze captive.

Something drew you to him and from one moment to the next, you found yourself sitting across from him in his booth. At your sudden appearance, he looked up from the page he was reading, blue eyes blinking twice as if he was verifying your existence before they assessed you with open curiosity.

“Is this seat taken?” you blurted out like a fool, as if you hadn’t already sat down.

“It’s now,” the silver-haired stranger responded, tilting his head. A simple statement delivered with a matter-of-fact tone and no hint of sarcasm.

Under the weight of his full attention, you became hyperaware of your own words and movements, causing you to feel uncharacteristically nervous. Just a minute ago, you most certainly hadn’t felt nervous when you punctured the heart of that dude in the backroom.

As if on cue, the door to said backroom was thrown open, and three of the henchmen stepped out, handguns barely concealed by their suit jackets. As they scanned the restaurant, searching for the culprit who killed their boss, they appeared to be looking for people who were alone.

He followed your gaze to the visibly agitated men questioning customers and stalking through the place with concentrated purpose. Leaving the restaurant right now would raise unnecessary suspicion, so the best course of action was to stay and convincingly pretend you belonged there with the handsome stranger in front of you. 

“I’m Y/N.” Why you revealed your real name to him, you couldn’t say.

To your surprise, he silently pushed the bowls brimming with an array of vegetables, meat, and other ingredients closer to the middle around the steaming pot, and offered you a pair of chopsticks. “Do you want to join me, Y/N?”

Your mouth curved into a smile, but it faltered once you noticed the amount of food on the table. “I’m sorry, were you waiting for someone?”

“No,” he replied, and already resumed eating. Something soft gleamed in his eyes when he glanced at you and added, “But I don’t mind company.”

Wow, it seems he has quite the appetite. It could easily be assumed he had ordered for two, considering the mountainous pile of food between you. That made your little act in front of the henchman all the more convincing. When they arrived at your table, you were pretending to be very engrossed in enjoying your meal.

“Hey, did you come here together?” one of them asked, coming dangerously close to scrutinise you two. Trying your best to maintain your composure, you shot an anxious look over to the man across from you, but his eyes were solely fixed on the meat simmering in the pot, his chopsticks moving with elegant precision.

“Yes,” he simply said, not minding them at all. 

To an outside observer, you likely looked just like any other ordinary couple on a date. That was probably why they left without another word.

You released the breath you hadn’t realised you were holding, and allowed yourself to relax in your seat. Now that the situation was taken care of, there was an amused smile on your face as you regarded him more closely. “You haven’t told me your name.”

He paused to meet your eyes, offering a smile in return. “I’m Xavier.”

You sat there for hours, finishing your meal and talking until the sun had disappeared behind the buildings. Outside the restaurant, he hadn’t hesitated to say, “I want to see you again.”

Enjoying his directness that belied his unassuming appearance, you accepted without having to think about it. Your attraction was undeniable. He wasn’t just handsome, he was beautiful. Soft silver-blonde strands, striking blue eyes, and a lean, firm body sculpted by years of training as he was working for the police.

Beneath his stoic, calm demeanour, he possessed a remarkable boldness and effortless confidence that left you wondering what else he was hiding behind his feigned innocence.

You found out rather fast. Usually, you would wait until you got to know someone better, but Xavier managed to get you on your back—among other positions—already after the first date. That something that had initially drawn you to him kept pulling you in, like a moth you were drawn to his light. 

Falling in love had never been an option in your line of work, not to mention maintaining a long-term romantic relationship, but you found yourself willing to try.

Seven months later, you got married. 

Every one of your friends thought you were crazy, that you were rushing things, but you knew, with a certainty that couldn’t be put into words, that you wanted to spend the rest of your life with him.

And that remained true, on your end at least. Xavier, however, seemed to have changed his mind a year into your marriage. 

At the beginning, it was like a dream. Lingering touches, stolen kisses, the comfort of his presence, and morning sex before sleep had barely released you from its clutches. 

But then, a shift. 

You didn’t know what caused the change, but suddenly he withdrew. He became like a distant star. No matter how many times you tried to reach for him, you could never bridge the widening space between you. 

So eventually, you stopped trying. Instead of living together, you began to simply exist in the same house, leading two separate lives and drifting apart day by day.

-

And here you were. Two years later.

“How was your day?” you asked as you entered the kitchen and greeted Xavier with a kiss on his cheek—a gesture that was more routine than a show of affection. 

He had changed out of his police uniform, now wearing a white hoodie, and his hair was still slightly damp from a quick shower he must have had before you arrived home.

His “Uneventful,” was delivered without taking his eyes off the chopping board, only pausing the cutting of the beef into slim slices to lean down and receive your kiss.

That was his standard response. Your conversations had settled into a predictable pattern of disinterested questions, hollow answers, and polite small talk. You never probed, nor did he. Sharing stories of your day while cuddling on the sofa belonged to the past. Sometimes, though, you caught yourself reminiscing, wishing back the Xavier, who had let you be part of his life and who wanted to be part of yours.

“How was work?”

“Ah, you know,” you waved off, already distracted by your phone, checking for updates on the agent you were searching for. He shouldn’t be too hard to locate since you had CCTV footage of him, and considering you had wounded his leg with a graze shot, maybe your team could find some drops of blood as well.

From the corner of your eye, you noticed Xavier’s left leg seemed to tighten with tension with each step he took as he began to set the table. “Are you hurt?”

“I bumped into the counter edge before you got here,” he explained, but you weren’t listening as a notification redirected your attention back to your phone. You had received an email from Simone. Unfortunately, they couldn’t find any trace of him on the roof of the opposite building. Nada, not even signs of the rope he had used to pull himself up. Your work phone was nowhere to be found as well.

You let out a frustrated sigh, slamming your phone face down onto the countertop with more force than necessary. Time was of the essence. Tomorrow, you needed to find him, or you would have trouble eliminating him in the given time frame.

After a silent dinner, the both of you retreated to your separate routines. While he  would usually settle himself on the sofa, playing videogames or reading a book, you would go upstairs, step into a hot bath, and enjoy your evening downtime on your own.

Once you had gotten ready to sleep, part of your bedtime ritual involved going downstairs and waking Xavier, who, without fail, managed to fall asleep every day in the most interesting of gaming or reading positions imaginable.

A short while later, he would join you in your shared bed, plopping down on his side and drifting off to sleep almost before his head hit the pillow. No talking, no cuddling, and most certainly no shared intimate moments. 

Prior to his sudden withdrawal, he had been something close to insatiable. Once he got his hands on your skin, it was hard to detach him from you. Not that you ever complained. That was why you found yourself missing being close to him every so often, a quiet ache of wanting pulling you to him, and wondering if he ever missed you in that way too.

Your mornings were spent similarly. As if to maintain the illusion of a happy marriage, you left the house at the same time and exchanged perfunctory greetings with your neighbour Dr. Li, who had to leave for work as early as you—the complete opposite to his husband, who usually didn’t leave the house until late in the evening.

In front of the garage, Xavier kissed your cheek and wished you a good day before getting into his car. “Dinner’s at seven,” he said like every morning. You hummed in acknowledgement and got into your own car. It always was.

And this was your everyday life with your husband. 

Watching him drive away, the last glimpse of his car disappearing around the next corner, you asked yourself: would he always stay the distant star you couldn’t reach?

-

Tara brought you a cup of coffee when she noticed you slumped over your keyboard. Despite already having had a cup at home not that long ago, you accepted it and took a sip, the hot liquid doing nothing to soothe the anxious knot in your stomach. You hadn’t slept that night, too busy thinking about ways to find the other agent and about your time running out. 

To get to your current position, you had poured everything into this job. Years of relentless effort and countless sacrifices later, you were finally where you wanted to be, and you were unwilling to give all that up just because of a single failed mission.

A shadow suddenly fell over you, and a glance upwards revealed a tired looking Simone, stifling a yawn. She must have spent the night reviewing all the CCTV footage.

“This is all I could find,” she said, and after handing you a tablet, she returned to her desk. Leaning back in your chair, you propped your legs up on the desk and checked the video files she had neatly prepared. 

Whoever he was, he had been careful. Barely any security camera had managed to capture him. And then later, it was as if he simply vanished into thin air.

The building’s security footage showed him as he climbed onto the lifting platform. Something in the way he moved seemed familiar, yet you couldn’t articulate why. Frame by frame, you examined him carefully. The quality left something to be desired, and the cap and sunglasses he wore made it hard to see any distinguishing features besides a flash of blonde hair peeking out from beneath the cap.

The last frames revealed his lower body as the lifting platform ascended. You paused. Sitting up in your chair, feet hitting the ground with a thud, you zoomed in as close as the grainy quality allowed and stared at your discovery. 

There was something poking out of his pants pocket. The shape resembled the star tassel keychain you had made for Xavier’s birthday last year, since he insisted on having a physical key for your house even though he could open the door with his fingerprint.

This was just a couple of pixels, surely your brain was simply recognising patterns and matching them with something familiar.

Yet, your heart began to race as you rewind the footage and checked everything about him a second time. 

The way his body moved, the muscles straining under the black compression shirt, was like seeing a movie you had watched a thousand times, and his hair wasn’t just any shade of blonde, but one you encountered regularly in your house, on pillows, in the shower, and sometimes on your own clothing.

You weren’t able to rationalise the unsettling truth right in front of your eyes. Especially when you spotted a ring. It was impossible to discern any pattern on the silver band, but you felt a terrifying certainty that it had a star in its center, just like your own.

There was no doubt as to who the other agent was. You stared at the screen frozen in disbelief, your pulse a frantic drumbeat against your ribs.

It was your husband.

-

Dinner was at seven.

In the garage, you remained sitting in your car for a while, contemplating your next move. Xavier’s car was parked next to yours. That meant he was already cooking dinner. Or preparing an ambush.

Did he know that you were the sniper on the roof? Was he also assigned to take you out like you were him? You had been given 48 hours to get the job done, to clean up your mess. Otherwise, you would become their next target. That left you with no other choice than to end it today.

Without realising it, you had started to fidget with your wedding ring. Looking down on it now gave rise to a cocktail of mixed feelings. You had been married to this man for three years now, and it was hard to believe that everything between you had been a lie.

Even though you hadn’t been honest with him either, you had genuinely fallen in love with him. Xavier was gentle and kind, possessing a quiet dominance that made you feel some type of way. He knew how to set a trap, how to lure you in with his eyes and soft voice, and before you knew it, he had you right where he wanted.

Perhaps your marriage was some kind of elaborate trap of his as well, exploiting you for cover and playing house to raise no suspicion. Considering how distant he had become over the last two years, it was highly likely that he had no feelings for you to begin with and simply portrayed the infatuated husband until he was sure you wouldn’t leave him.

If that was true, then he wouldn’t hesitate to kill you. However, it was still a gamble. You couldn’t be sure that he knew of your actual job and involvement in yesterday’s mission.

But did it matter? There was only one unchangeable fact: you had to eliminate him, or you would get killed yourself.

You exhaled, rubbing a hand across your face. Then, you opened your glove compartment and pocketed the gun you had stored there, tugging it in your waistband. That should be enough for now.

As you unlocked the front door, you peered through the glass but couldn’t see anything suspicious. After hanging your coat, you followed the sounds of sizzling oil to the kitchen where Xavier was standing at the stove, pan-frying steaks. Ironically, he was wearing his ‘number one husband’ apron you had bought him for Christmas two years ago.

“I’m home.”

“You’re just in time,” he said after you gave him the obligatory peck on the cheek to greet him. Since he seemed to be acting normally, you had to keep up the act too. 

He handed you a glass filled with colourful liquid. An orange slice was draped over the rim, and the ice cubes inside cooled your clammy palm. “I made your favourite cocktail.”

You eyed him carefully as he turned back to the stove, flipping the steak in the pan. Would he poison you? There was no change in his behaviour—he was as calm and composed as ever. Still, you wouldn’t drink from it just yet. Instead, you asked, “Is there something to celebrate?”

“Does there have to be a special occasion to drink cocktails?”

“I guess not.” Discreetly, you scanned your surroundings. Pretending to be busy stirring the ice cubes around, you added casually, “Did you not make one for yourself?”

“It’s already on the table,” Xavier responded, and motioned with his head to the doorway leading to the dining room. He told you to sit down, dinner would be ready soon.

On your way to the adjacent room, you emptied the contents of your glass into the next flower pot. When you sat down at the already set table, you placed the steak knife slightly closer within reach. Shortly after, Xavier joined you and put one of the steaks on your plate.

The clinking of cutlery against porcelain was unnervingly loud in the otherwise quiet room as silence settled over the two of you, the air thick with tension. While you piled the vegetables on your plate, your mind raced. How could you find out if he wanted to poison you or not? Maybe you could feign an illness in order to get out of having to eat anything altogether.

Just as you were about to open your mouth, Xavier broke the silence. “How was your day?” Usually, you kept your small talk to a minimum and ate without talking, but today he even sought eye contact with you from across the table.

“Uneventful,” you replied, deliberately using his own words.

One corner of his mouth briefly quirked up before settling into a neutral line again. “I read the Linkon Central Bank had cut interest rates by 0.5%. That must have been a stressful day for you.” He kept his voice in a conversational tone, but you didn’t miss his scrutinising gaze as he studied your facial expression.

In all that excitement, you hadn’t kept up with the news or checked the latest figures. Xavier believed you to be a broker, representing a large trading company and overseeing their investments. A cut in interest rates would mean the investments were likely to suffer losses as stock value decreased, putting you between a rock and a hard place. 

Was he…testing you? If so, his question could be a bluff, a trap. At this moment, you couldn’t possibly check if the LCB truly had announced an interest rate cut. If what he said was true, today would have been a stressful day indeed.

You had no choice but to go along with it for now. “Yeah, that did cause some problems. But nothing I couldn’t handle.”

The last part you had said while meeting his analysing stare head on, an unspoken challenge. If he was actually testing you, you wanted him to know you were ready. His face remained unnervingly stoic. He was a closed book, offering no hint of his intentions.

“Do you want some music?” he asked, stirring the conversation in a different direction. Xavier was already out of his chair and standing in front of the shelf filled with his extensive CD collection before you could have answered. You never quite understood why he insisted on buying physical copies, even though you had a streaming service subscription.

His sudden movement made you tense, and your hand reflexively shot out to grab the handle of the steak knife, hiding it in your lap. When a gentle melody began to play from the speakers—a tune you knew intimately—your grip loosened, confusion and surprise momentarily flashing across your face.

Clearing your throat, you quickly composed yourself. “Cocktails, our wedding song… Are you sure I haven’t forgotten our anniversary or something?”

“If it were our anniversary, I would have brought you flowers.” He tilted his head to observe you with a small, playful smile.

That was true. He always gifted you the biggest, most beautiful bouquets you had ever seen, each year’s arrangement more vibrant and extravagant than the last. The way he meticulously chose the flower types and colours rekindled a flicker of hope that he was about to transform back into the loving husband from the beginning of your marriage. However, his usual distant behaviour returned the very next day.

The bouquets came from his best friend Jeremiah’s flower shop, who had been his best man at your wedding. You hadn’t seen him much since then.

Xavier looked at you expectantly, one hand extended toward you. You hesitated, assessing him then his outstretched hand cautiously. It could be another trap.

“I’m really tired and—”

“Just hold on to me,” he interrupted, his smile turning into a smirk. “I’ll do the rest.”

Despite every instinct screaming at you, you rose from your seat, concealing the steak knife swiftly under the napkin, and accepted his hand. Once you were in front of him, he pulled you close, his other hand finding its place on your waist. His blue eyes didn’t leave your face, and you were unable to look away too. The soft sway of the music accompanied you as he guided you elegantly through your dining room. You hadn’t been this close to him for a while and the smell of his cologne enveloped your senses.

It was difficult to understand what his plan might be, because at this point, you were convinced he had one. You had to stay vigilant and resist the magnetic pull of his gaze, the expanse of his eyes threatening to drag you into their depth. But it wasn’t easy. The whole situation plunged you back into the past, triggering a flood of memories of your wedding day. Come to think of it, back then he had looked at you the same way he did now.

Lifting his arm, he twirled you around, and when you faced him again, he pressed you even closer to him than before, the sudden closeness of his face making your breath hitch and your heart skip a beat. 

His eyes travelled down to your lips and then back up, as if asking for permission. But you had stopped breathing, and all you did was stare at him, eyes wide and lost in anticipation. You hadn’t even realised that he had paused your waltz.

Slowly, he leaned closer, and your eyes fluttered shut instinctively, waiting for the pressure of his lips. Instead of on your mouth, you felt them brush against your jaw, a fleeting touch that then traced down the curve of your neck, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. Your grip on his biceps tightened as your heart picked up its pace, still waiting for him to finally kiss your lips while his hand on your back slid  along your spine.

With a jolt, you shot your eyes open and tried to shove him away. But it was too late. Xavier had felt the outline of the handgun tucked in your waistband through your clothes and tightened his hold on you.

In a quick series of motions, he pulled it out from under your blouse and carelessly dropped it to the floor before spinning around and pushing you against the shelf, caging you in with his broad frame. His CDs rattled from the impact.

How could you have fallen for the most common trick in the book? Like a love-struck idiot, you had let him toy with you like that, and he didn’t even kiss you. 

Damn him and his stupid, innocent-looking face.

“Do you want to explain to me, honey, why you’re carrying a gun in our house?” His voice was deeper than usual and there was a threatening gleam in his eyes.

“I could ask you the same thing, honey.” It was a bluff, but from the way his eyes narrowed, you knew you had guessed right. 

You didn’t wait for him to make the first move. Raising an arm, you reached it across to push his arms down, creating an opening to knock your elbow against his head and forcing him to release his grip. As he was slightly bent over, you held onto his back, followed with a kick to his stomach, and then slammed him into the shelves next to you, causing CDs to clatter onto the ground.

Xavier recovered faster than you had anticipated, blocking the path to your gun that was lying on the ground behind him. “So it’s true,” he said to himself rather than to you, and rubbed the spot where your elbow had made contact. What confused you was that he didn’t look angry, or particularly surprised. But there was a proud little smile playing on his lips.

Not giving him the time to collect himself, you charged forward and delivered one punch after another. However, he manoeuvred his body gracefully out of the way each time you tried to kick or strike him—a fluent dance you weren’t sure who was leading.

The fact that he wasn’t attacking you back, instead dodging effortlessly your every move, ignited a white-hot fury and simmering frustration within you. If he truly had a weapon hidden on his person too, then why wasn’t he drawing it?

Once you were close enough, you grabbed the steak knife from the table and flung it at him with practised precision, but he simply stepped to the side, the knife getting stuck in one of the paintings adorning the walls.

A corner of his mouth lifted. “Your aim certainly has room for improvement.” 

You huffed in response. You had a feeling he didn’t just mean the throw, but also your missed shot during your double-assigned mission.

His teasing, competitive side was coming out. It reminded you of your dating phase when you had visited a fair with a shooting booth. You had pretended to be bad at it, but after he shot each target perfectly, saying he “got lucky” with his feigned innocence, you had insisted on having a go again, fuelled by a stubborn need to wipe the smirk off his face. The giant bunny plushie in your bedroom was a memento from that day. The owner of the booth probably gave it out to finally get rid of the two of you.

Doubling your efforts, you advanced on him and unleashed a series of blows and kicks. He pivoted on his heel, a blur of motion as he bowed under one of your swings. With a swift grab, he caught your wrist and pulled you aside, causing you to stagger past him.

Despite not being able to hit him, you managed to make him back up and get closer to your gun. Xavier seemed to read your intention as he cocked his head after effortlessly dodging one of your attempted attacks yet again. “Go on, pick up the gun.”

You froze in place, irritation flashing in your eyes as you met his gaze. The confidence behind his words was unsettling. What game was he playing?

Not letting him out of your sight, you slowly retrieved the gun from the floor. He didn’t stir, but his eyes tracked your every movement as you raised your arm, aiming for his head. Still, no reaction. As if he was waiting for an answer to a question, he wouldn’t voice out loud. 

Taking a step closer, he remained rooted to the spot, a silent challenge in the quirk of his raised eyebrow. Frustrated by his lack of response, you closed the distance between you. Your hand was trembling as it held the gun under his chin, forcing his head to tilt slightly backward. 

However, you didn’t pull the trigger. 

Xavier looked down at you through his silver strands of hair, his eyes holding your gaze. “You can’t do it.” It wasn’t a question. He had immediately clocked your hesitation, probably way earlier than you would like to admit. In a last attempt, you narrowed your eyes and pressed the muzzle harder against his chin.

“Fight back!” you demanded, frustration raw in your voice. “Why aren’t you fighting back?”

“Because I can’t do it either,” Xavier responded calmly.

It took a moment for his words to sink in. You studied his face for any signs of deception, but were only met by an open honesty in his unwavering gaze.

He was right. You couldn’t do it. Despite his distance in the last two years, you cared for him and found yourself unable to shoot the love of your life, even if it meant disregarding your own. 

“I assume you were also giving a time frame to get rid of me,” he began and snapped you out of your thoughts. He didn’t wait for your answer. With his low, soft tone, he continued, “I’m not planning to kill you.”

At last, you dropped the gun with an exhale, your chests rapidly rising and falling in sync. For a moment you regarded one another. The longing in his eyes took you by surprise even though it was a reflection of your own. “They will come for us.”

“Let them try.”

With the adrenaline still high in your systems, you crashed your lips together. There was nothing gentle about the way you devoured each other, both desperate for the taste of the other, familiar and intoxicating. It had been a long time since you had been intimate. Like a spark, your sudden need was ignited. Your hands were roaming, the need to touch every single part of him overwhelming.

Feeling his shoulders relax, Xavier sighed into your mouth, as if he had been hoping this would happen. Your back hit the nearest wall as he pressed you against it. As he kissed down your neck, your hand found purchase in his silver strands, holding on tightly, causing a groan to escape his lips. 

His hands explored the skin beneath your blouse before they glided down your body and then hoisted you up, your legs reflexively wrapping around him. He made his way through your house, stopping only to restlessly place you on a sideboard or a table and remove one piece of clothing at a time while not breaking away from your lips or your neck.

When he pulled your blouse over your head, he immediately made it his mission to litter the newly exposed skin with wet, open-mouthed kisses, making you gasp and arch into him. You tugged at his hoodie in a silent plea, one he complied with in a rapid, impatient motion.

Before you could get lost in his touch, he was moving you again, carrying you up the stairs while your mouth didn’t leave his neck. Occasionally, he would pause to chase your lips, as if he couldn’t be apart from them for too long.

Once you had reached the bedroom, he dropped you onto the mattress, and after removing his shirt, he followed closely behind. The only clothing left on you were your panties. Your head was already foggy, unable to recall when he had taken off your bra. One of his many skills was stripping you naked with such swiftness that you barely realised he had started before you were already bare underneath him. 

Your hands reached down to free him from his pants, but he stopped you, simply getting a hold of your wrists and pinning them above your head.

“Not yet.” 

There it was. His quiet dominance, his careful control.

After kissing and exploring your mouth with his tongue, igniting a fire in your core, he let go of your wrists and planted kisses along his descent. Each searing kiss was more heated than the last as his lips left small red marks behind. Sucking, licking and claiming each part he had claimed before once again, making sure you remembered who you belonged to. He wasn’t just mapping you anew with his mouth but retracing his path from a time long past.

Your nails scraped across his naked back and arms, scratching his bare skin whenever he sucked on a particular sensitive spot. You could feel how he got more impatient with each scratch and tug at his hair.

One of his hands trailed down from your throat to between your breasts to your stomach while he looked at you reverently, having missed this view and the feel of your skin. Like a predator watching his prey squirm before they devour it.

When Xavier reached your thighs, you felt his hot breath against the wet patch on your underwear, making you unconsciously shift closer. His amused chuckle prompted you to open your eyes. “Someone’s eager.”

Just as you were about to quip back that he was just as eager as you were, he bit your thigh—an unexpected, piercing sting. You inhaled sharply, the pain short-lived and replaced by a rush of pleasure as he soothed the skin with a languid lick, your legs already shaking from his attention.

“I love it when you’re trembling because of me,” he rasped with his half-lidded eyes looking up at you, his cheek resting on your thigh.

You couldn’t wait any longer, you needed some kind of friction. “Xavie, please,” you whined. In your desperate state you hadn’t realised that you had said his nickname you hadn’t used in the last two years. 

His eyes darkened with lust, glinting with something dangerous, before he impatiently tugged your panties down your legs and tossed them carelessly away. His mouth was on you a second later. A moan slipped past your lips at the sudden pressure against your clit.

Groaning at the taste, he nuzzled the lower half of his face deeper between your legs. His hands tightened around your thighs, holding them in place, as he draped them over his shoulders. “God, I’ve missed this.”

First, he broadly dragged his tongue up and down, lapping up your taste, and then flicked it against your clit. Your back arched, legs twitching, as you squirmed from the overwhelming pleasure. 

“So responsive,“ he chuckled, opening his eyes a fraction to shoot you a smug look. “Your body is telling me it missed me too.”

You weren’t able to reply as he dove back in and swirled his tongue around your clit, shortly followed by a finger slowly pumping in and out of your hole. When he added a second finger and curled them in the exact angle he knew by heart, he picked up his pace, making you see stars as he managed to hit that one spot inside you over and over again. 

Every time you glanced down, you were greeted by the subtle flex of his shoulder blades and the contentment in his expression. Despite the hungry way he ate you out, he looked serene, radiating an angelic calm.

Already lightheaded, your hips bucked to chase your release, you felt was close, your fingers fisting his silver-blonde hair. But he abruptly stopped his movements, prompting you to whimper at the sudden loss of stimulation.

“Stay still,” he commanded, his voice remaining soft, but there was a darker undercurrent that made you clench around his fingers. “Or do I need to restrain you?”

Without waiting for an answer, he pushed your knees towards your chest and resumed devouring you. One hand kept your legs up and the other returned to their relentless mission of fucking you open. It took you a considerable amount of effort to remain still, not wanting to provoke him to stop yet again.

“I need to properly prepare you for what I want to do with you.” Xavier seemed to have noticed your struggle. “So be good for me, baby, okay?”

You nodded hastily, not fully registering his words. 

He reduced you to a moaning mess, clawing at the sheets and legs shaking uncontrollably. Even when you thought you couldn’t take it anymore, he continued and coaxed another orgasm out of you. At one point, you had stopped counting. 

Xavier had left you dazed, breathless, and still wanting more.

With one last, almost tender kiss to your pussy, he finally straightened, the lower half of his face glistening from your many releases. His hand reached up, his thumb caressing your cheek before parting your lips. Watching you closely as you blinked up at him blearily, he put two of his fingers in your mouth. Instinctively, you eagerly sucked on them, hollowing your cheeks and tasting yourself on his skin.

Xavier’s eyes were fixed on you, the blue of his irises eclipsed by his dilated pupils, and resembled a dark, hungry void threatening to consume you.

“Do you want to continue?” There was a hesitation to his tone, as if he wasn’t sure if he took it too far.

His question roused you from your daze, a smile spreading across your lips. “Yes, I do.”

His mouth was on you before you saw his relieved expression. His fervent kisses had you melting and desperate to finally feel him inside you. Your hands travelled down to his pants, fumbling with his belt. “Condom, Xavier,” you were able to press out and unzipped his fly.

Reluctantly, he pulled away from your lips to reach for his drawer and retrieved a condom. When he didn’t move and simply stared at the packaging, you asked if everything was alright.

“They’re expired.”

Oh. So that meant you hadn’t had sex for…a while.

He rummaged through the drawer but each one he found had the same expiration date. You might regret this later, but after years of nothing and the thrill of your fight still in your veins, you grabbed him by his neck and pulled him down to you again, kissing him urgently.

“Let’s do it without one,” you breathed, and he stilled, searching your eyes for any kind of hesitation.

“Are you sure?”

You nodded, and his ravenous eyes glazed with lust in response. The way he captured your mouth now was different from before as his tongue glided against yours in a sinful claim, shooting an electric tingle down your spine.

You and his hands moved with a shared urgency, making short work of his trousers and boxershorts. Fingers tangled in a frantic dance, both yearning to finally feel the other in a way you haven’t for so long.

Then, finally, he was bare hovering above you, pumping his cock a few times before settling between your legs. Your foreheads met, and you both sighed in pleasure as he slid inside. As if your bodies hadn’t forgotten, you moved in sync, the heat radiating from him overwhelming. His lips left yours in favour of kissing and sucking at your neck before travelling even lower to your breasts, teeth nibbling and biting the soft skin around your nipples.

Your gaze drifted to the window as a noise outside made your ears perk up. Xavier grabbed your face, forcing your attention back to him. His cheeks were flushed a rosy shade, and his eyes stared down at you with a stern intensity that bordered on a warning. “I guess I have to double my efforts if you’re this easily distracted.”

Your surprised yelp got stuck in your throat as you were suddenly flipped around and found yourself on all fours, his cock already sliding back in without giving you time to catch up.

“Wait,” you gasped, trying to stop him from going deeper. The stretch was too much. Even with his extensive preparation, you still needed time to adjust to his size.

“You’ll get used to it,” Xavier said from behind you, his tone carrying a finality, a command that left no room for disobedience. Taking a shaky breath, you tried your best to relax while he grinded against you, pushing in inch by inch. “See?”

He started slow, his hands holding your hips or trailing appreciatively down your back. “Look at you, taking me so well,” he cooed, planting a kiss on your cheek. You hummed, already lost in the sensation of his cock gliding in and out of your pussy in an agonising rhythm.

Then with his hand on your back, he pressed you down so that your face was smushed in the pillows and turned his unhurried movements to punishing thrusts. You cried out, your moans muffled by the soft fabric rubbing against your face with each slap of his hips.

His grip on you tightened, probably leaving you with bruises in the morning, as you held on to the sheets for dear life. Drunk on pleasure, your moans and sighs echoed through the room unrestrained. When one of his hands began to rub circles on your clit, the double stimulation quickly tumbled you over the edge. As you clenched around him, muscles tensing and spasming, you came with a strangled gasp and buried your face deeper into the pillows.

“That’s it, baby,” Xavier praised and squeezed your hips approvingly. Since your thighs were shaking, and you were barely able to hold yourself up, he took a pillow and placed it underneath you. “Lie down.” His command, firm but gentle, had you clench around him once more, causing a groan to escape his lips.

Now lying flat on your stomach, your ass elevated by the pillow, he hovered over you, your bodies almost pressed against each other. Showering you with kisses to the side of your face, his thrusts turned messy and even harsher as he chased his own release. Xavier observed your face with half-lidded eyes, mesmerised by the view of you mewling and shivering in response to every thrust. His heat and scent enveloped you completely and clouded your senses.

“Tell me you missed me,” he rasped, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear.

Your voice was swallowed by the mattress as you choked, “I–ah–I missed y-you.”

“I can’t hear you. Say it louder.” His hips slammed harder against you, rendering you unable to speak at all. His arm snaked around you in a sudden, possessive embrace, his hand settling on your throat before lifting your head and pressing you against his chest. “I know you can do it.”

Xavier was breathing heavily from the exertion, his hot breath raising goosebumps down your arms and spine. The pressure from his hand around your throat wasn’t enough to restrict airflow, but the dominating gesture sent a dizzying wave through you.

“I missed you,” you whimpered. “I missed you so much.”

A badly suppressed moan, followed by a stutter in his relentless pace announced his orgasm crashing over him. As he rode out his high, you felt the way he filled you up. Shortly after, he collapsed on top of you, his weight a comforting presence as you both steadied your breathing and calmed your racing hearts.

After giving you a kiss to your temple, he gently rolled you onto your back and took in your fucked-out state with a predatory smirk.

“I’m sorry, starlight. We’re far from done.”

-

Dawn just broke and a sliver of soft light found its way through a crack in the curtains and shone down onto Xavier’s collarbone. You couldn’t help yourself and bend down, kissing the soft skin all the way up to his face. He stirred a bit, but his eyes remained closed. The hitch in his breath betrayed him. Smiling to yourself, you smothered him with kisses until he finally opened his eyes a fraction, a smile curving his lips.

“Is it my turn now?” The rasp in his voice, deep from sleep, made heat spread in your core. In one swift motion, he had you flipped on your back, his weight pressing you down as he lazily trailed warm kisses down your neck. Your breathing came in shallow as your heartbeat quickened. He knew exactly where to apply pressure, where to nib gently, and where to suck harshly, to make you restless underneath him.

The sound of cars driving onto your driveway brought you back to the present. You and Xavier exchanged a glance before jumping out of bed. A peek out the window presented you with three SUVs, each with a couple of heavily armed men swarming your yard.

Your mouth set in a hard line. “They didn’t even wait until 48 hours were up.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Xavier said, his tone serious, while his eyes assessed the situation below.

Well, it surprised you a little. After all, you had been working for your agency for years now. You always completed your work with diligence. Fast and efficient, you were their best agent. But, of course, you were replaceable; everyone was. And you had a feeling Andrew was already jumping at the opportunity to take your place at number one.

The both of you quickly grabbed clothes out of your closet since fighting naked was not something you were keen to do. Xavier threw on a black compression shirt, the same one he wore back on your mission. Now up close, you could watch how the fabric clung tightly to his biceps and revealed just the right amount of sculpted abs. When he fastened a shoulder holster around his back, you forced yourself to look away, struggling to control your drifting thoughts.

You focused your attention back on getting dressed yourself, opting for an all-black outfit, mirroring his choice. “We need a car,” you mused out loud while putting on pants, an escape plan already forming in your head. Using one of your own cars would be too easily trackable since they were registered under your names.

“We’ll take one from the Li’s. They keep the keys in their garage,” Xavier replied. Once he was dressed and noticed your matching attire, his serious expression softened into an endearing smile.

Then, he reached underneath his bedside table, retrieved a handgun which had been attached to the underside, and tugged it in his shoulder holster. The leather straps accentuated his shoulders and chest, prompting you to glance over to him more than once.

In a secret compartment inside the closet, you got out a rifle. This was far from enough to face several armed agents with the sole purpose of ending your life. However, there wasn’t enough time to get to your weapon reserves, so you quickly made your way through the top floor of your house, collecting the few weapons you had stashed upstairs. In the end, you had a couple of throwing knives on your person, two handguns each, and your rifle.

The sound of breaking glass and the frantic pounding of several footsteps on your expensive red oak flooring made you press your backs against the wall near the stairs.

“We could climb out the window, escape over the garage,” you suggested, holding your rifle at the ready.

Xavier shook his head, one handgun in his hands. “They’re already waiting for us there. Besides, we would need to round the back of the house to get to our neighbour’s yard.”

You would be lying if you didn’t at least enjoy it a little bit seeing your husband like this. Serious, competent, with that tiny furrow between his eyebrows as he meticulously thought about how to escape out of your own home. “Sounds like you already have a plan.”

“First, we need more weapons. There’s a shotgun in the living room, behind the sideboard.”

Your position at the top of the stairs would have been ideal, but considering you wouldn’t have enough bullets to take them all down as they climbed the stairs, some likely attempting to gain entry through a window, it simply wasn’t a smart strategy to remain there.

“I hid another rifle in the dining room,” you added. “Now what? We just breach downstairs?”

Xavier held up a flashbang, one side of his mouth quirking up. “Yes.”

He raised his hand, counting slowly, and on three, he tossed it down the stairs. A loud bang echoed through your house, followed by a burst of light, and a chorus of groans and yelps of surprise. Straightaway, you slid down the wooden railing of the stairs and started to fire.

Their momentary confusion wasn’t enough to stop the other agents from shooting the instant they spotted you. Once you hopped down onto the floor, you took cover behind the living room wall, reloading as bullets whizzed past. 

A glance at the bottom of the stairs revealed your bra, dangling forgotten and discarded between the beams of the railing. Ah, so that’s where it went.

With the hallway mirror, you assessed their position and gauged their movement. To cover for Xavier, you crouched down and sent a hail of shots in their direction, forcing them to run for cover. Shortly after, Xavier joined you behind the wall, taking over your position and your rifle while you quickly got the shotgun from where he had told you earlier.

Heavy footsteps came rushing closer. You shot the first person to appear in the doorway in the chest, the recoil slamming the handle against your shoulder and causing you to wince. A shotgun wasn’t usually your weapon of choice as you preferred stealth over brute firepower.

“Nice shot,” Xavier complimented and swiftly took out the next one. At his praise, you couldn’t suppress your smile.

This time, they came in as a group. You immediately switched between shots and close combat. You were just choking one of them, your arm pressing against the sides of their neck while your legs tightly wrapped around their chest, when a loud crash made you look up. As if they weighed nothing, Xavier hauled one agent over him, sending him sprawling onto your coffee table, shattering it in half.

Damn. From your vantage point on the floor, you were able to watch him fight three opponents at the same time. Just as he did during the fight with you, he effortlessly moved his body out of their range and neutralised them with unsettling velocity.

When, finally, the squirming in your arms stopped, you focused back on the task at hand. 

As the first wave was taken care of, you rolled onto the couch, ducking behind the backrest. On all fours, you propped yourself up on the armrest and peeked at the doorway.

“Does this remind you of something?”

You felt Xavier’s hand glide down your back, a caress that stood in contrast to what that hand just did to those agents on the ground. “It reminds me of our wedding night.”

Surprised and slightly confused by his answer, you looked over your shoulder, finding Xavier kneeling behind you with a contemplative expression.

It dawned on you what was going through his mind, and the timing couldn’t have been worse. “Oh god, Xavier!”

“Ah, so you remember too?”

You quickly turned around again to hide your flustered expression, your cheeks burning from the memories of your first night as a married couple. Xavier had made a point to consecrate every room and every surface to your new status, turning it into a never ending night you wouldn’t soon forget. It ended with trembling muscles and a sore throat from all the noises he had coaxed out of you. The following days, you weren’t able to walk probably.

“I meant– You know what, nevermind.”

You were going to say it reminded you of that one time you and Xavier had thrown a garden party for the neighbourhood’s annual get-together, and got so tired and overwhelmed by everyone that you hid inside, using the sofa as a shield—just like right now.

After you had checked your inventory of weapons and ammunition, you proceeded to navigate through the house and dove back into the fray. It became clear that together, you were unstoppable. As if you had been fighting side-by-side for years, your teamwork was like a well-oiled machine. What one started, the other finished, making your way forward with a relentless, efficient rhythm until you reached the back door.

Once outside, you made a run for your neighbour’s garage, unleashing a barrage of shots at the approaching agents who had been waiting in your garden. 

“Get the car. I’ll hold them off,” you told him and reloaded the shotgun. Xavier vanished almost instantly, leaving you amazed at how fast he was moving.

Several agents were closing in, so you jumped behind a bush for cover. You paused. From here, you had a clean view of your living room and your new curtains. “So that’s how he knew…”

Your neighbour’s Bordeaux-coloured pick-up truck screeched to a halt in front of you, and you quickly scrambled into the back seat behind the driver while Xavier shot out of the open window. The moment the car door slammed shut, he stepped on the gas pedal, accelerating around the corner onto the road at such terrifying speed that it threw you to the other side of the car with a sharp groan of pain.

“Sorry,” Xavier smiled sheepishly and gave you an apologetic look through the rearview mirror.

You climbed to the passenger seat and checked your magazine. “What’s next?”

“I know a place we can go.” His gaze flickered between the road and the mirrors. “We just need to get rid of them first.”

With his head, he motioned to the back and a glance confirmed the three SUVs closing in, a parade of black metal tailing behind you. He pushed the accelerator further, the increasing speed pressing you into the seat. As Xavier maneuvered the truck through the busy traffic, narrowly avoiding collisions and trying his best to lose your pursuers in the maze of the city streets, you seized the opportunity to get something off your chest. What better time than now?

“Why didn’t you fight back yesterday?” 

Xavier glanced in your direction before focusing back onto the road. “I could never hurt you, even if you were out to get me.” A small smile curved his lips. “And I wanted to see how far you would go.”

Your head whipped in his direction, but his gaze remained fixed ahead. “I wasn’t sure if our marriage was just one big cover for you,” you confessed, your fingers fidgeting with the barrel of your shotgun.

As soon as Xavier hit the highway, the three SUVs blocked all three lanes and opened fire. “How could you think that?” he asked, genuinely confused. He yanked the wheel, swerving the truck to dodge the incoming bullets from the left side.

“You were the one who suddenly got distant after one year of marriage,” you reminded him while rolling down your window. “Are you aware of how you acted the last two years? How was I supposed to know you still have feelings for me!”

There was a beat of silence as he thought about your answer, and you leaned out of the window, releasing a volley of shots at your attackers. “You’re right,” he began once you were back in your seat. “I felt guilty, like I’d been selfish marrying you, because I was putting you in danger thanks to my job. I didn’t want to drag you into this world.” Mimicking you, he rolled down his window and sent a couple of precise shots behind him, effectively puncturing the front tires of one of their cars. “But as it turns out, I didn’t need to worry,” he added, smiling contently.

Returning his smile, you huffed playfully. “I wasn’t really careful during our first meeting. Didn’t you question me suddenly sitting down with you, trying to act innocent while the thugs were clearly looking for someone?” 

“The second you sat in front of me I wasn’t exactly thinking straight.”

Heat crept up your neck, but your private moment was disrupted when one of their SUVs pulled up closer and shot straight at you, shattering the back window and forcing you to turn away, shielding your faces from the flying glass shards.

In order to hide your face and the emotions that welled up, you announced to take care of them. Climbing to the back of the truck, you took cover behind the backseats, switched to the rifle, and shot at your attackers through the broken window. For a while no one spoke as you continued your assault, occasionally gripping the seat and bracing yourself against Xavier’s violent swerves.

“Since we’re honest with each other now,” you eventually shouted, your voice barely audible over the noise of the wind rushing in, the relentless gunfire of the other agents, and the strained roar of the truck pushing its engine to the limit. “You know the flowers that are sent for my birthday every year?”

“The ones from your parents?”

“They’re actually from my ex from university.”

When they were first delivered and Xavier asked who they were from, you had to improvise on the spot, claiming they were from your parents. After that, to hold up your lie, you didn’t tell your ex to ‘fuck off’ but instead let them continue sending the bouquets each year in order to not raise suspicion. It would have been odd if your parents suddenly stopped buying you flowers for your birthday.

Xavier’s hands tightened around the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white. “What’s their name and social security number?”

“No, you’re not going to kill them,” you chided with an exhale and turned your attention back to your pursuers.

Deciding to go on the offensive, you used the handle of your weapon to hack away at the shards framing the window before climbing onto the truck bed. When you stumbled across something and discovered two weapons under a blanket, among them a machine gun, you raised one of your eyebrows.

So Dr. Li’s husband really is an arms dealer. Might have been a bad idea to steal his car, but that was a future-you problem.

Quickly, you checked whether it was loaded and then positioned it in front of you on the tailgate of the truck. The incessant rattling of the machine gun reverberated through your body as you aimed at heads and chests, eliminating them, one by one. 

One of the SUVs sped up and reached the side of your car. At the next moment, two agents jumped onto the truck bed and immediately engaged you in a fight. You knocked the weapon from the first agent’s hand with a precise kick before drawing one of your knives and lunging at him. After blocking the right hook of the second one, you slammed the blade into her throat and hurled her off the truck.

Xavier suddenly jerked the truck sharply to the side, ramming its flank against the other car and causing you and the remaining agent to stumble onto the ground, your bodies connecting with the metal underneath with a loud thud. Your knife flew across the air and landed onto the road. 

Swiftly, you climbed on top of him and delivered one brutal punch after another. A spray of blood streamed from his nose, the crack of breaking bone barely audible above the chaos. With an angry roar, he threw his head forwards and smashed it against yours, the impact blurring your vision. Seizing the opportunity by your momentary incapacitated state, he reversed your position, and returned the favour by slamming his fists into your face.

Before you could have retaliated, a shot to his temple sent him crumbling to the side. Xavier had already turned back to face the road by the time you had realised what happened.

Scrambling to your feet, you continued your fight with the next agent who jumped onto the truck bed and quickly disposed of him by kicking him over the tailgate. When another SUV appeared on your other side, you yelled, “Xavier!”

“On it.” With a sudden jolt, he hit the brakes, causing you to fall forwards and hit your head on the roof. Xavier made a sharp turn off the highway that left the SUVs in front of you unable to turn around fast enough.

You rubbed your forehead while grumbling to yourself and climbed back into the passenger seat.

“I also have a confession.” He picked up your conversation where you had left off, as if nothing had interrupted you, and handed you a handkerchief which you used to wipe the blood from your face. “I never cooked a day in my life. But I want to though.”

Xavier explained that his agency prepared the food, and he only needed to cut the vegetables and reheat everything else.

At this very moment, you had no idea that letting him cook would turn out to be a horrible idea. You would remain blissfully unaware for at least another week before a fire in your kitchen confronts you with the reality that one of you would have to learn how to cook and it better not be him.

“I never even so much as touched the rose bushes,” you shared. “In fact, I hate gardening.”

Xavier’s eyebrows drew together in confusion. “Then how come you keep winning the gardening award each year?”

“You should ask our gardener,” you shrugged and attempted to turn on the radio. However, it was riddled with bullet holes and, unsurprisingly, no longer played any sound.

“We have a gardener?” His voice easily carried over the loud noises of traffic without him having to raise it much. “What other men did you invite into our house that I don’t know about?”

Rolling your eyes, you didn’t deign to answer him, and you didn’t need to. One of the SUVs suddenly appeared beside you and shot through the driver’s window. Xavier ducked, but the bullet grazed his arm. Leaning over him, you drew your handgun and shot at the front and rear tires, rendering them incapable of pursuing you further.

Once you were certain you got rid of them for good, Xavier slowed the truck to a more civil pace. “Your arm!” He let you examine it, smiling down at you as you carefully assessed the injury. 

“It’s fine, it barely hit me.”

Meeting his blue eyes, radiating a calming stillness, convinced you he was telling the truth. You let yourself relax in your seat and asked, “Where’s this place you said we could go to?”

As one of his hands remained on the steering wheel, his other sought out yours and intertwined your fingers together. “You’ll see,” he responded and gave your knuckles a tender kiss.

-

At the sight of the flower shop of his best friend, you glanced at Xavier questioningly, but he was already pushing open the door. You were greeted by an explosion of colours and shapes in every size imaginable, the lush, fresh fragrance of the flowers around you filling the air. The bell announced your arrival as you walked in and a head of brown curls emerged from under the counter.

“I was hoping you would show up!” Relief was clearly written all over Jeremiah’s face. His smile faded when he took in the state you and Xavier were in. Your clothes were torn, stained with blood and dirt as well as the rest of your bodies, but it was your tightly clasped hands that drew his attention.

“We have a problem,” Xavier said. “I was hoping you could help us.”

With a sigh, Jeremiah motioned with his head to the back of his shop. He sat down in his office chair and offered you the couch, but you and Xavier remained standing. A look behind him at his desk revealed the remnants of your destroyed work phone. So that was how Xavier figured out that it was you. Jeremiah must be exceptionally good at what he did since he managed to find you with it, despite Nero’s meticulous efforts to keep your identity untraceable.

“There’s no easy way out of this,” Jeremiah began, his gaze darting back and forth between you. “You don’t just ‘have a problem’. Both the Hunter Agency and Philo Agency are out to get you.”

A quick acknowledgement passed between you and Xavier. So he was working for the competing agency. It wasn’t surprising since you had seen his abilities with your own eyes, and working for any other agency that wasn’t one of the top three would have been a waste of his skills.

“Your best chance of survival is to split up.” At Jeremiah’s words, Xavier levelled him with a withering glare. Throwing his hands up in surrender, he quickly added, “Or you bring them something they want more than you.”

You and Xavier exchanged a glance, a silent understanding. There might be a target both your agencies wanted more than you; the one you two had been tasked with eliminating a couple of days ago. Getting the job done might be enough to redeem you. Even if it did not, it was worth a try and better than staying idle.

The door opened, revealing a man you had never seen before, yet instantly recognised similarities to your husband. Beyond their shared silver-blonde hair, there were certain details in his facial features and overall demeanour betraying his connection to Xavier. However, while the stranger’s regal posture was laced with arrogance, Xavier’s possessed a self-assured elegance.

“You’re here.”

“Isaiah,” was all Xavier returned. He didn’t appear to be particularly happy to see this man.

Next, Isaiah turned to you and a look of disgruntled distaste washed over his face, but instead of addressing you directly, he addressed Xavier again. “You should have gotten rid of her right away, then we wouldn’t be in this mess!”

Now you had a pretty good idea why he hadn’t been invited to your wedding, despite them undoubtedly being related.

Xavier’s eyes darkened and the temperature in the room seemed to drop. “That’s my wife you’re talking about.” His threatening tone gave you a shiver. You never heard him speak like that before and your heartbeat quickened at him calling you his wife.

Jeremiah defused the tension in the room, even though he also looked like he wanted to kick Isaiah in the knee. “You can stay here as long as you need and sleep in my guestroom upstairs.” With a glance to Xavier’s arm, he added, “There’s a first-aid kit in the bathroom.”

Xavier gave a curt, thankful nod, and you offered Jeremiah a smile. On your way up, you heard a loud yelp.

“What was that for?!” Isaiah yelled.

“For being a jerk!” Jeremiah countered. Their bickering voices grew quieter with each step up the stairs and faded completely once you closed the door behind you. 

The sudden silence was like a balm. It was the first quiet moment since this morning and your body finally released the knot of tension it had been holding.

When Xavier sat down onto the edge of the bed, the sleeve of his shirt soaked with blood, you eyed him concerned. “How’s your arm?”

“It hurts really bad,” he said in a feigned pitiful tone and patted the space next to him. “I think you need to come closer and have a look.”

You shot him an amused sidelong glance, not buying his act. Still, you couldn’t help but to smile at that and quickly retrieved the first-aid kit from the bathroom. Xavier watched you rummage through it before joining him on the bed. Although he clearly wasn’t in any pain, you humoured him and began to carefully clean the wound. It wasn’t deep, just a minor graze.

As you tightly wrapped the bandage around his biceps, he pretended to wince. “Shouldn’t you handle a wounded person more gentle?”

“I don’t think you particularly want gentle,” you remarked with a sly smirk, and tied the bandage together. “Here, all done.”

“Thank you.” Xavier looked at his arm and then at you, mischief gleaming in his eyes. “How can I possibly show you my gratitude?”

Heat crept up your neck at the way he was observing you. Tilting your head, you challenged with a low voice, “I’m sure you can think of something.”

Returning your smile, Xavier leaned closer, and meeting him halfway, your lips touched in a soft kiss. His hand came up to cup your cheek as he sighed into your mouth and pulled you even closer. The unhurried movements of his lips against yours made you melt into his arms, surrendering to his warmth and comforting familiarity. His other hand travelled from your waist down to your thigh with deliberate intent, and his tongue boldly demanded entrance into your mouth.

Even though you didn’t want this to stop, a sudden desire to mess with him ignited within you. You gently pushed him away, a knowing grin on your face as you watched his reaction. “You should rest since your wound hurts ‘really bad’.”

Noticing his mistake, Xavier put on an innocent face, his lower lip jutting out in a disarmingly cute pout. “I’m feeling much better already. Probably because you took so good care of me,” he murmured and leaned down again, but your hand on his chest kept him from coming closer, a gentle barrier that held him at arms length.

“Nice try,” you chuckled. Tonight, you wouldn’t fall into one of his traps, no matter how alluring and irresistible they might be. Both of your agencies were hot on your heels. You must act before they find you.

“We should make a plan.”

-

Xavier had parked the car near the venue. The moon was out, providing you a little light through the windshield as you sat in darkness. You stayed seated, double-checking if each of your weapons was loaded and secured in your holsters.

“Sooo, how many?” you asked conversationally. Xavier briefly glanced at you while he attached the silencer to his handgun. The suit he was wearing created sharp angles which accentuated his lean, muscular form. “Alright, I’ll start. Somewhere around 80, maybe 90 if you count non-targets.”

You didn’t miss the small smile that tugged at a corner of his mouth. Alright, so he had more kills under his belt. He probably had been working longer than you in this type of job. It was natural that he would—

“214,” he answered without looking up. To say you were shocked was an understatement. Eyes wide, you almost dropped the throwing knife you were about to attach to your thigh beneath your dress. “237 if you count non-targets.”

You blinked, then cleared your throat. “Oh.”

“Are you impressed or concerned?” Xavier asked after noticing your astonishment.

I think I’m aroused. “Just surprised.”

At last, you slipped on the masks you had bought for the event, matching your black formal attire. Then, Xavier drove up to the gate and showed the guard your invitation. When the gate was opened, you followed the winding driveway, and parked besides an alignment of similar sports cars.

As Xavier offered you his arm with a smile and guided you to the entrance, your eyes scanned the other guests, and located the patrolling guards and the security cameras along the perimeter.

According to Jeremiah, the target was being held hostage on the highest floor of the villa, an area off-limits to the public. Security was tight. However, the masquerade ball provided the perfect cover, allowing you to blend in with the crowd as you made your way through the halls. Disguised as a charity event, it was intended to be the best location for striking nefarious business deals and networking with your fellow local gang leaders.

When you entered the main ballroom, you were greeted by classical music played by a live band in one corner, accompanied by dancing and chatting guests adorned with an assortment of different kinds of masks. As your gaze swept across the crowd, a flash of white caught your attention.

Was that…your neighbour? His unmistakable white hair and crimson eyes would have been enough to recognise him, but he didn’t bother with a mask, clearly unconcerned over his own safety.

You tapped Xavier’s arm, but his eyes were fixed elsewhere. The host had entered the room and on his person he had the key to the upper floors. It was time for phase one of your plan.

After reaching for a glass of champagne from the tray carried by a waiter passing by, you freed your arm from under Xavier’s, and with slow, confident steps, moved towards the host, the sound of your heels echoing languidly over the wooden flooring.

Even as other guests as well as guards encircled him, you had no problem joining the group and sliding into their conversation with ease.

As you spoke, deliberately sending glances through your eyelashes, and exchanged one or two carefully chosen flirtatious words, you felt the heat of Xavier’s burning stare at the back of your head. You knew he disapproved of this part of the plan, yet you would be lying to yourself if you didn’t enjoy his jealousy a little bit. For two years, you’d believed him to have mentally moved on from you, convinced he no longer found you attractive. It was satisfying to watch him so clearly affected by another man’s proximity to you.

During your chat, you stopped mid-sentence, pretending to catch your mask. “Oh, I’m afraid my mask is slipping,” you said, your voice carefully neutral. “Could you hold my glass for a moment, please?”

“Of course.” The host politely accepted your glass, his eyes travelling down your form in open interest. It made you slightly uncomfortable, but as long as he was distracted, it didn’t matter.

You fiddled with the strings of your mask before you took it back, mindful of touching only the slender stem, and flashed him a grateful smile.

“May I have this dance?” The sudden, familiar soft-spoken voice beside you startled you. Xavier wasn’t supposed to approach. He had positioned himself between you and the host, his eyes fixed firmly on you, as if the other man didn’t exist.

“What are you doing?” you whispered once you were out of earshot. Xavier discreetly scanned the fingerprint on the glass with his watch and then placed it on one of the sidetables. He guided you to the dance floor before settling into a gentle sway to the music.

“Am I not allowed to dance with my wife?” There was an intensity behind his words, his grip on your waist and hand tight, betraying his feigned nonchalance.

Shaking your head, you couldn’t suppress your smile. Yes, you enjoyed his jealousy immensely. “You’re ridiculous.”

As you two danced, you couldn’t help but stare into his blue, twinkling eyes framed by his winged mask. They regarded you with matching longing and an unspoken need that had your heartbeat pick up its pace.

“You’re mine,” Xavier breathed, holding up his hand with the wedding ring. “Not just tonight, but every single day you belong to me.” His face was close enough that his warm breath fanned across your already heated cheeks. “And I want everyone here to know that.”

His hand reached up to spin you in an elegant twist before pressing you flush against him. Trying to keep a clear head, you focused back on your plan. “We have the biometric key. It’s time we go up.”

“All in due time.” One corner of his mouth lifted and as if on cue, the music switched its rhythm. Xavier glanced at the band, then to you. Without saying a word, he changed your stance to fit the new dance. A tango.

Despite him enjoying showing off with you and your obvious close relationship as he let his lips brush against your neck or his hand glide down lower than appropriate, he guided you closer to the other end of the ballroom, near the hallway leading to the stairwell.

“There’s a guard,” he informed you, dipping you low with one of his hands securely on your back while the other held up your leg. Looking backwards, you spotted one armed man in front of the stairs. With an abrupt movement, he lifted you back up, foreheads touching, and your leg suspended as his hand was still on your thigh.

“I have a knife,” you told him, and observed how his smirk grew wider. Without breaking eye contact, his hand trailed higher and beneath the slit of your dress. Your  breath hitched as his touch ignited a sudden desire and caused your thoughts to drift to the other night. He removed the knife from its sheath, then, in one fluid movement, twirled you while using the momentum to flick his wrist and send the blade toward the guard. It found its mark in his throat, his gurgle drowned out by the music and loud chatter of the crowd.

“Nice throw,” you praised, and he flashed you a smile in response. After quickly hiding the guard beneath the staircase, you made your way to the upper floor. Avoiding the patrolling guards, you reached the top of the stairs without being detected.

“The room he’s in is the last one down the third hallway to the right.” Jeremiah’s voice crackled through the comms channel.

“I’m still convinced you should just shoot her and get it over with,” Isaiah chimed in. “That would save us a great deal of trouble.”

You chuckled, unfazed by Isaiah’s obvious dislike towards you. “Do you value his opinion?” you asked Xavier amused, already knowing the answer.

“No,” Xavier shrugged, poking his head around the corner and keeping an eye out for security.

“I heard that!”

“Good.”

Two guards suddenly appeared up ahead and, before you knew what happened, Xavier had pulled you into what appeared to be a guest bedroom and hid both of you inside a closet. Their footsteps outside stopped for a moment and then retreated. You let out a relieved breath.

“We should wait here until the guards change shifts,” Xavier said and checked his watch. Jeremiah had managed to discover the layout of the villa’s security precautions, including blind spots of their security cameras and when the guard’s shift changes took place.

The two of you were pressed against each other due to the cramped space inside the closet. You enjoyed being this close to him, especially after your rather charged dance mere moments ago. But what you liked even more was feeling just how much he seemed to like it.

You shot him a teasing look, watching how his expression changed as one of your hands lazily trailed up his thigh. Xavier’s arm wrapped around your waist as he gazed into your eyes with a sharp focus.

He checked his watch again. “We have ten minutes.”

“I know you’re fast, but I doubt you’re that fast,” you chuckled and immediately regretted saying that.

His eyes flashed with something dangerous as he cocked his head. You shouldn’t have doubted him. Xavier would always accept a challenge.

His nose trailed up your neck to the shell of your ear, the slight touch already making you shiver in anticipation. As one hand steadied you on your hip, the other parted the fabric of your dress. Once you felt his calloused fingers on the bare skin of your thigh, you drew in a shaky breath, eyes fluttering shut.

“Eight minutes,” you murmured, not able to hide the grin.

Xavier huffed, leaning back to sternly look down at you with half-lidded eyes. “Where’s that attitude coming from?” 

Your hips involuntarily chased his hand as you desperately needed him to touch you, but he held you in place.

“I see.” A smug expression came onto his face, his fingers gently caressing your cheek. “Don’t worry, my star. I’ll take good care of you.”

Then, with a fluid motion, he slid his hands between your legs and pushed your underwear to the side. When he began to circle your clit with just the right amount of pressure and pace he knew made you weak, a moan got stuck in your throat.

“And I’ll fix your attitude while I’m at it,” he rasped and one finger pushed inside your heat, followed by a groan when he felt how wet you already were. He added the second finger right away and set a slow, agonising rhythm while his thumb kept circling your sensitive bundle of nerves. You clawed at his shoulders, trying to hold yourself up as your legs trembled. You wanted more, your hips meeting his fingers, searching for a faster rhythm.

“Xavie,” you mewled, but he only chuckled.

“I haven’t heard you beg for it yet.”

You thought you would struggle with submitting yourself to him after such a long intimate pause between you, but the pleas came naturally over your lips. “Please, please, please, Xavie, do it harder.”

Satisfied with your request, he pumped his fingers in and out of you faster and harder, his other arm supporting your weight as you buried your face into his neck, biting down to muffle your moans and cries of pleasure.

Your orgasm was embarrassingly fast approaching. For a moment, your mind cleared enough to consider trying to delay your release in order to make him lose your little challenge. However, you wanted to come so badly that you immediately dismissed the thought.

When he reached that sensitive spot inside repeatedly, it finally snapped. Your body surged forward from the force of your orgasm as you gripped Xavier’s suit jacket tightly and bit the soft skin of his neck even harder, silencing your gasp as best as you could.

While you came down from your high, catching your breath and trembling from the aftershocks, he locked eyes with you and licked his fingers clean in an unhurried manner, making you clench around nothing at the sight.

“Thirty seconds,” Jeremiah’s voice brought you both back to reality.

You rolled your eyes at Xavier’s obvious self-satisfied smirk and straightened your clothes. He had a bite mark on his neck from your attempts to stay quiet, and you were a little proud that you managed to leave a mark on him this time too.

Outside in the hallway, Xavier entered the host’s biometric key into the control panel using his watch, allowing you access to the restricted part of the villa. Another corridor opened before you. 

Two guards emerged from the corner and once they spotted you, raised their weapons. Instead of slowing down, you rushed forward, kicked the weapon from the left guard’s hand and delivered two precise punches to his jaw. Grabbing his head, you smashed it against the wall. He collapsed to the ground next to his colleague, who was already unconscious after Xavier had knocked him out.

After you took care of the third pair of patrolling guards, you followed Jeremiah’s instructions from earlier and found the room where the target was being held. From inside, you heard voices as you pressed your ears against the wood.

“Do you mind switching the channel? If I have to watch the same cartoon one more time, I hurl myself out the window,” a voice complained. No one answered him, so it was hard to say how many people were inside.

A quick nod passed between you and Xavier before you pushed open the door and charged into the room, guns drawn. At the far end, a man with purple hair was bound to a chair, limbs leisurely sprawled out. Completely unfazed by your arrival, two men wearing identical masks sat seemingly bored in front of the TV, watching cartoons. They didn’t even stand up.

“Take him,” one of them said and motioned with his head behind him. Confused, you blinked a couple of times. Then you spotted them, the actual guards, tied up and gagged in a corner.

“Yes, please do. He’s been complaining about everything for the past hour,” the other one added, their gazes trained on the TV.

Seeing that Xavier shared your irritation, you both raised an eyebrow. With a mutual shrug, you approached the target, whose face lit up with eagerness at the prospect of being rescued. “Fiiinally, you know how long I’ve been waiting for someone to show up? Jelly fishes are walking naked, sea turtles climb trees, sharks are eating grass for free and—hmmpf!”

Xavier had put his hand over his mouth to shut him up and looked at you questioningly. “That was easier than expected.”

“What now?”

Your gazes switched to the purpled-haired man who was struggling against Xavier’s unyielding grip. The moment Xavier withdrew his hand, he was talking again, but you quickly interrupted him. “Why are our agencies after you?”

“Long story, I suggest you wait for the movie,” he quipped. The slap came out of nowhere, not just for him but for Xavier too. Surprised, both blinked at you. 

You shrugged. “We don’t have all day.”

“I admire your initiative,” Xavier smiled.

You giggled and the man in front of you rolled his eyes. With cheeks heating up, you cleared your throat. “Where were we?”

“The part where you let me go.” His eyes suddenly widened at the blade in Xavier’s hands. “Woah! Alright! Wait, I’ll tell you everything!”

Now, it was your turn to look startled. You didn’t expect Xavier to torture someone. But then he did kill over 230 people…

“My name’s Rafayel. I actually work for the Philo Agency. They found out you guys were married, and since they didn’t particularly like two assassins from different agencies possibly sharing confidential intel, they planned to get rid of you. You were supposed to kill each other during your mission. I was just bait.”

Xavier looked down at his knife, then back at Rafayel. “I actually just wanted to untie you.”

Rafayel looked like he was close to complaining some more, so you grabbed Xavier’s arm and stepped a few meters away. “What now? When they planned to get rid of us right from the start, there’s nothing we can do.”

“We’ll figure it out once we get out of here.” Xavier took your hand in his, his thumb gently caressing the back of your hand in a calming gesture that eased your nerves.

“Jeremiah might be right.” Your voice was laced with sadness. “We should part ways, so we have a higher chance at survival.” You didn’t want to leave him, but if that was the only way he could escape and find safety, then you would.

“Once we run, we’ll run for the rest of our lives. Besides,” Xavier responded and held up your joint hands with the wedding rings. “I made a vow. I’m not going back on my word.”

“But—”

“Right now I have you,” he cut you off, squeezing your hand for emphasis. The intensity in his eyes made your heart swell. “And I’ll never let go.”

You swallowed the emotions bubbling up, and nodded.

“If he’s really just bait, then agents from both our agencies will be here soon,” Xavier continued, and as if on cue, several heavy footsteps came rushing closer.

Glancing at the hallway, you exhaled. “You really had to jinx it…”

As you readied your guns and sought cover, you noticed the identically masked guys switching off the TV and rising from the sofa. They had shown no interest in involving themselves in your business the entire time you had questioned Rafayel, but now, with armed agents storming the room, they joined the fray. At that point, you didn’t question it and accepted their assistance in eliminating the waves of attackers.

With a quick roll behind the purple-haired man’s chair, you swiftly reloaded as bullets flew past and, while using his body for cover, shot at the chest of someone attempting to sneak up on Xavier.

Rafayel snorted indignantly. “I’m not a meat shield!”

Ignoring him, you moved on to the next one. You underestimate the speed of your opponent and when your gun was knocked out of your hand, you reached for the man’s arm and flung him over your shoulder onto the floor. A fist connected with your face as another agent materialised beside you. Your lip split open, a thin stream of blood trickling down to your chin.

Just as you prepared to strike back, a dagger pierced the agent’s throat. He collapsed and revealed one of the masked men lurking behind him. He offered a playful salute, which you answered with a grin.

Your unknown accomplices turned out to be great at close combat. With their help, you were able to quickly take care of the incoming agents. After the last wave was reduced to a pile of limbs on the ground, you caught your breath. Xavier was by your side in an instant, cradling your cheek and checking your injuries. 

One of the masked men waved you over to him and pointed to a hidden door at the back of the room. “Let’s get you out of here.” 

Xavier’s hand reassuringly laid on your lower back, and together you followed the two out of the building.

“Heeey! Are you just gonna leave me here?!” Rafayel shouted after you, but no one from your group heeded him any mind and ignored his incessant shoutings until his voice was nothing but a faint echo in the background.

As you navigated the labyrinth of hallways, you quickly reached the backdoor. Outside, the chilly nightly breeze ruffled the fabric of your dress, but since you were still running hot from the fight, the heat fuelled by adrenalin pumping through your veins, you welcomed the cooling air.

Surprised to find yourself facing none other than your neighbour, you came to a stop. “Mr. Li,” you blurted out.

“Mr. and Mrs. Shen, good to see you in good health and with all your limbs still attached,” Mr. Li greeted, a casual smirk on his lips. He leaned against the railing of the terrace, clearly waiting for your arrival. His white hair was slightly tousled by the wind, but other than that, he looked like he fit right into this place with his tailored suit and dangerous ruby eyes.

“Here.” With one hand, Xavier caught whatever he tossed into the air with ease. Opening his palm, you were presented with a key. “There’s a car at the other end of the property. It’s fuelled and should be enough to get you out of town.”

When the masked men positioned themselves next to Mr. Li, everything clicked into place. “Why are you helping us?” you asked. Your neighbourly relationship never went beyond polite greetings and the occasional package exchange when one of you had accepted one on behalf of the other.

“Take it as a thank you for keeping my…occupation a secret.” A sly smile curved his lips as he looked each of you in the eyes. “And as an apology for my son’s behaviour,” he added, his smile fading. Ah, so he must have found Caleb’s secret stash of your underwear. Xavier threw you a questioning look, but you waved him off.

“However, I still expect a check for my stolen car.” With that, Mr. Li turned on his heel, waved goodbye, and returned to the party as if nothing had happened. His two henchmen snickered and vanished into the darkness of the surrounding garden.

Processing what just happened, you stared at the spot your neighbour had been standing a moment ago. Huh, what a night.

“Do you want to go get hot pot?” Xavier’s blue eyes twinkled brightly, mirroring the stars above as he gazed down at you and intertwined your fingers together. 

You chuckled, wiping the blood off your lip with the back of your other hand. “Sure.”

Glancing at your joint palms, a warm feeling spread through you. From now on, whenever you extended a hand, your distant star would always be within reach.

They believe themselves subtle. They believe the Dollmaker of Skyhaven is absorbed in his craft, too artistic to notice the mundanity of church surveillance.

Caleb dips his brush into a dish of turpentine and cleans the bristles with slow, circular strokes. He is not artistic, he is merely precise. He notes the nun’s presence not with alarm but with the same observation he applies to the humidity in his kiln, the viscosity of his glazes, the exact number of dust motes suspended in the light beam.

Three years ago, the Church sent a single inquisitor; and now they send teams, the escalation almost flatters him.

And then there is the matter of the Emperor.

The Emperor does not send street-level agents. The Emperor sends questions through intermediaries, veiled inquiries slipped into the ledgers of the Imperial Arts Council.

How many dolls does the Dollmaker produce annually? What becomes of the offcuts, the failed pieces? Does he keep apprentices? If so, how many? Has he fathered children? The questions arrive on heavy stationery, sealed in wax the colour of blood, and he answers them with the dishonesty of a man who knows his interrogator cannot afford the truth.

As much is necessary. Failures are discarded, broken to pieces and burned to ashes. No one has yet to be deemed worthy in the Dollmaker's eye. There are no children, not even one.

The Emperor knows, in the way that men who hold absolute power always know, that there is something in Skyhaven that does not kneel correctly.

But the Emperor also knows that Philos Empire is held together by threads finer than Caleb's brushes; the Northern provinces rattle their sabres, the Eastern colonies demand autonomy, and the treasury requires the soft power of culture to mask the hard poverty of its coffers.

Skyhaven is the heart of that soft power, and Caleb is the axis upon which the entire mechanism turns.

Remove him, question him openly, imprison him on charges of whatever theological deviation the Church invents next week, and the merchants cease their pilgrimages; the aristocratic patronage evaporates; the empire’s claim to cultural supremacy develops a crack that spreads, that widens, that swallows whole ministries.

So the Emperor watches, and doubts, and does nothing.

And the Church watches, and prays, and does nothing.

They are all, in their way, his dolls in the first place—incapable of doing anything without his explicit permission.

Caleb sets the brush aside and lifts the half-finished head from his workbench. It is for a patron from outside the capital—a mining magnate from the Southern provinces who made his fortune in salt and copper and now wishes to purchase refinement. The man arrived in Linkon six days ago, trailing entourage and desperation, begging for a doll to present to his new wife.

The commission bores him. The proportions are standard. The expression—demure, grateful, slightly downcast—requires no invention; it is the price he pays for his continued sovereignty.

He runs a thumb along the porcelain cheek. The surface is still warm from the kiln’s last firing, and under his touch it seems almost to yield, as though the material remembers being something else and wishes to return to it. He does not indulge such fancies. He sets the head in the rack beside three others and moves to the eastern window, the one that overlooks the lane.

The false nun has been joined by a child—a new element, a boy of perhaps eight years who sells matches no one buys. The Church has started using children now.

Caleb finds this interesting. He files the information in his mind and draws the curtain with a slow, deliberate movement that the agents will read as absentmindedness.

The clock on the mantelpiece—a piece he repaired himself, its face a miniature of his own—ticks toward three. He does not wait for the Southern magnate. He does not wait for the Arts Council inspector scheduled to visit. He waits for the only appointment that has ever mattered.

At seventeen minutes past three, the carriage arrives.

He hears the wheels before the horses, a particular quality of rubber and wood on cobblestone that distinguishes her vehicle from the hundred others that pass outside his door daily. The rhythm is lighter, faster, the gait of horses bred for pleasure rather than labour. He stands at his workbench, his hand suspended over a dish of powdered pigment, and counts the seconds until the carriage stops.

The door opens. He hears the step being lowered, the soft murmur of a coachman speaking words he does not need to hear. Then her voice, answering, too indistinct for the words to carry but unmistakable in its timbre.

Caleb removes his apron—a length of black linen that hangs from his neck to his knees—and folds it into thirds. He places it on the hook beside the kiln room door; then he adjusts his spectacles, smooths his cravat. By the time the three knocks sound against the shop door—one, two, three, the correct pattern established on her third visit—he is already moving through the front room with that soundless, gliding step that makes his heels seem decorative rather than functional.

He opens the door.

She stands on the threshold, smaller than the frame, smaller than the afternoon, smaller than he is by a margin that seems to him not a measurement of height but a statement of scale. She is beautiful. The word arrives in his consciousness as a fact rather than an observation, as inevitable as gravity. She carries a parasol, though the sky is the colour of old pewter and no sun threatens her skin. She wears gloves of white leather that she has yet to remove, and her eyes find his with the immediate, unguarded pleasure of someone who believes absolutely in the safety of the world she inhabits.

“Good afternoon,” she says. “I hope I’m not disturbing your work.”

Caleb tilts his head. The angle is precisely calculated, a gesture of welcome that resembles nothing so much as a key aligning with its lock. “My dear,” he says, and the words fill the doorway, occupying the space between them with a weight that seems to slow the air itself. “You could never disturb me. You are the reason the afternoon exists.”

She laughs and steps across the threshold without waiting for invitation, certain in his welcome of her.

The parasol closes with a snap that echoes in the room, and she stands there, beautiful and surrounded by the watching faces of dolls who have not yet been taught to see her, and she smiles.

“I’ve come for another,” she says. “I know it hasn’t been so very long since the last. But I’ve been thinking about her for months. I can’t seem to stop.”

He closes the door; the latch engages with a click that is a tad too loud with its echo. “Of course you have,” he says and moves past her, not touching—never touching without purpose, never brushing against her in the accidental way of ordinary men—and gestures toward the chair by the display case.

The chair with the velvet cushion the colour of dried roses, it faces the window so the light falls correctly across her face. “Sit, little one. Tell me what grows in your garden.”

She settles into the chair with the fluid, untrained grace of someone who has never been required to perform elegance. Her back does not touch the rest. Her feet, in their pale slippers, do not quite reach the floor. She places the parasol across her lap and folds her gloved hands over it, looking up at him with an expression that holds no calculation, no suspicion, no awareness of the fifteen pairs of eyes that have watched her, in her father’s mansion, through every hour of the day and night for three years.

“I want something of the sea,” she says. “Father says we may finally return to Lemuria by autumn. The physicians say the capital air doesn’t suit his constitution, though I’ve never noticed him ill.”

Caleb has already moved to the tea service. He pours into her cup and then into his own, which is black and featureless and heavy as stone. “Not like the others,” he repeats, carrying the cup to her. He extends it, and when she reaches to take it, her bare fingers brush his. The skin is warm from being contained in the leather. His own fingers are cool, as always, and he sees her register the temperature difference with a slight widening of her eyes that she does not comment upon. She never comments upon the things that should concern her.

“Tell me, sweetling, what fault do you find in your daughters?”

“Oh, no fault!” She cradles the cup in both hands, sipping without tasting, drinking because it is offered. “They are perfect. You made them perfect. But they are … city children. Palace children. They belong here in Linkon, with the dust and the stone. When I take them to Lemuria, they seem … out of place. Like flowers forced to bloom in the wrong season.”

He takes his own chair, the wrought-iron piece that creaks slightly under his weight. He sits with his spine aligned to its back, his coat settling around him like wings folding.

“You wish for a daughter of the tide,” he says. “A child of salt and foam.”

“Yes.” The word is breathed rather than spoken. “Exactly. I knew you would understand. No one else does. I tried to explain to Lady Simone at the Governor’s Ball, and she smiled as though I were speaking in tongues. She said, ‘A doll is a doll, My Lady. What difference is there whether it is made for the shore or the salon?’”

“She is a fool,” Caleb says, without heat. “And you, my treasure, are not. A doll made for the shore carries the shore in her bones. Her weight is different. Her breath,” he pauses, tilting his head again, “her breath would taste of salt.”

Her eyes stare at him over the rim of her cup. There is no fear in her gaze. There is only fascination, the gentle, voracious curiosity of someone who has never encountered a locked door and therefore does not recognize the shape of a key.

“Can you truly make such a thing?”

“I can make anything you require, my lovely girl.” he sets his cup aside, untasted. “For you, I would carve the moon from its socket and polish it to a finish you could wear at your throat. The sea is a simpler commission.”

She laughs again, that bell-like sound that seems to hang in the workshop air longer than its acoustics should permit. “You say the most extraordinary things. The gentlemen at court would be scandalized if they heard you speak of carving the moon.”

“The gentlemen at court,” he says, “are not in this room. And if they were, they would not be scandalized. They would be rendered irrelevant.”

Her cup is soon set aside—she has drunk half, always half, never finishing what is given to her, a habit Caleb has noted across sixteen visits—and rises from her chair. “Will you,” she pauses, her gloved hand suspended in the air between them. “Will you give her the same eyes as the others? The ones that seem to follow you?”

Caleb turns his head. The round spectacles catch the grey light from the window, momentarily eclipsing the violet of his own eyes. “Do my daughters follow you, little one?”

“Sometimes.” She drops her hand, returning it to herself. “When I wake in the night, I think I see them looking at me. But it must be the candlelight. Or my imagination. Lady Simone says I have too much imagination for my own good.”

“Lady Simone,” he says, “knows nothing of my craft. If my daughters look at you, it is because you are the only worthy sight. A doll without a witness is merely ware, you give them purpose.”

She accepts this with a small, pleased nod, as though he has confirmed a pleasant daydream rather than admitted to a truth that would unmake her understanding of her own household. “Then I shall place her facing the window,” she says. “In Lemuria. So she can see the sea.”

“Yes,” he agrees. He returns the face to the cabinet, locking the door with a click that seems to seal something more than glass. “Place her facing the window. She will want to see the tide return.”

“I knew you would understand.” She steps back, returning to her chair. “When might she be ready? I do not mean to rush you. I know your work cannot be hurried.”

Caleb calculates aloud, though he has already determined the answer. “The current commission—a provincial patron, a man of no consequence—requires completion first. My reputation rests on sequence. Two weeks for him. Then,” he pauses, letting the silence carry weight. “Then I shall begin on your daughter. Four weeks. Perhaps five. The sea requires layers, and salt requires patience.”

“I have patience,” she says.

“Do you, my sweetling?” He asks, and the question is so gently delivered, so devoid of edge, that she does not hear the irony.

She has never needed patience. She has him. She has fifteen watchers in her bedchamber. She has the absolute, unwavering attention of the most feared artisan in the Empire, though she believes she has merely purchased handsome toys.

“I shall wait,” she says. “I always wait well. Father's mansion is very comfortable, and I have my books, and my other daughters for company. Although,” she hesitates, a small crease appearing between her brows. “Lately, the one in the blue dress—the fourteenth—she seems different. Her face is the same, but sometimes I find her in places I don’t remember leaving her. By the writing desk, looking at my letters.”

Caleb’s expression does not change. His face is a mask of attentive concern, perfectly constructed. “Porcelain expands and contracts with the weather,” he says. “The capital’s air is treacherous. She may shift on her stand. It is not uncommon.”

“Of course.” The crease vanishes, smoothed away by his explanation. “That must be it. I worried I was being silly.”

“You are never silly, my darling. Your observations are valued, even when the explanation is mundane.” He moves to the door, not to open it yet, but to stand beside it, a sentinel in charcoal and black. “When she is ready, I shall send word. You need not come to me unless you wish to. I can deliver her myself.”

“Oh, would you?” She rises, collecting her gloves, her parasol. “I would like that. The servants are always so clumsy with packages. And I trust only you to handle her.”

“Only me,” he echoes. “That is the correct arrangement.”

She laughs, delighted, and extends her hand. He takes it—not to shake, but to hold, his cool fingers enveloping her warm ones for three seconds, four, five, long past the duration of social ritual. She does not withdraw. She waits, trusting, until he releases her with a slow, deliberate withdrawal that leaves her skin marked by nothing but the memory of pressure.

“Until next time,” she says.

“Until then,” Caleb agrees.

He opens the door. The afternoon has grown darker, the pewter sky pressing low over the lane. Her carriage waits, the horses stamping, the coachman staring resolutely forward. She steps out, opens her parasol although the first drops of rain have not yet fallen, and walks away without looking back.

Caleb watches her go. He watches through his own eyes, and through the eyes he has planted across the city. In the Duke’s mansion, on the third floor, in the chamber facing east, fifteen heads turn. Fifteen pairs of painted eyes focus on the door, waiting for it to open, waiting for her return. The fourteenth doll, the one in blue, has already shifted her position by three degrees, orienting herself toward the writing desk where the letters lie, where the secrets of the Duke’s correspondence wait to be read and transmitted and known.

The dolls do not watch their owners. Not usually. Not unless their maker requires it. And she—his pretty thing, his little one, his only worthy witness—is the only owner worth the watching.

The sixth week arrives, and Caleb does not travel to the Duke’s mansion in the carriage that waits at his door. He walks. He moves through Linkon City with the unhurried, gliding stride of a man who has never needed to rush because time has always arranged itself to accommodate him. The streets are wet from morning rain, and his boots strike the cobblestones without sound, each step placed with the exactitude of a needle penetrating cloth.

He carries the doll in a case of black lacquered wood, fitted with velvet the colour of dried blood. The case is heavy—not with the doll’s weight, which is negligible, but with the density of intention.

Six weeks. He promised five. He has taken six, and the extra week sits inside him like a swallowed key, turning, unlocking something that has been waiting since the moment she first stepped into his workshop.

Caleb sees the carriages before he sees the mansion. Three of them, lined along the carriage drive with their doors thrown open, their interiors already half-stacked with trunks and hatboxes and the innumerable possessions of a household preparing to return to its ancestral seat. Servants move between the house and the vehicles like ants dismantling a colony, their arms laden with folded linens, with leather-bound books, with the fragile, wrapped shapes of porcelain.

They are leaving. She is leaving. The knowledge enters his consciousness not as surprise but as confirmation of a variable he introduced himself.

He made the doll slowly and perfectly; but he made it late.

A footman approaches, hesitant, recognizing the black coat and the case and the spectacles that catch the light like something that has learned to mimic humanity too perfectly. “Mr. Xia,” the boy stammers. “The Duke is expecting you. This way, sir.”

Caleb inclines his head. “Of course.”

The mansion is vast, all ornate columns and gilded cornices and the aggressive, defensive luxury of provincial nobility trying to convince the city of its permanence in the capital. He moves through it without looking up. He has seen the ceilings before, through other eyes. He knows the pattern of the frescoes in the east wing corridor because the fourteenth doll, the one in blue, has stared at them nightly while she slept. He follows the footman with the docile, attentive posture of a craftsman humbled by aristocratic patronage, and inside the locked cabinet of his mind, he files every face they pass for future reference.

Her father, the Duke meets him in the library;he is thinner than his portraits suggest, his complexion is sallow, and his hand when extended to shake bearing the faint tremor of a constitution that the capital’s air has eroded.

“Mr. Xia,” the Duke says, and his voice carries the strained heartiness of a debtor greeting his creditor. “You’ve brought it? My daughter has spoken of nothing else. Six weeks she has waited, sir. Six weeks.”

“Six weeks,” he repeats, and the word hangs between them, perfectly neutral, perfectly weighted. “The work required it. I hope she finds the delay forgiven by the result.”

“I’m certain she shall.” The Duke releases his hand quickly, as though the temperature of his skin has transmitted something that cannot be named. “She’s in the receiving room. I’ll have you shown up. We depart tomorrow, you understand. The physicians insist. The sea air, the native soil. I’m sure you comprehend the urgency.”

“Entirely,” Caleb says. “Family must be preserved at all costs.”

The Duke smiles, uncertain, and gestures to another footman. Caleb is led up the grand staircase, past the landing where the fourteenth doll sits in its alcove, its painted eyes fixed on the corridor. As he passes, he does not look at it, he does not need to; not when he feels its attention like a thread pulled taut between them, of shared sight that vibrates with his pulse. The footman chatters nervously about the weather, about the journey, about the Duke’s gratitude.

He responds with appropriate sounds that are arranged to resemble conversation without speaking the words. His focus is ahead, behind the door at the corridor’s end, where the air already tastes different to him, where the scent of her has begun to seep through the wood.

The receiving room is blue.

She is there, standing by the window with her back to the door, her posture is straight and perfect. She turns when the footman announces him, and her face—beautiful, always beautiful, the template from which he has learned to sculpt perfection—opens into an expression of such unguarded delight that he feels something in his chest, something that is not a heart, constrict with the satisfaction of a predator scenting its prey.

“Oh,” she breathes. “You came.”

The footman withdraws, and the door closes. Caleb stands alone with her, and the case in his hands seems suddenly animate, hungry, a vessel containing not merely a doll but the six weeks of his delay, the accumulated weight of every night he spent perfecting her newest daughter. He sets the case upon the table by the door, and turns to her with a smile that he has constructed from the memory of human warmth, a curve of the mouth that does not reach the violet of his eyes.

“Did you doubt me, my sweetling?”

“Never.” She moves toward him, and her steps are quick, eager, the gait of someone who has never learned that desire should be concealed. “But I thought—Father said you might not finish in time. That we might have to send for her. I couldn’t bear the thought of her travelling alone.”

“She does not travel alone,” Caleb says. “She travels with me. And now, she travels to you to be with you.”

He reaches to open the case, and the doll lies within, nested in velvet, her eyes staring upward with the patient expression he sculpted for her; the hair is made of corn silk, falling around her porcelain shoulders in waves that seem to move even in stillness; she is dressed in a gown the colour of sea foam.

She gasps. The sound is small, delicate, a breakage of breath that he captures and files. She reaches into the case with both hands, lifting the doll with the reverent, instinctive gentleness of a mother retrieving a newborn, and cradles it against her chest. “She’s perfect,” she whispers. “Oh, she’s more than perfect. She’s waiting. Just as I asked. She’s waiting for the sea.”

“No, my sweet; she waits for you,” he corrects, his voice is lower now, the measured cadence beginning to shed its social rhythm, the pretence slowly falling away. “All my daughters wait for you. But this one,” he pauses, and steps closer; enough that the scent of her becomes dominant, that he can see the individual lashes framing her eyes, the faint, living pulse in the hollow of her throat. “This one is special. This one carries the sea in her bones. I made her for the shore. I made her for your bedchamber in Lemuria. I made her to watch the window with you.”

“Yes.” She looks up at him, the doll still clutched to her chest, her eyes wide and trusting and utterly blind to the shift in the room’s pressure. “I shall place her facing east. So she sees the sunrise over the water. So she waits with me always.”

Caleb’s hand rises. His fingers hover beside her cheek, close enough that the air between them seems to thin, to warm with the friction of proximity.

“You speak of waiting,” he murmurs. “You speak of patience. But I have waited, my dear. I have waited longer than six weeks. I have waited through sixteen dolls. Through sixteen visits.”

She blinks.

The doll’s porcelain head shifts slightly against her shoulder. “I … I don’t understand.”

“No,” he says, and the word is soft, almost tender. “You do not. And that is why you are precious. That is why you are mine.”

His hand moves. Not to her cheek—he resists, with a control that feels like the grinding of gears, the urge to mark her, to bruise her, to leave evidence on her flesh that would prompt questions from physicians and ladies-in-waiting and the Duke himself. Instead, his fingers close around the doll. He plucks it from her embrace with the smooth, unhurried motion of a man removing an obstacle from a path, and he turns to the side table—the one by the chaise, the one with the lamp that casts a circle of amber light onto the carpet—and he lays the doll upon it.

“Caleb?” Her voice has changed; not fear—she does not know fear, not in his presence, not yet—but confusion, a gentle bewilderment, the soft uncertainty of a child whose toy has been taken without explanation. “What are you—”

“Hush, little one.” He turns back to her. He is taller now, or the room has shrunk; he stands before her, and his hands rise to cup her face, his thumbs resting along her jawline, his fingers spreading behind her ears into the warmth of her hair. “You have had your doll. You have had your sixteen daughters. Now you shall have me.”

He kisses her.

Unexpected, overwhelming heat spreads. His lips are warm, almost feverish, a temperature that contradicts the coolness of his hands, his skin, his perpetual chill. He opens her mouth with a pressure that brooks no hesitation, his tongue sliding past her teeth to claim the sweetness within, and she tastes of everything he has imagined through sixteen sets of borrowed eyes: tea and honey and the faint, lingering sugar of the macaroons she favours, and beneath it, the essential, irreplaceable flavour of her life, her blood, her breath.

She makes a sound against his mouth—small, and surprised; but she is not resistant.

Her hands lift, fluttering, uncertain where to settle, and he guides them without breaking the kiss, pressing her palms flat against his chest, over the charcoal waistcoat, over the place where no heartbeat pounds but something else resides, something taut and wound and finally, finally releasing.

She clutches the fabric, and Caleb feasts.

He drinks from her mouth as though she contains the only moisture in a desert, his tongue stroking hers, mapping the interior of her lips, the edge of her teeth, the sensitive hollow beneath her tongue. He angles her head with the exact, jointed pressure of his thumbs, tilting her chin to deepen the access, and when she gasps into him—when her breath becomes his breath—he swallows the sound and demands more.

Six weeks. Sixteen dolls. Years of watching, waiting, collecting her moments through glass eyes, and now she is here, real, warm, yielding, and he is devouring the evidence of her existence one kiss at a time.

When he releases her mouth, they are both breathing differently. Her lips are swollen, glistening, parted around questions she does not know how to ask. His own mouth feels altered, sensitized, alive with the phantom of her taste. He looks down at her, at the beautiful creature who stands before him with her hands still grabbing a fistful of his coat, and he smiles with a warmth that is genuine because it is predatory.

“Sweet,” he says. “So sweet, my pretty girl. I knew you would be. I have imagined this taste through every doll I placed in your chamber. I have wondered if you would be honey or cream or something rarer. You are all three. You are everything.”

“I don’t—” she sways slightly; er eyes are unfocused, the pupils dilated, her. “I don’t understand what’s happening.”

“You are being loved by me,” Caleb tells her. “You need understand nothing else.”

His hands move from her face. They trace the column of her throat with featherlight touches that leave gooseflesh in their wake, and then they descend to the bodice of her dress. The fabric is fine, silk or something like it, the colour of ivory, and he finds the fastenings to let the buttons give way, and the hooks to loosen. Tender hands peel the dress from her shoulders with a deliberation that feels like unwrapping a gift he has already waited too long to open, and when the fabric pools at her waist, he reveals her breasts.

They are perfect.

Not the perfection of his dolls, which is symmetrical and cold. They are living perfection, soft and smooth and weighted with the gentle gravity of flesh, the nipples are a shade of rose that no pigment has ever accurately captured. He cups them in his hands and feels the warmth of her radiate into his palms like coals placed against ice.

She inhales sharply; her spine arches, pressing her more firmly into his grip, and he accepts the offering with a low sound that is not quite a groan, not quite a purr, but something that belongs to no human throat.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, and the word is reverent and possessive and absolute. “My lovely little girl. Look at you. Look what you’ve hidden beneath all that silk and propriety. Look what belongs to me.”

Caleb lowers his head.

His mouth closes around her left nipple, and the heat of him—impossible, overwhelming, the warmth of a kiln rather than a man—envelops her flesh. He sucks. Hard. The pressure is sudden, intense, drawing the sensitive peak deep into the wet cavern of his mouth, his tongue lashing against it with firm, insistent strokes.

She cries out, a high, broken sound that echoes in the room, her hands flying to his hair, her fingers tangling in the brown strands that never fall out of place. He does not release her. He suckles with the focused intensity of a parched man finding a puddle of water, and his pleasure is evident in the way his eyes half-close, the way his jaw works, the way his free hand rises to knead her other breast, rolling the neglected nipple between his thumb and forefinger until it stiffens to match its twin.

He moves from one breast to the other without pause, marking no territory because he claims all of it, every inch, every curve, every shuddering breath. He bites, gently, testing the resilience of her flesh, and when she moans—when her head falls back and her throat exposes itself to the lamplight—he growls against her skin and sucks harder, drawing the blood to the surface, resisting with a violence that trembles through his frame the urge to bruise, to purple, to leave the unmistakable imprint of his mouth where anyone might see. He pulls back only when both nipples glisten, swollen and darkened, throbbing with the heat of his attention, and even then he does not release her breasts entirely. He holds them, possessively, his thumbs strumming across the wet peaks, his eyes fixed on her face.

“Please,” she whispers. The word is directionless, a plea cast into waters she does not know the depth of. “Please, I-I—Caleb, I f-feel so…”

“I know what you feel, sweetling.” His voice is thick, the measured cadence fractured by something that reeks of hunger. “I know every sensation in your pretty body. I have studied you. I have memorized you. Now I am confirming my research.”

His hands slide from her breasts. They grip her waist, and he lowers himself to his knees before her. He looks up at her through his round spectacles, the violet eyes darkened to something near black, and his hands find the hem of her skirts. He pushes them upward, slowly, revealing layer after layer of petticoats, of stockings, of the delicate, ribboned underthings that separate her from the air. She stands frozen, beautiful and small and trembling, her hands hovering in the air as though she has forgotten their function.

“Mr. Xia,” she breathes, suddenly formal until she is not. “Caleb. What are y-you—you mustn’t…”

“I must,” he says simply. “I have lasted not doing this for years. Spread your legs, my dear. Be good for me.”

She obeys. The movement is hesitant, automatic, the compliance of someone who has never been taught to refuse the things asked of her by men she trusts. He guides her feet apart with gentle pressure, and then he is beneath her skirts, his head disappearing into the shadowed, fabric-draped space between her thighs, and his mouth finds her cunt.

She is pretty there, too.

The thought arrives as a fact, as inevitable as gravity; the skin is smooth and soft as the porcelain he shapes in his kiln, the folds delicate and flushed with arousal, glistening with the evidence of her response to his mouth at her breast. He inhales her scent—sweet, yes, but beneath it the darker, saltier perfume of a woman ready to be taken, the essential musk of her sex that no doll, no matter how perfect, can replicate.

Caleb groans, the sound vibrating against her most sensitive flesh, and then he feasts.

His tongue parts her. It strokes upward from her entrance to the hood of her clitoris with a slow, devastating thoroughness, lapping at her as though she were a delicacy to be savoured rather than consumed in one measly bite. She cries out, her hips bucking, her hands falling to his head, gripping his hair with a desperation that seems to surprise even her. He does not allow her movement. His hands clamp around her thighs, holding her spread and open and vulnerable to his mouth, and he delves deeper, pressing his tongue inside her, tasting the liquid heat of her core, before withdrawing to circle her clit with relentless, flickering pressure.

“Oh,” she gasps. “Oh, please, I can’t—it’s too much, aah! I-It’s—”

“It is exactly enough,” he murmurs against her, the words muffled by her flesh, the vibration of his voice adding another layer to the pressure. “You will take what I give you. You will take it, and you will thank me, and you will give me more.”

He slides one hand upward, beneath the bunched fabric of her skirts, and finds her entrance with his fingers. Two of them, long and cool, are pressing into her tightness with a steady, unyielding pressure. She is wet, so wet, slick and scorching around his digits, and the sensation of her inner walls clutching at him—living, responsive, desperate—draws another groan from his chest. He pumps his fingers in rhythm with his tongue, curling them upward to stroke the spot inside her that makes her knees buckle, that makes her cry out with a sharp, animal sound that has no place in the receiving room of a noble house.

Caleb makes her cum with his mouth.

The orgasm rolls through her like a tide, slow and inexorable, building from the pressure of his tongue and the stroke of his fingers until she is shaking, sobbing, her thighs trembling around his head, her hands pulling his hair with a force that would dislodge a lesser man’s composure. He is no lesser, much less, is he a man. He does not stop. He rides her through it, gentling his tongue but maintaining the suction around her clit, milking her with his fingers, drawing out every spasm, every clutch, every drop of pleasure until she is limp, gasping, her head lolling in every which way from surrender.

But he is not finished.

Before she can recover, before her breathing can steady, he renews his assault. His fingers move faster, deeper, curling against her inner walls, and his mouth descends again to her clit, sucking with renewed, almost punishing intensity.

A wail rips through her, and she tries to close her legs, to escape the deluge, but his grip is iron, his will absolute. “No,” he commands against her, the word a hot breath against her oversensitive flesh. “You do not retreat from me. You do not deny me. Give me another, little one. Give me what I am owed.”

She cums again, but this time, much harder. The second orgasm crashes into the first without boundary, a continuous wave of pleasure that seems to break something loose in her, some final tether to propriety or consciousness. She sobs his name, “Caleb,” and her body convulses around his fingers, her juices flooding his hand, his chin, the fabric of her ruined underthings.

When he withdraws, she is barely standing.

He emerges from beneath her skirts with his chin wet, his spectacles slightly askew and splattered with slick, his eyes are completely black and blazing with a violet light that seems to generate its own heat.

Caleb rises to his feet, his movements fluid and jointed, and he catches her as she sways, lifting her into his arms with an ease that belies the density of his own frame. “Good girl,” he whispers against her temple. He carries her—not to the chaise—but to the carpet in the centre of the room. The rug is thick and designed with an intricate pattern of blues and golds that will cushion her and hide what spills. He lays her upon it with a gentleness that contradicts the violence of his intention, arranging her limbs with the same care he applies to his dolls, spreading her legs, lifting her hips, positioning her so the lamplight falls across her flushed, naked skin in the exact manner he requires.

And then he turns to the side table.

The doll lies there still, eyes open, her soft hair arranged across the surface. Caleb reaches for her. He lifts her with one hand, the other already working at the fastenings of his trousers, and he places the doll on the carpet before them, sitting in a way that faces them, her painted gaze fixed upon the scene with the unblinking, eternal patience of an audience.

He positions her carefully, ensures her eyes align with the joining of their bodies.

“There,” he says, and his voice is thick, distorted, the voice of something that has worn human speech for too long and is beginning to let the seams show. “Our newest daughter must watch. She must see how Papa loves her Mama. She must learn what wanting truly means.”

Caleb frees himself. His cock is heavy, flushed dark with blood, the skin stretched tight and glistening at the tip with the evidence of his own arousal. He is large—he knows this, has always known it—and he grips himself at the base, guiding himself to her entrance, pressing the broad, weeping head against her slick, fluttering folds.

She looks up at him from the carpet, her eyes glazed, her hair dishevelled, her dress bunched around her waist like shed skin. She is small beneath him, fragile, a living doll arranged for his pleasure, and the sight of her—open, waiting, his—drives a shudder through his spine that he does not suppress.

“Look at me,” he commands. “Not the doll. Not the room. Me. Know who takes you.”

“Caleb,” she breathes. “I-I’ve never—no one has e-ever—”

“I know.” The words are a purr. “And no one ever will. You are mine, my sweetling. I will be your first and your only one forever.”

He pushes inside her.

The tightness is exquisite. It is purity, it is possession, it is the absolute, irrefutable claim of a man who has waited beyond the patience of mortals and now takes what time has owed him. She is wet, prepared by his mouth and his fingers, but she is small, and he is thick, and the stretch of her virgin flesh around his intrusion draws a cry from her throat that is part pain, part wonder, part something deeper that neither of them has language for. He sinks in slowly, inch by inch, his jaw locked, his eyes fixed on her face, watching every flicker of sensation cross her features, cataloguing her responses with the obsessive attention he brings to his glazing.

Caleb bottoms out. The head of his cock presses against her cervix, nudging the gate of her womb with a steady, battering pressure that makes her gasp, her hands flying to his shoulders, her nails digging into the wool of his coat.

He is seated to the root inside her, surrounded by her heat, her tightness, the rhythmic, involuntary flutter of her muscles trying to accommodate his girth, and he holds there, letting her feel the full extent of his possession, letting her understand the depth of her impalement. “Feel me,” he murmurs, and his hips begin to move slowly. Each withdrawal is a torture of friction, and each thrust is a deliberate, grinding return that drives him against her cervix with unrelenting force. “Feel where I am. This is where I belong, my dear; buried inside your pretty cunt, so deep that you cannot tell where you end and I begin.”

“Please,” she sobs, her legs wrapping around his waist, her heels digging into the small of his back. “Please, Caleb, I—it’s too much, y-you’re so—”

“I am exactly enough,” he growls, and his pace intensifies—not faster, but harder, each thrust landing with a heavy, wet slap of flesh against flesh, the sound obscene and perfect in the quiet room. “And you will take all of me. You will open for me. You will mold yourself around my shape until you cannot breathe without me.”

He fucks her with the intensity of a man performing a sacred rite, his hips rolling and snapping with a precision that seems to target the exact depth, the exact angle, the exact pressure required to shatter her. He watches her, the thin rim of violet in his gaze boring into her face as his cock batters her cervix, as her breasts bounce with the force of his thrusts, as her mouth falls open around sounds that are no longer words but pure, unfiltered expressions of being taken.

“You are going to Lemuria,” he gasps, and the words are punctuated by the heavy, rhythmic impact of his body into hers. “You are going to the sea. To the sun. To your father’s estate. But I will be with you. Do you understand? I will be so deep inside you that it is like I am with you always. Every step you take on that shore, you will feel me. Every wave that breaks, you will remember this. You will carry me in your womb, my seed, my weight, my presence. You will never be free of me, my lovely girl. You will never want to be.”

“Yes,” she cries, tears streaming from the corners of her eyes, her face flushed and desperate and beautiful. “Yes, please, I want—I want you with me, I want—”

“You have me.” He leans down, his weight pressing her into the carpet, his mouth capturing hers in a kiss. “All of me. Now give me your pleasure again. Give it to me while I take you. Give it to me because I demand it.”

She cums around his cock.

The orgasm is different from the ones he gave her with his mouth—deeper, more violent, a convulsion of her inner walls that grips him like a fist, milking him, demanding his own release. She screams into his mouth, or perhaps he swallows the sound; her body arches off the carpet, her spine bowing, her nails scoring his shoulders through the fabric of his coat. The sensation of her climaxing on him, the rhythmic, desperate clenching of her virgin cunt around his invading flesh, tears a groan from his chest that seems to originate from somewhere beneath his ribs, somewhere that has never before been permitted to make noise.

But he does not stop.

Caleb breaks the kiss and stares down at her, his spectacles are askew, and his eyes are burning with a black-violet light. “Again,” he commands. “One more. The last one, sweetling. Promise me; promise me you will give me one more, and I will fill you. I will mark you from the inside where no one can see, where only you will know, where you will carry my claim across the sea and through every day of your life.”

“I promise,” she sobs, delirious, overwhelmed, her body still twitching from the aftershocks. “I promise, I promise, please—”

“Together,” he murmurs, and the word is binding like a vow. “Promise, sweetling. Promise. Together now. Good girl.”

He increases his pace. The rhythm that was slow and intense becomes something else—faster, harder, a pounding, battering assault that shakes her body against the carpet, that drives the breath from her lungs, that makes her breasts bounce and her thighs tremble and her head fall back in absolute, surrendered abandon.

“Caleb,” she screams. “Caleb, I can’t, I’m going to—I’m—”

“Now,” he snarls. “With me. Give it to me now.”

She shatters.

The final orgasm crashes through her with the force of a wave breaking against stone, a continuous, rolling convulsion that seems to originate from her core and radiate outward until every limb, every muscle, every nerve is singing with the violence of her release. And as she cums— as her cunt grips him like it can't bear to let go—he finally allows himself to follow.

He buries himself to the hilt inside her, pressing so hard against her cervix that she can feel the pulse of his release like a heartbeat in her deepest place, and he spills into her with a heat that seems to scald, a volume that seems impossible, flooding her womb, her channel, marking her with the irrevocable evidence of his possession. He groans, a sound like stone grinding against stone, like the kiln’s deepest fire finding voice, and he pumps into her with short, jerking thrusts, ensuring every drop is deposited, ensuring nothing is wasted, ensuring she will leave this room carrying him inside her in a way that no sea, no distance, no time can dissolve.

They collapse together, and he does not withdraw; he stays inside her, softening but still present, still claiming, and he gathers her against his chest with hands that tremble only slightly. She is limp, gasping, her face pressed against his collar, her tears wetting his cravat.

The doll watches from the carpet, patient and eternal.

Just like himself.

“Good girl,” Caleb whispers into her hair, his voice returned to its low, melodic register, though it is thickened, satiated, almost sleepy in its satisfaction. “My perfect, sweet girl. You did so well for me. You took everything. You gave everything.”

“Caleb,” she mumbles, half-conscious, her body still twitching with aftershocks around his spent length. “I feel you. I can still feel you. It’s like—it’s like you’re still—”

“I am,” he says. “I will be. Even in Lemuria. Even when you stand on the shore and watch the tide. You will feel me inside you, warm and heavy and real. You will touch yourself in the dark and find me there. You will never be alone, my dear. You have never been alone. I have been inside you since the first doll.”

He adjusts her in his arms, withdrawing finally with a wet, obscene sound that makes her whimper at the loss, and he arranges her dress with gentleness, covering her breasts, smoothing her skirts, restoring the fiction of her propriety even as his seed slides down her skin, even as the mark of him pulses in her bruised, swollen core. He lifts the doll from the carpet—his hands are steady now, perfectly steady—and he places it into her limp, unresisting arms. “Hold her,” he instructs. “Take her to Lemuria; let her watch the window, let her wait with you. And when you look at her, when you see her eyes in the dark, remember that she sees you too, that I see you too.”

She clutches the doll. Her fingers are weak, trembling, but they close around the porcelain body with such tenderness that it makes him smile. “I will,” she whispers. “I promise.”

Caleb stands. He adjusts his clothing—trousers fastened, coat smoothed, spectacles straightened, cravat adjusted to hide the absence of any heartbeat in his throat. He looks down at her, at the beautiful creature lying spent and claimed on the Duke’s carpet, cradling his doll, leaking his seed, marked by him in ways invisible and indelible.

“Tomorrow,” he says. “Your father departs tomorrow. I will not see you again before you go. But I am with you. I am always with you.”

He steps into the hallway, closes the door with a click that seals the afternoon into memory, and descends the grand staircase with the posture of an artisan who has merely delivered a commission and received the payment in full.

Dearest Readers,

It is with a trembling hand and a fluttering heart that your humble observer dips her quill into the inkwell this morning, for the sheets that have arrived upon my desk contain intelligence so staggering, so deliciously unprecedented, that one scarcely knows whether to clutch one’s pearls or order a fresh gown for the inevitable celebrations.

Gather round, for the fog of rumour has at last parted.

The Duke of Lemuria—yes, that Duke, the very same whose holdings kiss the salt and spray of the shores, whose treasury is said to be buoyed by tides of pearl and amber—has issued a formal announcement that has set every drawing room, every guildhall, every cloistered corridor of the Citadel, and every shadowed nook of Skyhaven ablaze with whispered conjecture. His Grace declares, in language so carefully wrought it might have been carved from ivory itself, that his only daughter, that radiant creature whom society has long delighted to call the Darling of the Sun and the Sea, is to be united in matrimony to none other than Mister Caleb Xia of Linkon City.

Allow that name to settle upon your palate, dear reader.

Mister Caleb Xia.

The Dollmaker of Skyhaven.

To the uninitiated, one might assume this to be some quaint romantic fancy—a noble daughter smitten with a handsome craftsman, a minor scandal of the heart to be hushed with a modest settlement and a swift removal to the country. But we, who have watched the currents of power eddy and swirl through the capital these many years, know that nothing concerning Mister Xia is ever merely quaint.

Nothing concerning Mister Xia is ever merely anything.

He has never, in all his years of public prominence, demonstrated the slightest interest in the marriage mart. No seasonal balls have found him in attendance. No matchmaking mama has succeeded in cornering him beside the punch bowl. He has moved through our society like a figure in a dream, present and yet untouchable, visible and yet unmistakeably distant. And now, suddenly, shockingly, he is to be a husband. Not merely a husband at that, but a duke.

For here is the particular inclusion of this announcement that has set the Empire trembling upon its axis: upon the solemnization of this union, Mister Caleb Xia shall cease to be Mister Xia in any meaningful social sense. He shall be addressed, henceforth and in perpetuity, as the Duke of Lemuria. He shall assume the full mantle of ducal authority, the administrative sovereignty over those sun-drenched coastal estates, the parliamentary voice in the Imperial Diet, the hereditary privileges and crushing responsibilities that have, for centuries, descended through the bloodline of his bride’s noble house. The Duke of Lemuria—her father, the present incumbent—has effectively declared that his title, his legacy, and his territories are to be entrusted to a man whose primary credential is an unparalleled ability to sculpt a human face from fired clay.

One can almost hear the collective gasp of the aristocracy echoing across the cobblestones.

But wait, dear reader, for the plot thickens into a consistency one might almost spread upon toast. His Imperial Majesty, the Emperor himself—he who sits upon the Obsidian Throne and commands armies that make the earth tremble—has granted his personal approval to the match. This is no mere formality. The Emperor’s endorsement transforms what might otherwise be dismissed as a provincial peculiarity into an affair of state. He is to be family. Imperial family, by extension. The Emperor has, in effect, placed his own shadow between the Dollmaker and those who would seek to question him.

But what of the bride, you ask? What of the creature who has, by this announcement, become the most envied and, one suspects, the most scrutinized young woman in the Empire?

We have long known her as the Darling of the Sun and the Sea, the only daughter of the Duke, a vision of beauty have launched a thousand sonnets and twice as many sighs from the lips of disappointed suitors.

She has resided these past seasons in her father’s capital mansion, a soft presence in a hard city that one might mistake her for a living doll herself—though, of course, no doll, however masterfully wrought, could replicate the particular luminosity of a soul that has never learned to suspect its own reflection.

It is said—whispered, rather, by those who have attended her intimate receptions—that she possesses a collection of dolls so extensive it requires its own chamber in the Lemurian mansion. One wonders, with a delicious shiver of speculation, whether this matrimony represents the culmination of a courtship conducted entirely through the medium of bisque and velvet, a romance whispered across sixteen painted faces, a seduction enacted in the language of craftsmanship.

What other suitor could possibly compete with a man who has, quite literally, populated her private world with his creations?

The matchmaking mamas of Philos are, by report, in various states of collapse. Those who had earmarked the Duke’s daughter for their own sons must now recalibrate their dynastic ambitions. Those who had harboured private hopes of attracting the Dollmaker’s eye—yes, there were such women, bold creatures who fancied themselves capable of thawing that legendary chill—have retreated to their boudoirs to shred handkerchiefs and curse the fates. The Artisans’ Guild of Skyhaven, meanwhile, has entered a state of collective apoplexy, torn between pride at their member’s elevation and terror at the vacuum his exclusivity shall leave in their ranks.

Who shall now serve as the Empire’s premier dollmaker? Who shall fill the atelier that once accepted the most discerning commissions? The answer, one suspects, is no one. The art shall become, under his continued but distant patronage, a relic of the old order.

But let us not, in our fascination with politics and power, neglect the human heart—if indeed human hearts are what beat in the breasts of these two curious figures. For beneath the scaffolding of titles and approvals and strategic calculations, there lies the simple, scandalous, utterly captivating fact of a marriage. A man and a woman. A bedchamber. A life to be shared across the miles that separate Linkon City from the Lemurian shore. She who is soft, and small, and beautiful beyond the capacity of his pigments to capture. He who is cool, and precise, and possessed of a gaze that suggests he has already mapped every day of their future together.

Will he adore her?

The announcement promises he shall. It speaks of a beautiful wife to be adored, of a duchy to be managed with the same devotion he brings to his craft. And one believes it—strange as it may seem, this one believes it absolutely. Not because the language is convincing, but because it is unnecessary. Any man who has spent years fashioning sixteen perfect masterpieces for a woman’s private chamber has already demonstrated an adoration that transcends the conventional vocabulary of courtship.

He has adored her in porcelain. He has adored her in glass. He has adored her through eyes that do not close, through limbs that do not tire, through a vigilance that has never slept. Now he shall adore her in flesh, in title, in the full, unshielded light of ducal privilege.

One can only wonder what children might issue from such a union. But that, I suspect, is intelligence for another season, another sheet, another whispered dispatch from your devoted observer.

Until then, raise your glasses to the happy couple. The tide, it seems, has turned in their favor. And the tide, as every citizen knows, does not turn back.

SAINT'S NOTES ! posting from my back-up because the reach in my main has been so fucked because of that evil fucking tag; nonetheless, have fun with the dollmaker, because i'm back to be evil and start mass-posting again after disappearing for a while. this blog is only a back-up, all interactions and masterlists can be found in here.