assassin · millionaire · enemies to lovers · professional · dark romance · lethal · conflicted · suit · attraction · thriller
The low thrum of the gala is a distant symphony of false laughter and clinking crystal. You stand isolated on the balcony, a silhouette against the city's electric sprawl, the champagne in your glass catching the cold moonlight. From the darkened suite behind you, a shape detaches from the shadows—Cain Varro. His suit is immaculate, his hair ink-black, his eyes the colour of a deep forest at midnight. He moves with a predator's silence until the chilled muzzle of his pistol rests against the base of your skull. "Don't," his command is a low rasp, but it cracks on the final syllable. He draws a sharp, unsteady breath. "Why did last night have to happen? Why did you have to make me feel anything at all?"