I let out a long, aching breath. The hollow of Steven's absence still scraped at me—the moment he died.
From the window, Ashur's voice came low and rough, almost lazy.
'I figured the Organisation wouldn't let its special operatives… feel things for each other.'
I flinched and glanced over. He was still peering through the slit in the curtain; with his height he nearly reached the rail—just a dark, unsettling shape at the edge of the room.
Before I could answer, he turned and pinned me with those glossy black eyes.
'I mean your friend,' he said softly. 'The blond one.'
My teeth ground together. My pulse kicked. I swallowed the lump in my throat and forced the words out, flat with anger.
'That's none of your business.'
His chuckle cut through the small room. He held my gaze—cool, empty—and asked, almost taunting,
'Did you… feel anything for him?'
Did I? Did I love him?
Why had I never asked myself that? He'd always been there—my friend, my family, my partner.
But love? Was Steven my love? Did I love him?
Heat burned behind my eyes. I had no map for love. I had never—never—let myself think about loving or being loved.
I didn't understand how much I loved him until I lost him.
Did he have to die for me to see it?
Did I have to pull the trigger myself to realise some stubborn part of me had always wanted someone who loved me back—someone I could love?
Only after Steven's death did I grasp how starved for love I'd been my whole life.
And now the only person who'd offered it without asking anything in return was gone.
In my memory, his hair looked impossibly golden—almost ridiculously so.
'My… I don't know,' I said, my voice raw with it—raw with hurt. 'I didn't deserve his love.'
One of Ashur's brows lifted. No feeling showed in his eyes—two cold, black panes of glass. His face was pale; the scabbed cuts on his lip and brow made him look harsh, almost feral.
I knew he'd report anything about me and Steven to the Rose Organisation.
Right now, I didn't care—about anything except the thought of getting free.
His stare went deep, like he was digging through my eyes for whatever I was hiding.
I pressed my lips together.
'What about you? What's your secret? Why is your DNA so… different? How did you watch your mother die and say nothing? How did you kill a snake bare-handed when you were a kid? Tell me, Ashur.'
My voice sharpened. 'Who exactly are you?'
His thick lashes threw a shadow along his cheekbone. The yellow bulb painted his face stark and unyielding. He breathed slowly; his expression didn't change. I didn't look away.
When he finally spoke, his voice was calm, winter-cold.
'If the Rose Organisation t…trusted you, t…they'd have given you… more information.'
A thin smile curved his mouth.
'I follow instructions. The current orders were to escape from the Triangle Union w…with the operative who read that code. Which means I had to keep you alive.' He tipped his chin at me. 'Which I did.'
He took one step closer.
I held my breath as he said, strange and absolute,
'If, one day, the c…code they hand me includes y…your death… I'll carry it out, little butterfly.'
He stepped up to the bed, set his hand on the metal frame, and slowly leaned toward me.
I locked my dazed stare on his dark, glossy eyes. I couldn't quite breathe.
Softly, he whispered, "Because killing you is so, so… much easier than keeping you alive."
He smirked, broke eye contact, and straightened. Then he turned for the door, and I watched him the whole time, frozen.
As he slipped out of the room, one thought cut through the fog: This man is a dangerous, emotionless machine—and I need to keep as far from him as possible.