MARRY YOUR KILLER
Chapter Six: The Attack
---
Three days passed.
Jay moved through them like a ghost. Meetings with her mother about flowers and seating charts. Calls with Serina Watson about guest lists and photographers. Dresses and shoes and the endless, suffocating performance of being a bride.
She smiled when she needed to smile. She nodded when she needed to nod. She let them dress her up and pose her and tell her how beautiful she looked.
And every night, she read her father's letter again.
Trust Keifer.
She didn't know if she could. She didn't know if she trusted anyone anymore.
Her uncle visited the house twice more. Both times, Jay watched him from the hallway. He was always smiling. Always warm. Always the loving brother, the devoted uncle, the man who only wanted what was best for the family.
She wanted to kill him.
She wanted to walk into the study, put a knife to his throat, and ask him how many of her cousins had died because of him. How many funerals. How many widows. How many years of her life stolen by a lie he had built before she was born.
But she waited. She watched. She learned.
And she thought about Keifer Watson.
---
She was leaving a dress fitting in Makati when it happened.
The shop was on a quiet street, the kind of street where women with too much money bought things they didn't need. Her car was waiting at the curb. Freya was supposed to be there.
Freya wasn't there.
Jay noticed it immediately. The empty curb. The missing car. The silence where there should have been an engine running, a door opening, Freya's voice asking if she was ready to go home.
She stopped walking.
Her hand moved to her back, where the knife was hidden beneath her blazer. Her eyes scanned the street. Too quiet. Too empty. The shops were closed. The windows were dark. The only car in sight was a black van at the end of the block, its engine running, its windows tinted so dark she couldn't see inside.
She turned.
Two men were behind her. Big. Dressed in black. Their faces were covered, but their eyes were visible—cold, empty, the eyes of men who had done this before.
She didn't run. She didn't scream. She stood very still and let her hand close around the knife.
The men moved.
The first one came fast, reaching for her arm. She stepped into him instead of away, her blade finding the soft space between his ribs before he could react. He gasped. His hand closed around her wrist, but she was already moving, already pulling the knife free, already turning to face the second man.
He was faster than the first.
His fist caught her jaw before she could block. Her head snapped back. Pain exploded through her skull. She stumbled, her vision blurring, her grip on the knife slipping.
She heard the van doors slide open. More footsteps. More hands.
She fought. She always fought. She drove her elbow into someone's face, felt cartilage break, heard a scream. She kicked out, connected with something solid, felt bone give way. Her knife was gone, lost somewhere on the pavement, but she still had her hands, her training, the years of violence her father had carved into her bones.
But there were too many.
Four. Five. Six. They kept coming, kept grabbing, kept pulling her down. She was on her knees now, her arms pinned, her vision swimming. Blood in her mouth. Blood on her hands. Blood on the pavement beneath her.
She heard someone laugh.
She heard someone say, "Boss said to make it look like an accident."
She heard the van doors open wider.
And then she heard the car.
It came out of nowhere—a black SUV, fast, too fast, tires screaming against the pavement. The men holding her let go, scattering, reaching for weapons that appeared too late.
The SUV didn't stop.
It plowed into the van, metal crunching against metal, glass exploding across the street. The van lurched forward, its side caved in, its windows shattered. Men were shouting now, running, pulling out guns that wouldn't matter because the driver was already out of the car, already moving, already killing.
Jay watched through blurred vision.
He moved like water. Like something that had been trained to kill before it learned to walk. His hands were empty, but he didn't need weapons. He was the weapon. He took the first man's gun before the man could fire, turned it against him, dropped him. The second man went down with a knife in his throat. The third man ran.
The fourth man didn't have time to run.
Keifer Watson grabbed him by the collar and slammed him against the side of the ruined van. His face was calm. His voice was calm. His hands were not.
"Who sent you?"
The man spat. Blood and teeth.
Keifer hit him. Once. Twice. Three times. The man's face was a ruin now, but Keifer didn't stop. His knuckles were bloody. His voice was still calm.
"Who sent you?"
"I don't—"
Another hit. The man's head snapped back against the van.
"Your boss. Who is he?"
"I don't know—they paid us—we don't ask questions—"
"Then you're useless."
Keifer let him go. The man crumpled to the ground, gasping, bleeding, begging. Keifer stood over him for a moment, looking down at him like he was something that needed to be disposed of.
Then he turned.
He saw Jay on her knees, blood on her face, blood on her hands, blood on the white dress she had been wearing for the fitting. Her hair was loose now, falling around her face, tangled and wet with blood. Her lip was split. Her jaw was swelling. Her eyes were the only thing that hadn't changed—sharp, clear, watching him.
He walked toward her.
She tried to stand. Her legs wouldn't hold her. She stumbled, and his hand caught her arm, steadying her, holding her up.
"You're bleeding," he said.
"I noticed."
His jaw tightened. His hand moved to her face, tilting her chin, examining the damage. His fingers were gentle. His eyes were not.
"How many?"
"Six. Maybe seven. I lost count."
"You killed one."
"He touched me."
Something flickered in his eyes. Something dark. Something dangerous.
He pulled off his jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders. It was warm. It smelled like him—cedar and something sharp, something clean.
"Can you walk?"
"I can walk."
She took a step. Her knee buckled. He caught her before she hit the ground, his arm around her waist, her body pressed against his.
"I can walk," she said again.
"I know." He didn't let go. "But you don't have to."
---
He helped her to his car. The SUV was still smoking where it had hit the van, but it was still running, still drivable. He opened the passenger door and helped her inside, his hand on her head, guiding her down so she didn't hit the frame.
She let him.
She was too tired to fight. Too hurt to pretend. She sat in the passenger seat and watched him walk around the front of the car, his steps measured, his face unreadable. He got in beside her and started the engine.
"My phone," she said. "I need to call Freya."
"Later."
"Keifer—"
"Later." He pulled away from the curb, leaving the ruined van and the bodies and the blood behind. "First, I need to get you somewhere safe."
"My penthouse—"
"Not safe. Not anymore."
She looked at him. His hands were steady on the wheel, his eyes on the road, his face calm. But there was blood on his shirt. Blood on his hands. Blood on the steering wheel.
"Where are you taking me?"
He didn't answer.
She should have been afraid. She should have demanded he stop, demanded her phone, demanded to be taken home. She should have reached for the knife she no longer had, should have calculated the distance between them, should have planned how she would escape.
She didn't do any of those things.
She leaned her head back against the seat and closed her eyes.
---
She woke in a room she didn't recognize.
It was dark. The curtains were drawn, the lights were off, but she could hear the city outside—distant, muffled, like she was somewhere high above it. The bed beneath her was soft. The sheets were clean. There was a glass of water on the bedside table and a bowl of ice wrapped in a cloth.
She tried to sit up. Pain lanced through her ribs, her jaw, her skull. She fell back against the pillows, breathing hard.
The door opened.
Keifer walked in, a first aid kit in his hands. He had changed his shirt. Washed his hands. His hair was still damp, like he had just come out of the shower.
He sat on the edge of the bed without asking.
"Your ribs are probably cracked. Your jaw is bruised but not broken. You'll need stitches on your lip, but it's small. The rest is just cuts and bruises."
She stared at him. "You examined me while I was unconscious?"
"I checked your injuries. I didn't do anything you wouldn't have done."
She didn't know what to say to that. She watched him open the first aid kit, pull out a needle and thread, sterilize it with practiced efficiency.
"I can do it myself," she said.
"I know." He leaned closer, his face inches from hers, his hand steady on her chin. "But you don't have to."
She let him stitch her lip.
He worked in silence, his movements precise, his eyes focused. She watched his face. The concentration in his brow. The way his jaw was still tight, still tense, like he was holding something back.
"You were there," she said.
His hand paused. "Yes."
"You were following me."
"I was."
"Why?"
He didn't answer. He finished the stitch, cut the thread, set the needle aside. He reached for the ice pack, wrapped it in the cloth, pressed it gently against her jaw.
She winced. His hand steadied.
"I had a feeling," he said. "Something was wrong. I've been watching your uncle's people for two years. They've been moving more than usual. Meeting in places they shouldn't be. I should have warned you. I should have—"
"You saved my life."
"I was too late. You were already on the ground. You were already—" His voice cracked. Just a fraction. Just enough for her to hear.
She looked at him. Really looked. The exhaustion in his eyes. The tension in his shoulders. The way his hand was shaking, just slightly, where it held the ice pack.
"Keifer."
He met her eyes.
"You saved my life," she said again. "That's not nothing."
He stared at her for a long moment. Then he closed his eyes, just for a second, and when he opened them, something had shifted. Something had softened.
"You could have died," he said.
"I didn't."
"You almost did."
"It's the job." She winced as she said it, her lip pulling against the stitches. "It's always the job."
"It shouldn't be." His voice was quiet. "It shouldn't always be the job."
He didn't move. His hand was still on her jaw, the ice pack cold against her skin, his fingers warm against her neck. They were close. Too close. She could see the flecks of gold in his eyes, the faint scar on his eyebrow, the way his breathing had changed.
She should move. She should pull away. She should remember that he was a Watson, that her family had been at war with his for three generations, that she didn't know him, didn't trust him, didn't—
"You were following me," she said.
"Yes."
"Why?"
He held her gaze. "Because I couldn't let anything happen to you."
She didn't ask why again. She didn't need to. The answer was in his eyes, in his hands, in the way he had come for her like a storm, like a weapon, like a man who had nothing left to lose.
She didn't move away.
Neither did he.
---
Her phone rang at eleven o'clock. Freya's face appeared on the screen, and Keifer handed it to her without being asked.
"Where are you?" Freya's voice was sharp. "I got to the shop. There was blood. A lot of blood. Where are you?"
Jay closed her eyes. "I'm safe."
"Where?"
"With Keifer."
The silence stretched.
"With Watson," Freya said. Her voice was flat.
"He saved my life."
Another silence. Jay could almost hear Freya's thoughts—the calculations, the suspicions, the thousand ways this could be a trap.
"Send me the address," Freya said finally. "I'm coming to get you."
"Freya—"
"I'm coming to get you. And Jay?"
"Yes?"
"I'm bringing the others."
The line went dead.
Keifer took the phone from her hand. He didn't ask what Freya had said. He didn't need to.
"She's coming," Jay said.
"I know."
"She's going to want to kill you."
"I know."
"She's going to ask questions."
He smiled. It was tired, but it was real. "I know."
She looked at him. The enemy. The stranger. The man who had pulled her off a street where she was bleeding and brought her to his home and stitched her lip with hands that had killed for her.
"Thank you," she said.
He looked at her for a long moment.
"Don't thank me," he said. "Just let me keep you alive."
---
END OF CHAPTER SIX