Yet here I am, humming with anticipation for when I'll see him again. My mind constantly drifts to the way his eyes soften when he looks at me.
It's madness. Complete insanity.
But God help me, I can't stop it. It's like watching myself drown from above the water, but unable to reach down and pull myself out. Every time I think I've found my footing, he speaks to me or touches me in a way that pulls me under again.
The most terrifying part isn't loving him—it's that I'm starting not to care aboutwhohe is.
45
MIRA
Ipress my back against the bathroom door after locking it behind me, finally able to breathe without Xavier's overwhelming presence suffocating every thought. Seven days. Seven days of him refusing to give me the space I desperately need to process what he told me.
After visiting Cora last week, I'd spoken with Monica, the woman Xavier claimed he helped escape an abusive hunter. His story checked out. She described how Xavier had provided her with a new identity, money, even a job in another state when her hunter refused to let her go after their year was up.
"He saved my life," she'd told me, her voice still shaking at the memory. "I'd probably be dead without him."
One good deed. One act of decency amid a sea of blood and violence. Can a single act of kindness redeem a lifetime of destruction? My father, with his unwaveringmoral compass, would say no. My mother, the prosecutor who built her career putting away men like Xavier, would laugh at the very suggestion.
And yet...
I splash cold water on my face, meeting my reflection’s accusing stare in the bathroom mirror. The woman looking back at me has swollen lips from Xavier’s relentless kisses and marks on her throat from where he can’t seem to stop claiming her skin. She looks thoroughly debauched and completely confused.
But beneath that confusion lies darkness—something I've spent my entire life trying to deny. A shadow that always lurked beneath my skin. The Sullivan family legacy: upholding the law, protecting the innocent, and always taking the moral high ground.
What would they think if they could see me now? If they knew how desperate I am for a criminal’s touch? If they discovered the shameful thrill I feel when he makes me his in ways that would horrify my proper, law-abiding parents?
Xavier didn't create this darkness in me. He merely recognized it, dragged it into the light, and showed me it was always there—waiting.
I've spent my entire life pretending to be someone I'm not. The perfect daughter. The crusading journalist. The moral compass in a world gone mad. But Xavier saw through it all with those steel-gray eyes, identifying the hunger I've desperately tried to hide.
The contract binds me to him for a year. That's non-negotiable. But loving him? That's my choice. The only real choice I have left.
And I'm terrified because, despite everything—despite the blood on his hands, despite the lives he's destroyed, despite everything I was raised to stand against—I'm falling for him. Falling for a monster who sees the monster in me.
Every time I try to think—really think—about what it means that Xavier kills people, he's there. His hands are on my waist as I make coffee. His lips against my neck while I try to read. His body pressed against mine in bed, whispering promises that scramble my brain until I can't remember why I needed distance in the first place.
Which is exactly his plan.
Xavier Blackwood doesn't lose, and he sure as hell doesn't wait patiently for verdicts that might not go his way. Instead, he wages war on my senses, making it impossible to maintain any emotional distance. Every touch is calculated to remind me how perfectly we fit together. Every kiss is designed to prove that, whatever I think about his actions.
And it’s working.
I can feel my resolve cracking under the constant assault of his attention. How am I supposed to reconcile my feelings about him being a killer when he won’t stop touching me long enough for rational thought to surface? How can I examine my conscience when his mouth is always on mine, drowning out the voice in my head that screams this is wrong?
The voice that sounds suspiciously like my father.
A soft knock on the door makes me jump.
“Mira.” His voice is intoxicating, resonating through the thin wood. “Come back to bed.”
Four simple words make heat bloom in my chest, pulling me toward the door like a flower seeking sunlight.
“I’m taking a shower,” I call back, proud that my voice sounds steady.
“I’ll wash your back.”
The doorknob turns despite the lock—of course, he has keys to every room in his own penthouse. I watch in the mirror as he steps inside, already shirtless, his gray eyes dark with familiar hunger.
