I thought I was going to die at first. In fact, a part of me was so utterly convinced it would happen that my brain refused to accept any other possibility as an option. But days passed, and though it was still a struggle, my condition continued to stabilize. Little by little, I regained my strength, and my mind wasn’t foggy anymore—though I was still far from being my old self.
Having Reaper next to me helped immensely. Looking back at when we first met, it was hard to believe he was capable of all the tenderness he had shown these past few days. Either way, I was more than sure it was what helped me recover.
It wasn’t long before I could move around the safe house, though my movements were still very much limited, and I spent most of my days sitting or lying down. Today was no exception.
I watched Reaper from my seat at the kitchen table, still as death except for the occasional tremor in my hands. They came less frequently now—just a reminder of what Brock’s compounds nearly did to my brain.
“I can help, you know.” My voice sounded less raspy today, which was another sign of improvement after proper rest and fluids that Reaper ensured I got.
Reaper didn’t turn from the stove. “No.”
Just that. One syllable with the finality of a closing door. I narrowed my eyes at his back.
“My coordination is better today,” I argued, flexing my fingers to prove it. On cue, a slight tremor passed through my right hand, betraying me. I wondered how long those would last—was this something that would leave a permanent mark on my body?
He glanced over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised slightly, having caught the tremor without even fully looking at me. “You need to rest.”
“I’ve been resting,” I muttered, slouching slightly in my chair. “It’s all I’ve been doing, really.”
The safehouse kitchen felt like a surreal stage set—an assassin making breakfast, a journalist with neurotoxin aftereffects slouching at the table. Morning light filtered through half-drawn blinds but reinforced with clear panels that wouldn’t silhouette our movements from outside. The domesticity might have fooled someone who didn’t notice the exit routes marked by slightly shifted furniture, or the way Reaper positioned himself with clear sightlines to both windows and the door.
“You keep staring at me,” Reaper said, his voice neutral but somehow carrying a question.
“I’m trying to reconcile versions of you,” I admitted. “The man who killed a dozen people to extract me is now making me breakfast.”
Something shifted in his posture—almost imperceptible, but I’d been studying him for days. “They’re not separate versions.”
“No,” I agreed quietly. “That’s what’s fascinating.”
He turned just enough that I caught his profile, the edge of his jaw tight with something unspoken. I’d noticed he did this when memories surfaced—a slight physical bracing, like his body prepared for pain that didn’t always come now.
“You called me Sofia,” I said, the words escaping before I could reconsider. “When you were delirious from the compound. You looked at me like you recognized me, but not as me.”
His hands stilled completely. The stillness of a predator interrupted.
“I don’t remember that,” he said finally, but the slight furrow in his brow betrayed him. I tilted my head.
“Sofia,” I repeated, watching him carefully. “The name meant something to you. You looked… desperate.”
Reaper’s jaw worked as he returned to the eggs, beating them with controlled force. “Another hole in my memory.”
“Does the name trigger anything now?” I pushed gently, the journalist in me unable to let go of a thread once pulled.
He placed the bowl down with deliberate care. “Nothing specific. But it feels…” His fingers flexed against the countertop. “Heavy. Like it’s carrying something important.”
I nodded, swallowing the unexpected jealousy that rose in my throat. It was ridiculous to feel territorial over a man whose real name I didn’t even know. A man who until recently was programmed to kill me. A man who might have someone out there waiting for him to remember them. Of course, he had a life before me. I had a life before him, too, though it didn’t include many romantic endeavors. My mind reeled. Now, these two versions of him were colliding, though. Sooner or later, he may be forced to make a choice. What would he choose? Who… would he choose? My throat tightened at the thought, but I did my best to ignore it. There wereplentyof possible explanations. Why did my mind have to jump to the worst one instantly?
“Finding out who she was might help recover more of your memories,” I offered, aiming for professional detachment and missing by miles.
“Maybe.” His eyes never left mine, reading me with that unsettling accuracy. “But right now, I remember something more immediately relevant.”
He placed a perfectly crafted omelet before me, then sat down with a different posture. The way he positioned himself, slightly leaning forward, reminded me of the focused intensity before a revelation during an interview.
“I knew Brock before.” His gaze met mine. “He was my partner.”
I put my fork down, losing interest in my food. My mouth gaped open as I tried to process his words. “Your partner?”
“In assassination.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew the red poker chip, placing it deliberately betweenus. “Private contracts.” His tone remained steady, but I noticed the strain in his jawline. “We operated as a team. Until we didn’t.”
