Kaison pov
Sitting in my office thinking about Mira.
Three years earlier...
The rain lashed down in blinding sheets, turning the private road to my Crystal City estate into a treacherous ribbon of darkness. My driver navigated the curves with practiced ease despite the storm, our headlights cutting through the gloom like blue-white blades.
That's when we saw her—a crumpled form at the edge of the road, half-hidden by the darkness and rain.
"Sir?" My driver slowed, looking to me for instruction. In our line of work, unexpected encounters rarely ended well.
Something made me hesitate. In my years of working in my family empire, I had never stopped for a stranger in distress. Compassion was a luxury I had long ago discarded as weakness.
"Pull over," I found myself saying, surprising us both.
The woman lay face-down, her clothes soaked through and torn in places. Dark hair spread around her like spilled ink. As I approached, I noticed something strange—oily tendrils of shadow that seemed to cling to her skin, moving with subtle undulation despite the downpour that should have washed them away.
I knelt beside her, gently turning her to face me. The shadows retreated at my touch, like animals startled by sudden light. Her face, half-covered by tangled wet hair, was hauntingly beautiful despite its pallor. She was alive but barely—her breathing shallow, her skin burning with fever despite the cold rain.
A decision formed in my mind, against all logic and self-preservation. I gathered her into my arms, her weight slight against my chest, and carried her back to the waiting car.
My driver's eyebrow raised fractionally—the only indication of his surprise. Kai Monroe was not known for random acts of charity. His expertise lay in ending lives, not saving them.
"The estate," I instructed simply. "Quickly."
The staff's shock was more evident when I strode through the mansion's grand entrance, water pooling at my feet, the unconscious woman cradled in my arms. Whispers followed me as I climbed the stairs.
"Prepare the blue guest suite," I commanded, my voice brooking no questions. "And bring medical supplies. Now."
For three days, she burned with fever. The doctor—discreet, well-paid, asking no questions—could find no physical cause beyond exhaustion and exposure. Yet her temperature soared dangerously high, her body fighting some invisible battle.
In her delirium, she muttered fragments—pleas, threats, broken pieces of a story I couldn't assemble. Darkness. Pain. The shadows I had glimpsed on the road manifested more strongly during her nightmares, coiling around her arms and throat like living things before subsiding as her distress eased.
Fascinating. I had encountered many individuals with abilities throughout my life—fire-wielders like myself, those who manipulated water or air, even a few rare psychics. But Darkness manipulation was unusual, particularly this organic, seemingly unconscious manifestation.
I found myself sitting with her for hours, watching this phenomenon with professional interest that gradually shifted to something more personal. Who was she? What had happened to her? The mystery pulled at me, distracting me from the business that usually consumed my attention.
When she finally woke, it wasn't the gentle awakening I had anticipated. A scream tore through the mansion, followed by the distinctive sound of shattering glass. I abandoned the call I had been on without explanation and ran to her room.
She had pressed herself into the corner, as far from the bed as possible. A maid stood nearby, hands outstretched in a placating gesture, clearly attempting to coax her back to bed. The water pitcher lay in pieces on the floor, its contents spreading across the polished wood.
The terror in the woman's eyes was beyond anything I had witnessed—and I had seen much in my years as head of the Monroe organization. This wasn't just fear; it was soul-deep trauma, primal and overwhelming. When the maid stepped toward her, she gagged violently, her body physically rejecting human contact.
"Everyone out," I ordered quietly, my voice carrying that subtle note of command that ensured immediate obedience. The staff withdrew, though concern lingered in their glances.
Once alone with her, I crouched at a distance, deliberately making myself smaller, less threatening. A technique I had used many times, though usually for intimidation rather than reassurance.
"You're safe," I said simply, meeting her eyes directly. "No one here will harm you."
She didn't respond verbally, but her breathing gradually steadied, her posture relaxing incrementally from its rigidly defensive state. Those remarkable eyes—obsidian dark but somehow luminous—studied me with wary intelligence.
Over the coming weeks, I discovered patience I hadn't known I possessed. She wouldn't allow anyone near her, particularly male staff members. Because of these I sent all the staff away form the house. I left food outside her door would be taken only after the I had departed and sufficient time had passed. She moved through the mansion like a ghost, appearing only when spaces were empty of others.
I dismissed most of my staff, keeping only those essential for security. An inconvenience, certainly, but something about this shadow-wielding woman compelled my accommodation in ways I couldn't fully rationalize.
The first breakthrough came a month after her arrival. I was reading in the library when she appeared in the doorway, hesitant but determined. Without a word, she entered, taking a seat at the opposite end of the room. For an hour we sat in complete silence before she rose and departed as quietly as she had come.
Progress continued in these small, measured steps. She began to linger in rooms where I worked. One evening, she asked if I had a copy of "The Count of Monte Cristo." The following day, she inquired about my name.
"Kai," I told her, offering the shortened form I used in certain circles. Not Kaison Monroe, heir to the Monroe empire, master of esoteric flame, and leader of the world's most elite assassin organization. The name Kaison Monroe carried weight in both the legitimate business world and the criminal underworld—a weight I saw no reason to burden her with.
"Mira," she replied, her voice soft but clear.
The simple exchange felt monumental. I didn't press for more—not her full name, not where she had come from, not what had left her so deeply traumatized. Something told me that questions would only drive her back into silence.
"You can stay here as long as you wish," I told her one evening as we sat reading, each at our respective ends of the library. "The mansion is large enough that we need not cross paths if that's your preference."
She looked up from her book, studying me with an intensity that seemed to peer past my carefully constructed façade.
"Why are you doing this?" she asked.
I considered fabricating some noble motivation or practical explanation. But something about her—perhaps the directness of her gaze or the quiet strength beneath her fragility—pulled truth from me.
"I don't know," I admitted. "But I'd like you to stay."
Gradually, almost imperceptibly, she began to emerge from her protective shell. Two months after her arrival, she ventured to ask about the books in my collection. Three months in, she joined me for meals, though she sat at the far end of the table. Four months, and she offered to help prepare dinner one evening—a task I had taken up myself, having dismissed the chef to accommodate her aversion to strangers.
We worked in the kitchen with careful coordination, maintaining the distance she required. As she reached for a pan, momentarily forgetting it had been on the heat, she burned her palm. Pure instinct made me reach for her, capturing her wrist to guide her hand under cold running water.
I realized my mistake instantly and braced for her panic. But it never came. Instead, she stood perfectly still, watching with an almost clinical curiosity as I gently treated the burn, applying salve and wrapping it in gauze.
"Why are you so nice and caring to a person you don't even know?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
I looked up, genuinely surprised by the question. Our eyes met, and for the first time, I glimpsed something beyond her trauma—intelligence, perception, and a quiet strength that had survived whatever horrors had broken her.
"I don't usually trust other people this openly," I said after a moment, surprising myself with the admission. "My life... doesn't allow for many genuine connections. Perhaps that's why I recognized something in you that first night. Someone else who understands what it means to live in isolation."
A week later, business demanded my attention in S City—a situation that couldn't be handled remotely. When I informed her of my impending departure, anxiety immediately tensed her posture.
"You're leaving?" she asked, her voice tight with poorly concealed distress.
"Only for a month," I assured her. "I have matters that require my attention in S City."
At the mention of S City, unmistakable terror flashed across her face—brief but intense. Another piece of her puzzle: whatever had happened to her, S City was connected to it.
"I'll come back," I promised, resisting the unprecedented urge to reach for her hand. "You'll be safe here until I return."
My business in S City involved putting down an internal threat—a lieutenant who had been diverting organization resources to a rival group. I handled it personally, as I always did with betrayals of this magnitude. As the man screamed beneath my blue flames, I found my thoughts drifting back to the mansion, to Mira.
What would she think if she knew what I was? Not just a successful businessman with an estate in Crystal City, but Kaison Monroe, whose blue flames were legendary in certain circles? The man who could reduce enemies to ash with a thought, who controlled the most elite network of assassins in the world?
She would run. And strangely, the thought bothered me in ways it shouldn't have.
Upon my return to Crystal City, I expected to find her as I had left her—healing slowly, but still maintaining her careful distance. I was entirely unprepared for what actually happened.
As I stepped through the front doors, a blur of movement caught me off-guard. Mira crashed into me with surprising force, her arms wrapping around my waist, her face pressed against my chest. For a moment, I froze, uncertain how to respond to this unprecedented physical contact. Then, carefully, I returned the embrace, one hand settling lightly on her back, the other hesitantly stroking her hair.
She trembled slightly in my arms, clinging to me as if afraid I might vanish. Something shifted in my chest—a warmth I hadn't felt in years, perhaps ever.
"I missed you too," I said softly, smiling down at her dark black hair.
She jerked back suddenly, her expression shocked, as if she'd surprised herself with her actions.
"I just... I wasn't sure if you were coming back," she admitted.
"I promised I would," I replied simply. "I keep my promises, Mira."
From that day forward, something changed between us. The rigid boundaries she had maintained began to soften. She no longer flinched when our hands brushed while passing a book or a dish at dinner. She began to sit closer during our evening reading sessions, sometimes close enough that I could detect the faint scent of the lavender soap she preferred.
Most remarkably, she began to smile—cautious at first, then more freely. And occasionally, she would laugh—a sound that did inexplicable things to my carefully regulated heartbeat.
Four months after my return, we stood on the balcony watching a summer storm roll in, reminiscent of the night I had found her. Lightning illuminated the gardens in brief, electric flashes, followed by the deep rumble of thunder.
"I used to be afraid of storms," she said quietly, her first voluntary offering of personal information. "Now I find them comforting."
Before I could respond, she turned to me and did something completely unexpected—she rose on her toes and pressed her lips to mine. The kiss was brief, hesitant, barely more than a whisper of contact, but it sent electricity through me more potent than the lightning splitting the sky above us.
Then she was gone, horror and confusion battling in her expression as she fled to her room, leaving me standing alone on the balcony, fingers touching my lips in wonder.
I gave her the night to process what had happened before knocking gently on her door the next morning. When she finally opened it, her eyes were red-rimmed from tears or lack of sleep—perhaps both.
"We should talk," I said quietly.
She allowed me in but maintained her distance, perching on the edge of her bed while I took the chair opposite.
"I'm sorry," she began immediately, but I shook my head, stopping her.
"Don't apologize for something I've wanted to do for months," I said simply. "But I need you to understand something, Mira. We can take this—whatever this is—as slowly as you need. I will never push you. Never demand more than you're ready to give."
The relief in her eyes was palpable. "I don't understand what I'm feeling," she admitted softly. "I've never... there hasn't been anyone who..."
"I know," I reassured her. "You'll set the pace. Always. I promise."
She nodded, a small smile touching her lips. "Thank you."
In a month that followed, our relationship evolved with the same careful, measured steps that had characterized all our interactions. She began to seek out my touch—holding my hand as we walked through the gardens, leaning against me as we read together in the evenings. The first time she initiated another kiss, it was with more confidence, though still tentative.
"I love you," she whispered one night as we sat on the roof terrace, watching the stars emerge above Crystal City. The words seemed to surprise her as much as they did me—her eyes widening slightly as if she hadn't intended to speak them aloud.
I turned to look at her, illuminated by starlight, more beautiful than any woman had a right to be. "I love you too," I replied, the words unfamiliar but undeniably true on my tongue.
When business called me away again, she met the news with visible dismay but not the panic of before. The night before my departure, she came to my room—something she had never done previously.
"Mira?" I questioned as she closed the door behind her, determination evident in her stance despite the nervousness in her eyes.
She crossed the room with purpose, rising on her toes to kiss me with unprecedented passion. I responded instinctively, my hands settling lightly on her waist, but when she began unbuttoning my shirt, I caught her wrists gently.
"Are you sure about this?" I asked, searching her eyes for any hint of hesitation or doubt. "I don't want to cross a line that would make you uncomfortable."
She held my gaze steadily, more certain than I had ever seen her. "I'm sure," she said quietly. "I want this. I want you, Kai. Before you go."
I cupped her face in my hands, studying her with an intensity that made her smile. "If at any point you want to stop, tell me. Promise me that."
"I promise," she whispered.
And for that night, the shadows that haunted us both retreated, banished by a connection that transcended the physical—a recognition between two souls accustomed to isolation, who had somehow found each other in the darkness.
End of flash back