I should have struck the moment I saw him.
Hesitation is death. I have been taught this since my hands were small enough to hold a blade. Strike before they see it coming. Finish it before they scream.
Yet here I stand, my pulse hammering, my fingers curled too tightly around the dagger strapped to my thigh.
Because Killian Veyne is not a man caught off guard.
He is waiting.
The Black Iron Tavern is loud, filled with the scent of ale and sweat, but the air between us is silent. He watches me, his dark gaze unfaltering, the hint of a smirk playing at the corner of his lips.
I step forward, slow, deliberate. The dagger in my boot presses against my ankle, a reminder. I do not hesitate.
I never hesitate.
"You're late," he murmurs.
His voice is a blade, smooth but edged with something sharp. A warning. An amusement. He knew I was coming.
I tilt my chin up, masking the tension coiling in my spine. "Was I expected?"
Killian leans back in his chair, exuding the kind of ease that only comes from knowing no one in this room is a threat to him. "You're the third assassin they've sent after me this week. You move better than the last two."
A ghost of a chuckle lingers in his words, but there is no humor in his eyes. Only assessment.
He is weighing me. Calculating.
Just as I am calculating him.
He is broader than I expected, built like a weapon honed by war. His dark hair is unruly, as though he has spent too long in battle to care about appearances. Scars lace his hands, the kind that speak of years of survival, of victories that came with a cost.
His reputation did not lie.
He is a predator dressed in human skin.
And I am his next challenge.
I keep my expression cold. "The last two failed. I won't."
Killian hums as if considering this, then lifts his cup to his lips. He drinks slowly, eyes never leaving mine. "What's your number?"
I freeze. The ink on my wrist burns as if he can see it beneath the leather wrapped around my arm.
"Why does it matter?" I ask, my voice steady.
"Because," he murmurs, placing the cup down with a soft clink, "if I kill you, I like to know how many others have died before me."
My breath stalls for half a second.
Then I move.
My dagger is in my hand before I think. The air between us shatters as I lunge, my blade slicing toward his throat. But Killian is already moving.
He ducks, fast, fluid—like he saw my attack before I even made it. His chair clatters as he pivots, his hand snapping up to catch my wrist. The impact sends a sharp sting through my bones, but I do not falter. I twist, breaking his grip, spinning low to strike at his ribs.
Steel clashes as he draws his sword, blocking me at the last moment. The force of it reverberates up my arm, but I press forward. My second dagger finds my palm, and I swipe upward, aiming for his shoulder.
Killian steps back just in time.
His smirk deepens. "Better than the last two, indeed."
I do not waste breath on words. I attack again.
Our weapons are a flurry of motion, steel kissing steel, the tavern fading into nothing. It is just us.
Hunter and hunted. Predator and prey.
But which of us is which?
He parries my strikes effortlessly, each movement sharp, precise—too precise. He is not trying to kill me.
He is testing me.
The realization stings worse than a blade.
"You're holding back," I bite out, breathless.
Killian's smirk vanishes. "So are you."
His next strike is faster, a true attack, forcing me back a step. For the first time in years, I am on the defensive. The weight of his blows hum through my bones, through my pulse.
And I hate that part of me thrills at the challenge.
I roll away, using the table as leverage to flip behind him, aiming a kick at his side. He twists last second, catching my ankle mid-air. His grip is iron, unyielding.
My dagger flashes up, stopping just beneath his chin. His sword is poised at my stomach.
A stalemate.
For a breath, neither of us move.
For the first time in my life, I do not know if I can win this fight.
Killian's gaze flickers, something unreadable in his expression. And then, so softly, he murmurs, "Why haven't you killed me yet?"
The question is a whisper against my skin, against my resolve.
And I have no answer.