The first time I saw Rafael Antonov, I wasn't prepared. I thought I was the one with control. After all, I'm the assassin—trained to blend into the shadows, always in control, never missing my mark. I was the hunter. He was nothing more than a target.
I was wrong.
It's impossible to explain the feeling that washed over me when I first laid eyes on him in person. His presence was like a force of nature, too vast to ignore. His storm-grey eyes met mine, and for a moment, everything faded. There was no mission, no purpose beyond him. The world outside didn't matter. It was just him—and I was nothing in his presence but prey.
His body was a weapon in itself, broad and precise, moving with an effortless grace. His scar—cruel, jagged, tracing the side of his neck and disappearing beneath his shirt—told a story of survival. A story I would soon be part of, whether I wanted to or not. In his eyes, I saw the shadows of things I didn't yet understand—violence, power, and an undercurrent of something darker. Something dangerous.
But it wasn't just his eyes that held me. It was the way he stood—commanding, untouchable, like a king watching his kingdom. I was supposed to kill him, but instead, I couldn't move. I was frozen by the gravity of his presence. He didn't speak, but the silence between us was enough to tell me he knew everything. Every thought, every hidden desire, every part of me that wanted to walk away… and the part of me that was already craving him.
Don't get close.
That was the first warning. And, of course, I ignored it.
I was hired to kill him. The job was simple—get in, get out, no complications. His rivals had paid handsomely for his death, and I, as always, never questioned the orders. Never doubted the cold efficiency of it all. Until I stepped into his world, and suddenly, nothing was as it seemed.
The first touch was nothing but a flicker—a brush of fingers against my arm as I walked past him. A fleeting contact, so subtle, but enough to make my breath hitch. It was nothing. But in the charged air between us, it felt like everything. His fingers lingered for a fraction of a second, sending a tremor down my spine. I'd been prepared to kill him, to erase the man who controlled a world of darkness and blood. What I hadn't prepared for was the slow, burning pull between us. The desire.
Then, everything went wrong.
The mission flipped. One moment, I was the assassin in control, and the next, I was the one with a price on my head. Rafael didn't want me dead—he wanted me alive, wanted me broken in a way I couldn't begin to comprehend. He wanted me in his world. A world I had no choice but to enter.
I should've resisted. I should've fought him, fought this—the way he slid under my skin, the way his presence turned my world upside down. But when he claimed me, when I saw that predatory gleam in his eyes, I realized there was no escaping. There would be no clean escape, no easy exit. And perhaps… perhaps I didn't want to leave.
I hated him. I loathed him. Every part of me screamed to kill him, to make him pay for what he had done, what he had turned me into. But the more I watched him, the closer I came to him, the more that hatred twisted. It became something darker. Something dangerous. Something that felt too much like desire.
He doesn't see me as a woman—he sees me as an object. A possession to be claimed, controlled, owned. He's everything I despise. Everything I want.
Now, I'm caught between two choices: stay the cold, calculating assassin I was trained to be, or surrender to the twisted, undeniable desire that roils beneath my skin. The desire I've never allowed myself to feel. In the end, I'll have to choose. Will I remain a killer—or will I fall victim to him? To the man who owns my body… and perhaps my heart?
And the worst part?
I'm not sure I want to fight it anymore.