Ava didn't sleep.
Not because she couldn't, but because her body had learned not to. Sleep was a vulnerability—something you had to earn. Something you had to afford.
And here, in the apartment of the coldest man she'd ever met, she wasn't sure if it was earned or afforded. She was too alert. Too aware. Every sound in the walls echoed too loud, and the stillness pressed down like a weight on her chest.
She'd taken the guest room without asking. It was as clean and unwelcoming as the rest of the place. Sterile white sheets. A marble nightstand. No photos. No warmth. Just a room built for someone who never planned to let people stay.
Still, she sat cross-legged on the edge of the bed, arms wrapped around herself, her back to the wall like it was instinct.
Her mind wouldn't stop spinning.
She kept replaying that last look on Eitan's face. Not the threat. Not the promise. But the moment after—when he almost looked like a person. Like he wasn't just money and blood and ice stitched together by pure force of will.
And the worst part?
She believed him.
He would make them pay.
But what would that cost her?
---
Somewhere past 3 a.m., she stood and walked barefoot to the kitchen. The lights flickered on with a motion sensor, soft and golden, like they were trained to accommodate insomnia.
She poured herself a glass of water. Didn't drink it. Just stared into it like it might hold a reflection she could recognize.
"Can't sleep?"
His voice made her jump slightly. She turned and found Eitan leaning against the hallway wall, barefoot and shirtless, hair slightly disheveled.
Still composed. Still unreadable.
But human. More than usual.
"You don't sleep either?" she asked.
He shrugged. "Not really. I rest. I plan. Sometimes I just… stare at the ceiling."
She nodded. "Sounds familiar."
He moved into the kitchen, not asking if he could. Just existing in the space like he was meant to.
She noticed the scar on his left shoulder as he passed her. Faint, but ugly. He saw her looking and said nothing.
"You want something stronger than water?" he asked, opening a sleek black cabinet. Inside, crystal bottles gleamed like trophies.
Ava hesitated, then nodded once. "Sure."
He poured them both a drink, something golden and smooth. He slid her glass across the counter. She took it, sipped slowly. It burned, but she welcomed the burn. It was something real.
"What happened to your shoulder?" she asked after a pause.
"Sniper. Eight years ago. Missed my heart by less than an inch."
"Damn. Someone really wanted you dead."
He smirked faintly. "More than one person."
"Do they still try?"
"Sometimes. They're slower now."
"Because you're more dangerous?"
"No. Because I own the people they'd hire."
She blinked. "That's not an exaggeration, is it?"
"No."
Ava laughed—soft and bitter. "God, you're terrifying."
He raised his glass slightly, almost like a toast. "That's the idea."
They drank in silence for a moment, the city lights blinking through the floor-to-ceiling windows like a restless heartbeat. Then he asked—
"Do you remember the last time you felt safe?"
She blinked. The question came out of nowhere, and it scraped against something inside her she'd buried deep.
"I don't think I ever did," she admitted.
He nodded like he understood. Maybe he did.
"People like us weren't built for safety," he said. "We were built for survival. But I'm tired of surviving."
She looked at him. Really looked at him. For all his control and distance, there was something fraying around the edges of him now. Like even steel could rust under enough pressure.
"What do you want, Eitan?" she asked, her voice low.
He met her gaze. "I want the ghosts gone. I want the past buried so deep no one can find it. And I want you."
Ava's breath caught.
She should've felt scared. She should've walked away.
But she didn't.
Because in his voice, it wasn't a line.
It was the truth.
A dark, possessive truth—but honest.
And God help her, that was the first thing that had felt real in years.
---
The next morning came in like a slap.
Eitan was already gone. A note on the counter said "Take whatever you need. Stay here. Don't answer the door."
She rolled her eyes. "Of course."
Still, she took a shower, ate the expensive fruit in his fridge, and changed into the clothes he left folded neatly on the bed. A loose gray shirt. Black drawstring pants. Comfortable. Neutral. Almost... domestic.
She wandered to the massive living room and sat on the edge of the couch, staring at nothing.
Then the phone rang.
A landline. Who still used landlines?
She hesitated, then picked it up.
Static, then a voice.
"You really think you're safe, sweetheart?"
Her blood ran cold.
The voice was familiar.
Too familiar.
"Who is this?" she asked, though she already knew.
A dark chuckle. "You know exactly who this is."
Grahm.
The man she ran from.
The man who raised her like a weapon, then tried to break her when she wanted to be more.
"You think Eitan Berger can protect you?" the voice sneered. "He doesn't even know what you are."
"I'm not yours anymore," she snapped.
"But you were. And no one ever really leaves me."
The line went dead.
She dropped the phone.
Her heart was pounding, her hands ice cold. For a second, the world blurred. The walls felt closer. Her chest too tight.
Then she grabbed Eitan's spare phone off the coffee table.
She texted.
Ava: He called. Grahm. He knows I'm here.
The reply came instantly.
Eitan: I'm on my way. Don't leave. Don't speak to anyone. Arm yourself.
She dropped the phone, grabbed the pistol she saw in the drawer the night before, and checked the magazine.
She didn't know how this would end.
But she wasn't running again.
Not this time.
Ava sat down slowly, pistol on her lap. Her fingers trembled, but her eyes stayed locked on the front door. Every creak in the apartment made her flinch. The hum of the fridge. The tick of the wall clock. The buzz of a distant elevator.
She hated this feeling—like prey waiting for the predator to strike. But she'd felt it before. More times than she could count. In dim basements. In moving cars. In her own childhood bedroom.
But now she had something she didn't back then.
A choice.
And maybe a man who'd kill to keep her breathing.
That last thought unsettled her more than she expected.
Because part of her wanted that.
To be chosen. Protected. Wanted so deeply it bordered on obsession.
Maybe that made her just as messed up as the people hunting her.
She stood and walked to the mirror across the room. Her reflection stared back—same dark eyes, same tired expression, same posture of someone who didn't know how to rest.
She pressed her fingers to the glass. "Who are you now?"
The reflection didn't answer. It never did.
But her grip on the pistol tightened.
Whoever she was, she wasn't going to be powerless anymore.