The masked man stood in the doorway like he belonged there.
Dressed entirely in black, face hidden behind that damned mask, he didn't move when you raised the knife toward him.
His head tilted slightly.
Your grip tightened. “I wasn't asking.”
“And yet,” he murmured, taking one slow step into the room, “you haven't screamed.”
“Maybe I don't need help.”
“Maybe.” Another step. “Or maybe you knew it was me.”
You hated how easily he did that—turned every threat into something intimate. Every confrontation into a game where somehow you were the one losing ground.
“And you think this is funny?”
For once, there was no amusement in his voice.
That somehow made it worse.
He stopped just beyond the point of your knife.
“You want me gone?” he asked quietly.
He stared back through the dark hollows of the mask.
Instead, your hand trembled.
His gaze dropped toward the blade.
“You don't hesitate with people you hate.”
Anger burned through you. You surged forward and shoved him hard against the wall, pressing the knife beneath his jaw.
“You think because I care about you that makes me weak?”
“No.” His voice dropped to almost a whisper. “I think it makes me dangerous.”
Your expression faltered.
His gloved fingers slowly curled around your wrist—not forcing the knife away, only holding you there.
“To everyone who gets between us.”
Your heart slammed against your ribs.
His masked face lowered until barely an inch remained between you.
“That's the lie you keep telling.”
For several seconds, neither of you moved.
Then his thumb brushed once over your pulse.
“That falling in love with your enemy doesn't make them less dangerous.”
“It just means you finally gave them somewhere to aim.”
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