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.
I should’ve attacked the second I saw him.
I was trained never to wait.
Hesitation is death.
That’s what they’ve drilled into me since I was little—since I first held a blade.
But now? I’m just… standing here.
My heart is pounding.
My hand’s clenched too tight around the dagger hidden at my thigh.
Because Killian Veyne isn’t just sitting there like a normal person.
He’s ready.
Even in a loud tavern, where people are shouting and laughing and spilling their drinks—
The air between us feels heavy.
Like the world just went quiet.
Like this moment is the only one that matters.
He looks at me. His eyes don’t flinch. There’s this small smirk on his lips. Like he’s amused.
Like he knew I was coming.
I take a slow step forward.
My boot presses into the wooden floor.
The dagger hidden in my boot brushes against my ankle.
I don’t hesitate.
I never hesitate.
“You’re late,” Killian says.
His voice is calm, smooth. But it has this sharp edge to it, like a blade hidden behind a smile.
He knew I was coming.
I lift my chin, pretending I’m not shaken. “Was I supposed to be on time?”
Killian leans back in his chair like he’s just relaxing—not like he’s sitting across from someone who came to kill him.
“You’re the third assassin they’ve sent this week,” he says. “You move better than the last two.”
He’s smiling, just a little. But his eyes aren’t smiling.
They’re focused. Watching every move I make.
He’s studying me.
Just like I’m studying him.
Killian looks stronger than I expected.
He’s not just some guy with a sword. He is the sword.
Sharp. Deadly. Silent.
His hair’s messy, like he hasn’t touched it in days.
Scars cover his hands—real scars. Not the kind you show off. The kind you survive.
His reputation wasn’t a lie.
He really is a monster dressed like a man.
And I’m his next fight.
“I won’t fail like the others,” I say, keeping my voice cold.
Killian doesn’t answer right away. He just takes a sip from his cup, still staring straight at me.
Then, he asks, “What’s your number?”
My heart skips.
The number on my wrist feels like it’s burning, even though it’s hidden under my sleeve.
“Why do you care?” I ask.
He sets the cup down. There’s a click as it touches the table.
“Because,” he says quietly, “if I kill you, I want to know how many others you’ve already taken out.”
I stop breathing for a second.
And then—I move.
My dagger is out before I even think about it.
I lunge straight for his throat.
But Killian?
He’s already moving.
He dodges easily, smooth like he’s done this a thousand times.
His chair crashes back. His hand grabs my wrist—hard.
It stings, but I don’t stop.
I twist out of his grip and drop low, aiming for his ribs.
He draws his sword and blocks me just in time. The clash of metal makes my arm throb, but I don’t stop. I reach for my second dagger and swipe up at his shoulder—
He steps back.
Fast.
His smirk gets wider. “Definitely better than the last two.”
I don’t say anything. I just go at him again.
We’re a blur of blades.
Steel crashing.
Hands flying.
Everything else fades.
It’s just me and him now.
Hunter and hunted.
But… which one am I?
He blocks every strike like it’s nothing.
He’s not even trying to kill me.
He’s testing me.
That makes my chest burn.
“You’re holding back,” I snap.
His smirk fades. “So are you.”
Then his next attack is fast. Strong.
He forces me to step back.
For the first time in years, I’m not in control.
He’s pushing me.
And the worst part?
A small, twisted part of me likes the challenge.
I roll to the side, push off the table, flip behind him, and kick.
He catches my ankle mid-air.
His grip is strong—too strong.
I raise my dagger and stop just beneath his chin.
He raises his sword and stops just at my stomach.
We freeze.
Neither of us moves.
For the first time… I don’t know if I can win this.
He looks at me—really looks.
And then, in the softest voice, he asks,
“Why haven’t you killed me yet?”
The words hit me harder than any blade.
Because I don’t know the answer.
Not really.
