Page 121 of Dangerous Beginnings

The vulnerability in his words cuts through the sharpnessof his tone, leaving me breathless. “Yes,” I whisper, my voice trembling. “Because it’s the truth.”

His words hang in the air between us, raw and jagged, cutting through the walls he’s so carefully constructed. His confession isn’t polished or poetic, but it’s real, and it lays bare a part of him I’ve been aching to reach.

The weight of it presses against my chest, a mixture of anguish and relief so overwhelming I can barely breathe. He doesn’t realize it, but this moment, this fleeting glimpse of the man beneath the armor, means more than any declaration ever could. He thinks his fear is a flaw, and that his vulnerability makes him weak, but to me, it’s the opposite. It’s proof that he’s still human, still capable of feeling, still capable of caring—even if he doesn’t know how to say the words.

Do I love him?

The question hits me like a bolt of lightning, sharp and blinding.

I look at him now—this man who has taken so many lives, whose hands are stained with blood, whose eyes have seen the darkest corners of the world. The same man who could have ended me without a second thought, whose cruelty and coldness have always made me fear for my life. But it doesn’t feel like fear anymore.

Instead, there’s this pull, something undeniable. A connection that draws me to him despite everything, something deeper than the violence, deeper than the danger he represents. I should be afraid of him. I should hate him. But I don’t.

The moments when his eyes soften, just for a second, and I see a glimpse of the boy he might have been before the world broke him. When his voice wavers, and it’s not the cold, commanding tone I’m used to, but something quieter, more vulnerable. The way his hands tremble ever so slightly when he thinks no one is watching, the way his jaw clenches when memories too painfulto speak of resurface. These moments—these fleeting moments—are when I realize that he is human.

He is just a boy, one who was never taught how to be soft, how to care without it feeling like a weakness. He was never shown how to love without fear, how to trust without expecting betrayal. And yet, despite all of that, there is something inside him—a piece of him that refuses to be fully consumed by the darkness. Even if he doesn’t know it, even if he tries to bury it beneath his ruthless actions, I can see it.

But even as the realization settles in my chest, it comes with a question I can’t ignore.Does he love me?

The question lingers in the air between us like an unspoken truth, one that neither of us dares to acknowledge out loud.

The truth ofwhohe is, who I am to him, and what this thing between us really means.

I can’t stay here, trapped in this quiet battle.

I push myself to my feet, my legs feeling unsteady for a moment as the weight of what I’m about to do settles on my shoulders. Aslanov doesn’t move, his gaze never leaving me, but there’s an edge of tension in his stillness that almost makes my heart race. He watches, waiting for something—some sign of what I’m going to do.

But I don’t know what I’m doing. All I know is that I can’t stay here anymore, not in this uncertainty, not with this contract between us hanging like a shadow.

I walk across the room, my heart pounding in my chest, and grab the folded paper from the desk. The contract. The one that has kept me tethered to him, for him creating a feeling of business, cold, calculated, and impersonal.

My fingers tremble as I unfold the paper, the ink seeming to mock me with its neat lines and terms. As if it were ever enough to define us. It never was.

I turn back to him, feeling the weight of the moment, feelingsomething shift inside me. There’s no more pretending. No more walls between us.

I am not scared anymore.

With one swift motion, I rip the paper in half, then again, until it’s in tatters, pieces fluttering to the floor like broken promises. Aslanov’s eyes widen, his face unreadable as the scraps of paper fall in front of him.

“What—” he begins, but I cut him off, my voice firm, unyielding.

“I’ve made up my mind, Aslanov,” I say, stepping forward, my voice steady despite the whirlwind inside me.

I take a step closer, ignoring the tremor that threatens to betray me. “I’m not scared of you anymore. I’m not scared of what you are, of what you’ve done. I’m not scared of the things you carry inside you. I don’t need a contract to bind me to you. Not anymore.”

His jaw clenches, his hands tightening into fists at his sides, but there’s a tremor in his posture now, a subtle shift I can’t ignore. He’s scared—scared of what I might say next, scared of what it means. And for the first time, I see it. I see the vulnerability that he’s always kept hidden so deep.

“I’m not waiting anymore, Aslanov.” The words come out with a raw honesty, a vulnerability that surprises even me. “I don’t care about what happens next. I care about now. About us.”

His expression hardens, but his eyes—the eyes that have seen so much pain—flicker for a moment. A moment where I can see the boy he once was, before the world twisted him into what he’s become. It’s like a crack in the armor, a fleeting glimpse of something softer.

“I do believe you care,” I whisper, stepping even closer, my voice trembling with something I can’t quite name. “I do know... I know you’re more than the monster you think you are.”

I reach for him then, my hand brushing against his arm,feeling the tension that pulses through him.

His eyes meet mine, but they’re not the same eyes that have always looked at me with cold calculation, with a hunger that was born from power. They’re softer now, haunted.

Aslanov swallows hard, his chest rising and falling with a breath he seems to struggle with. “You don’t know what you’re saying. I’ve done terrible things—” he mutters, voice low.

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