Page 60 of Lady and the Hitman
I wanted him.
And he knew it.
“Because the hunt’s over,” he said. “And now we’re in the wild.”
He stood, gaze lingering, then crossed the room to retrieve a bottle of oil from the vanity. Something expensive and herbal. He poured a few drops into the bath, and instantly, the air filled with a soft scent—eucalyptus and jasmine, clean and sensual, like the ghost of a memory I hadn’t lived yet.
My lids fluttered.
“You’ve done this before,” I said.
“Prepared a bath for someone?” he asked.
I nodded.
“No.”
I looked at him.
“I’ve done other things. Arranged logistics. Paid for silence. Pulled strings—and triggers. But this?” Hegestured to the tub, the scent, the softness of this moment. “This is new.”
My throat tightened.
“Why me?”
He didn’t answer right away. Just crouched again, his hand finding mine under the water.
I tilted my head, watching him. “Is this what you do? For money? I mean ... I paid for this experience, technically. Does that make you—?” I stopped, suddenly unsure how far I wanted to push.
His eyes met mine, unreadable.
“A prostitute?” he finished for me, calm as ever.
Heat rushed to my cheeks, but I didn’t back down. “It’s a fair question.”
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t smirk or scoff. Just held my gaze like it deserved to be held.
“No,” he said simply. “You didn’t pay for me. You paid for access. I chose you. That’s the difference.”
“Sounds like a loophole.”
He leaned in slightly, voice dropping. “If I were for sale, Zara, you couldn’t afford me.”
The air thickened.
I hated that it thrilled me—his certainty, his edge, the way he turned something transactional into something intimate. Like I wasn’t just a name in a system. Like I’d been chosen.
“Then why me?” I asked, quieter this time. Not challenging—just needing to know. Needing it to be more than a coincidence or a contract. Needing me to be more than a warm body with a decent profile.
Maybe it was the heat of the bath or the way his thumb brushed the inside of my wrist, but I felt the words leaving me without a second thought. I was exhausted—bone-deep, soul-tired, the kind of tired thatpeeled away my filter. And maybe that was why I asked. Maybe that was why I could look him in the eye without flinching. I was too spent to pretend. Too raw to hide. And strangely, that made me feel closer to him. Like the version of me floating in this tub, flushed and vulnerable and still buzzing from the hunt, was the most honest one I’d ever let anyone see.
“Because your letter didn’t sound like desperation,” he said. “It sounded like truth. Like someone who knew what she wanted. And that’s rare. That’s valuable.”
I felt tears sting the back of my eyes.
“You don’t even know me,” I whispered.
He kissed the back of my hand. “Not yet.”
