Page 56 of No Words
“Oh, she’s carrying it further than he ever dared,” the woman says with a conspiratorial whisper. “Gregory believes in rehabilitation to a point, but Eleanor? That girl thinks even the worst criminals can be saved. Sweet girl, if naïve.”
Before I can respond, movement across the ballroom catches my attention. A woman in an emerald green floor-length silk dress with a slit up the left thigh stands near the silent auction display, gesturing animatedly as she speaks to a small group of well-dressed attendees. Everything about her draws me in, dangerous territory for a man like me. Not just her beauty, though she is undeniably striking, but her intensity. The way she holds herself, as if every word matters.
“The current system doesn’t just fail the victims,” her voice carries despite the background chatter of three hundred conversations. “It fails the perpetrators, too. We’re so focused on punishment that we’ve forgotten the possibility of redemption.”
I find myself stepping closer, drawn by a quality in her voice I can’t quite name, as if she’s pulling me in against my will.Fuck. She isn’t just reciting talking points or performing for donors; she believes every word with the fierce conviction of someone who’s built her life around an ideal.
Every instinct screams that she’s dangerous to me. Not because of what she might do, but because of what she makes mewantto do. Protect instead of destroy. Cherish instead of consume. She’ll be my downfall, and I’m already planning how to fall.
“But surely,” an older man interrupts, his tone patronizing, “some people are simply beyond saving. The truly violent, the sociopaths, the psychopaths —”
“That’s exactly the thinking that perpetuates the cycle,” she interjects without hesitation to cut him off, her chin lifting slightly. “Yes, some individuals require intensive intervention, and may never be suitable for release. But writing them off as irredeemable? That makes us complicit in their continued violence.”
I study her face as she speaks. She has possibly the most beautiful features I’ve seen: glittering hazel eyes, auburn hair swept back to reveal the graceful line of her neck. What I would give to wrap my fingers around that neck and have her in my hold. She has faith in redemption. I’m not blind to the irony. A killer fascinated by someone who believes in the redemption of monsters. Her whole being vibrates with purpose, and it holds me captive.
“Eleanor, dear,” a familiar voice cuts through the discussion like a blade. Dr. Hart approaches the group, his smile politician-perfect and his tone carrying just enough warning to make the surrounding benefactors shift uncomfortably. “I hope you’re not lecturing our generous donors about the complexities of criminal psychology.”
Eleanor. Hart’s daughter. The missing piece clicks into place, and possessiveness unfurls in my chest. I watch the subtle shift in her posture, the way her shoulders tense almost imperceptibly. Here she stands, the variable we never accountedfor, standing three feet from her father in a dress that probably exceeds most people’s monthly salary.
“Just discussing, Dad,” she says, though tension threads through her measured tone like wire through silk. “About the foundation’s mission.”
“Of course.” Hart’s hand settles on her shoulder, possessive and controlling. The gesture sends ice through my veins. I know that grip. Different hands, same ownership. A display that speaks of control wrapped in parental concern in her case. Mine left scars. “Though perhaps we should let people enjoy their evening before diving into such heavy topics.”
I observe the interplay with professional interest. Family dynamics often reveal exploitable weaknesses and pressure points that can be used if necessary. But another thought nags at me, the way Eleanor’s idealism remains undimmed despite her father’s subtle dismissal. The quiet steel beneath her passionate exterior. Hart wasn’t always the father she deserved. I can see it in the careful distance Eleanor maintains, the way her spine stiffens at his touch. But he’s trying. It’s clear to see in the way he approaches her, the pride in his voice when he speaks about the foundation’s mission. My father never tried. Never wanted to be better. Never saw me as anything worth protecting.
My watch reads 9:58. Time to move.
“Blackthorn,” Ross’s voice crackles in my ear. “Target’s heading in your direction.”
Hart is already excusing himself from the group, just as I’ve predicted. The older man makes his way toward the service corridor that leads to the Jefferson Suite, nodding to acquaintances but not stopping to chat. He moves with the careful dignity of someone who’s been navigating academic politics for decades.
I follow at a distance, my movement fluid and unremarkable. I’ve spent years perfecting the art of invisibility, how to walkthrough a crowd without being remembered, how to exist in the spaces between other people’s attention. Already I have noted the positions of security cameras, the flow of staff traffic, the location of every exit. Tonight feels different. My hands itch for something more direct than poison, more personal than a clean death.
The Jefferson Suite is tucked away from the main ballroom, accessible through a marble-lined corridor decorated with portraits of the hotel’s illustrious history. Hart slips inside the small conference room, leaving the door slightly ajar. Another predictable habit that I cataloged weeks ago.
I wait sixty seconds, ensuring the corridor remains empty, then approach with the silence of smoke. Through the gap in the door, I can see Hart standing at the small mahogany conference table, reading glasses perched on his nose as he reviews his speech. A half-finished glass of Bordeaux sits beside the papers, Hart’s preferred vintage, as I well know.
Perfect.
I slip inside, my movement so fluid it barely disturbs the air. Hart doesn’t look up, too absorbed in his notes to notice death entering the room. The small vial comes out of my jacket pocket, its contents clear as water. A synthetic compound that will mimic cardiac arrest, untraceable by any coroner’s examination. Within minutes, Hart will be another victim of academic stress and an overworked heart.
Three drops in the wine. That’s all it will take.
Hart reaches for his glass, still reading. His lips move slightly as he practices a particularly complex passage. In the golden light of the conference room chandelier, he looks like nothing more than a dedicated professor preparing to share his life’s work.
Then he stops.
A photograph has slipped from between his speech pages. A candid shot of Eleanor, laughing at what looks like a family dinner. Hart picks it up with careful fingers, his stern expression softening into something unexpectedly tender.
“My girl,” he murmurs to the empty room, his voice carrying a warmth that never appears in his public speeches. “Always trying to save the world.”
She will be mine. Not Hart’s legacy, not the Order’s collateral damage. Mine to protect, mine to corrupt, mine to save or damn. The choice will be hers, but she will be mine. She’ll be the one I never walk away from. Even if I should.
His words blindside me. For a moment that stretches into eternity, I see not my target but a father looking at a picture of his daughter. A man who, despite his flaws and controlling nature, loves someone enough to carry her photo with him to his most important professional moments. For a brief second, pain shoots through my soul. Not jealousy exactly. It was deeper than jealousy, sharper than envy. The realization that as a little boy, I would have given anything for someone to care enough about me like Hart does about Eleanor.Get a fucking grip.
Hart lifts the wineglass to his lips, still gazing at Eleanor’s photograph.
I move.
