Page 57 of Hate to Love You

But it wasn’t just that. Nor was it the fact that he was so boldly attractive and confident. It was deeper than that. Everything about the man screamed power, as if he’d been born into it, and it permeated his entire being.

And Roman’s “being” was very pretty.

He clearly cared a lot about his appearance. His dark brown hair was pristine and styled, bleeding immaculately down into his short well maintained facial hair that only further defined his chiseled jawline. His suit was crisp, without a single crease, and his shoes looked either brand new, or delicately polished and maintained to appear that way.

Then there were his eyes. They were the deepest blue I’ve ever seen, with flecks of gold and gray. The problem was, they pulled me under like waves on the ocean, and that was where I started fumbling around the interview like an idiot.

However, it was neither his appearance, nor his beautiful eyes that rattled me the most. No. It was the inescapable feeling, that buried somewhere beneath Roman Antonov’s collected, polished, and immaculate exterior, the man had an edge. A dangerous edge, an untamable wildness that he was barely keeping contained inside his expensive designer suit.

…And it called to me.

I didn’t understand it, but my God, did it call to me.

Against all logic, and even though I’ve only just met him, there’s a pull to him that feels familiar, and safe.

Jesus Christ. What the hell am I saying?

What the fuck was in my coffee this morning?

Turning to head down the sidewalk, I shake my head, briefly wondering if perhaps I accidentally brushed against one of my Deadly Nightshade plants this morning in the greenhouse, as all of this feels like a hallucination.

But when I find myself stepping off the curb too soon, and getting honked at by an angry yellow cabbie, I know it wasn’t.

It was real. He was real.

Well done, Abby. You clearly aren’t getting that job.

Even though I’m a bit embarrassed that I bombed that interview so badly I do my best to shrug it off.

I don’t necessarily need the money right this minute, but a steady source of income would keep me from dipping into my savings. Plus keeping myself busy during the day would have prevented me from doing something careless.

But Mr. Antonov has set me on edge.

It almost feels as if my fragile grip on reality and restraint is slipping, and I suddenly find myself questioning the face of every person that passes me on the street.

Are they good people? Do they hurt their partners?

What terrifies me though, is that somewhere deep inside my bones I feel as if I’m almost itching to punish someone.

…To kill someone.

This isn’t like me. I’m not an emotional killer.

I’m meticulous and organized. I select and stalk my targets, savoring every bit of research, and basking in the thrill of every hunt, knowing I’ve just rid the world of yet another monster.

But…I just killed Igor Ivanov.

I have no reason to kill someone else, nor have I even spent the time identifying and trailing a suitable mark, following my carefully curated process.

A gust of wind blows my hair into my face and after I tuck it behind my ear, my hand absentmindedly falls to my capsule necklace. It burns into my chest, whispering to me.

Technically I have all I need to make a kill. Right here.

I always carry a dose of Widowmaker inside it, telling myself it’s better to have it in case I ever need it in a hurry.

But that’s not the only reason.

No, the truth is that I always carry it as my backup. My trump card. My contingency plan.