Chapter 65
Evelyn's POV
Julian glanced over his shoulder, a slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth as he took in my disheveled appearance and his oversized shirt hanging off my frame.
"Good morning to you too," he said, turning back to the stove. "Fair warning—your kitchen is a disaster zone. I found exactly three eggs, half a loaf of bread, and some questionable cheese. So breakfast is... optimistic sandwiches."
He plated what he'd managed to create and turned to face me fully. In the daylight, I could see the exhaustion in his face—the shadows under his eyes, the slight tension around his mouth that suggested he was running on fumes.
"I didn't know you could cook," I said, moving closer to the island.
Julian glanced back at me, and something flickered in his expression—amusement mixed with something sharper, more challenging.
"Well," he said, plating the meager sandwiches with more care than they probably deserved, "it seems like you don't know much about me at all beyond my performance in bed." He turned to face me fully, leaning back against the counter with his arms crossed over his bare chest. "Should I be offended that you're just using me for my body?"
The question was delivered with that trademark sardonic edge, but there was genuine curiosity underneath. Like he actually wanted to know if that's all this was to me—physical convenience, a warm body in the night, nothing more substantial than the pleasure he could provide.
The casual accusation should have made me defensive. Should have triggered some sharp retort about how he'd been the one to pursue me, to blackmail me, to insert himself into my life uninvited.
But standing there in his t-shirt, looking at him shirtless and exhausted in my kitchen, I found I didn't have a good answer.
Because he was right. I didn't know him. Not really. I knew he was dangerous, knew he commanded a private army, knew he could make me come apart with his hands and his mouth. But beyond that? Beyond the surface-level observations and the physical intimacy?
I knew almost nothing about Julian Russell.
The realization must have shown on my face, because his expression shifted. The challenging edge softened into something that looked almost like regret, like he'd pushed too hard and knew it.
"Sit," he said quickly, gesturing to the stools with a casualness that felt forced. "Eat what you can. It's not much, but it's protein."
Something had shifted between us. I could feel it in the air, in the careful way he was moving now, in the studied casualness of his tone. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it was there.
Julian's attitude had changed. Not dramatically, but enough that I noticed. The man who usually barreled through every situation with reckless confidence, who seemed to fear nothing and no one, who'd blackmailed me and pursued me with single-minded intensity—that man had hesitated just now. Had retreated.
Was he... afraid? Of what? Of pushing too hard? Of my answer to his question?
The thought was so foreign, so at odds with everything I knew about him, that I almost dismissed it.
I settled onto a stool, watching as he poured coffee into two mugs. He added cream and sugar to mine without asking, the exact proportions I preferred. The fact that he'd noticed such a small detail made that dangerous warmth in my chest intensify.
I shoved the feeling away, forcing myself back to safer ground. Business. Facts. The mission. Things I could control and understand, unlike whatever was happening between us.
"The senator," I started, needing to understand. "The news says he's dead, but you said—last night you told me he was alive. Did we miss something?"
Julian set down the coffee pot and pulled out his phone, unlocking it and pulling up what looked like a secure messaging app. He slid it across the counter to me.
The screen showed a conversation from early this morning between Julian and someone listed only as "T-Seven."
JR: Package secured and relocated. Vitals stable. Release cover story at 0600.
T-7: Confirmed. ME report filed showing cardiac arrest, natural causes. Body "discovered" by housekeeping 0530. Press briefing scheduled 0800.
JR: Plaza security footage?
T-7: Corrupted as planned. Equipment malfunction on record. No usable footage from relevant timeframe.
I looked up from the phone, my mind racing to process what I was reading.
"You arranged this," I said slowly. "You made it look like he died. But he's actually—"
"Alive and in protective custody," Julian confirmed. He took a sip of his coffee, entirely too calm for someone who'd just admitted to orchestrating an elaborate conspiracy. "He's currently in one of Titan's secure facilities, receiving medical treatment for that bullet wound."
"Why?" The question came out sharper than I intended. "Why would you do that?"
"Two reasons," he said, his voice taking on the clipped, efficient tone of someone delivering a tactical briefing. "First, this whole situation reeks of a setup. Someone wanted Caldwell dead and wanted Adrian framed for it. By keeping Caldwell alive and hidden, we can investigate without tipping off whoever's really behind this. Let them think they succeeded, give them enough rope to hang themselves."
He paused, his gaze intensifying in a way that made my breath catch.
"Second," he continued, his voice dropping lower, "you needed time. Your organization thinks the job is done, which means Viktor's not breathing down your neck. That buys you space to figure out your next move without immediate threat of termination—the permanent kind."
The implications of what he was saying crashed over me in waves. He'd manipulated an entire situation, created an elaborate fiction, involved his security teams in a conspiracy—all to protect me.
And he explained everything to me.
In Kholod, you received your assignment through a single encrypted message: target photo, location, deadline. Sometimes a preference for method—make it look like an accident, make it public, make it painful. Nothing more. Any questions beyond the immediate scope were met with silence at best, punishment at worst.
I'd learned early not to ask why. Not to wonder about the bigger picture, the political machinations, the chain of events my actions would set in motion. I was the trigger, not the hand that aimed the gun. And triggers didn't need to understand strategy.
But Julian was sitting here, calmly laying out every aspect of his plan like I had a right to know. Like my understanding mattered. Like I was something more than a weapon to be pointed and fired.
The unfamiliarity of it made my chest tight in a way that had nothing to do with physical exertion.