Chapter 115
Evelyn's POV
The walls were closing in. Every carefully constructed excuse crumbled under the weight of his knowing gaze.
Part of me wanted to run, to disappear into the night and never look back. But another part—the part that had let him into my bed, into my life, into the carefully guarded fortress of my heart—knew that running would only make things worse.
"It's not what you think," I said finally, hating how weak the words sounded.
"Really?" He closed the distance between us in three long strides, his hand closing around my wrist before I could react. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you were about to do something incredibly stupid."
His thumb found my pulse point, pressing just hard enough to feel my racing heartbeat. "Something you promised you wouldn't do without telling me first."
The accusation in his voice cut deeper than any knife. We'd agreed that there would be no more secrets between us. That whatever demons I was fighting, whatever darkness I was drowning in, I wouldn't face it alone.
And here I was, standing on a stranger's doorstep with a gun under my coat and two fresh kills behind me, proving that some promises were easier to make than keep.
"Let me go," I said quietly, not bothering to struggle against his grip. "This doesn't concern you."
"Like hell it doesn't." His other hand came up to grip my chin, forcing me to meet his eyes. "You think I don't know what you've been doing these days? You think I didn't notice you were different every time we talked on the phone—distracted, distant, like you were somewhere else entirely?"
His jaw clenched. "I know you, Evelyn. Better than you want to admit. And I know when you're lying to me."
The worst part was that he was right. I had been careless, too focused on my revenge to maintain the careful operational security that should have been second nature. The phone calls where I'd been too eager to hang up, the texts that came at odd hours, the way I'd deflected every question about what I was doing with my nights.
"They deserved it," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "The men I killed. They hurt my mother. They—" My throat closed up, years of repressed grief and rage threatening to overwhelm me.
"I know." His grip on my wrist gentled, though he didn't let go. "I know what they did to her. I know about the loan sharks, about Arthur's involvement, about all of it." Something flickered in his eyes—understanding, maybe, or recognition of a pain that mirrored his own. "But this?" He gestured toward the brownstone. "This isn't justice, Evelyn. This is you destroying yourself one kill at a time."
"You don't understand—"
"Don't I?" His voice was harsh now, edged with something that sounded almost like desperation. "You think I haven't wanted to kill the men who took my mother from me? You think I don't know what it's like to lie awake at night, planning their deaths in excruciating detail?" He pulled me closer, until I could feel the heat radiating off his body. "The difference is, I didn't do it. Because I knew that crossing that line would change me into something I couldn't come back from."
"I'm already past that point," I said bitterly. "I crossed that line five years ago in Vorkuta. There's no coming back for me."
"Bullshit." The word was sharp, angry. "You think I don't see you trying? You think I don't notice the way you hesitate before you lie to me, the way you reach for me in your sleep like you're afraid I'll disappear?"
His hand slid from my chin to cup my cheek. "You're not as far gone as you think you are, sweetheart. Not yet."
But I could feel it slipping away—the fragile humanity I'd been trying to reclaim, the possibility of being something more than Kholod's weapon. Every kill pushed me further into the darkness, made it easier to pull the trigger the next time. And if I finished this, if I killed Reeves, there would be no going back. I would become exactly what Kholod had trained me to be: a ghost who moved through the world leaving nothing but death in her wake.
"I have to finish this," I whispered, hating the weakness in my voice. "I can't stop now."
"Yes, you can." His thumb brushed away a tear I hadn't realized had fallen. "You can walk away. Right now. With me."
Before I could respond, he was moving, his free hand diving beneath my coat with the speed and precision of someone who'd disarmed opponents in far more dangerous situations. I felt the weight of the Glock disappear from its holster, felt the knife being pulled from its sheath on my thigh, and then Julian was stepping back with both weapons in his hands.
"Give them back." My voice was steady despite the panic clawing at my throat.
"No." He tucked the gun into the waistband of his jeans, the knife disappearing into an inside pocket of his jacket. "We're going home. Now."
The drive back to my apartment was silent, tension thick enough to choke on. Julian kept one hand on the wheel and the other wrapped around mine, his grip just tight enough to remind me that running wasn't an option. When we reached my building, he followed me up to the apartment, his presence a solid weight at my back.
The moment we were inside, with the door closed and locked behind us, something in me snapped.
"You had no right," I said, my voice low and dangerous. "No right to follow me, to disarm me, to—"
"I had every right." He tossed my weapons onto the coffee table with more force than necessary. "We're supposed to be in this together, remember? No more secrets. No more lies."
"That was before—" I broke off, struggling to find words for the rage and grief churning inside me.
"Before what?" He turned to face me fully, his gray eyes blazing. "Before you decided to go on a killing spree? Before you decided that revenge was more important than everything we've been building?"
"They killed my mother!" The words tore out of me, raw and jagged. "They tortured her, broke her, laughed while she begged for mercy. And you expect me to just let that go? To be the bigger person?"