Cole's Point of View

In my line of work, knowing too much is asking to die sooner.

I learned early on that information isn't power—it's weight. Weight that gets in the way, that makes you hesitate at the wrong moment, that makes you calculate morality where there should only be execution. So I never ask questions. Who the target is, how to take them out, and how to disappear afterward — that's enough.

When I took the job that changed everything, I received a thick envelope full of cash and a simple instruction: cut the car's brakes.

Easy. Fast. Clean.

Except nothing that night went as planned.

I was about to leave after doing the job when my cell phone vibrated with a call from my family. A silly argument, an old fight that came back as usual — and I ended up taking a few minutes longer than I should have.

Minutes that changed everything.

When I hung up, I saw the car I had just sabotaged and, inside it... a girl.

A girl in her twenties.

Small, pretty, fragile in a way that bothered a man like me. And for the first time in years, something inside me screamed: no. I didn't know who she was. I didn't know what she had done. But I knew she didn't deserve to die like this. Not that way.

Not by my hands.

When she drove, she realized something was wrong—the car was accelerating too much, she tried to control it, but couldn't. Maybe she felt someone was following her. Maybe she was just scared, but I could bet she already knew the brakes were failing.

I didn't think, I just acted.

I accelerated my motorcycle and rammed into the back of her car hard enough to knock it off the road without killing her. The car rolled over twice before coming to a stop upside down. When I reached her, she was unconscious, covered in blood, but alive. And I was more relieved than I should have been. I carried her away before the car exploded. I called 911 anonymously and disappeared before they arrived.

I should have stopped there.

That's what I always did.

But that night I found out the name of the man who hired me: Albert Gerald. Famous politician. Recent widower. "Devoted" father. And the daughter he wanted dead? Zoe Lancaster. Twenty years old. Medical student. An innocent girl.

What I should have done was simple: forget about it, cover my tracks, move on. I had done my part.

But I couldn't.

Something in me changed when I thought about her. Maybe because she was my sister's age. Maybe because killing faceless targets was easy, but giving them names and stories ruined the monster I had worked so hard to build. Or maybe it was something deeper, more dangerous... something I didn't want to admit at that point.

I went back to the hospital that same night.

I stood outside her room, in the shadows, watching her breathe. She was bandaged, broken, but alive. Beautiful even when hurt. Strong without realizing it.

I returned the next day. And the next. And the next.

I watched the bastard who hired me enter her room pretending to be her concerned father. I saw how she cringed when he came near her—as if her instincts told her he was poison.

I almost killed him right there, but I couldn't interfere.

Not yet.

But Zoe was smarter than I thought. She escaped from the hospital on her own. Hurt, feverish, trembling—and yet determined. I hacked into the hospital cameras to find out where she had gone. When I found her, walking would be an exaggeration: she had crawled across the parking lot.

I followed her all day.

Waiting for the right moment to intervene without scaring her. But Albert wasn't kidding around. He sent three men after her. And one of them almost beat me.

Almost.

When I found Zoe in the alley, hiding behind a dumpster, the guy already had his gun pointed at her head. Rain ran down the girl's small, pale face. She was so weak she didn't even try to fight back. I shot him before he could shoot her. His blood splattered on her face. And I held her before she passed out. There, with her trembling in my arms, curled up in pain and fear, I knew: I would do anything to keep her alive.

Now I'm sitting on the edge of a narrow bed in a run-down motel, watching the girl I should have killed — and who is now the only thing occupying my thoughts. Zoe sleeps curled up in a ball, panting lightly from the fever. I cleaned her up, dressed her in my T-shirt, and gave her medicine. She's still too hot, and that worries me. I can't put her on the bike and travel miles like this. I didn't do all this to lose the girl to pneumonia.

Her face is bruised. Her eyebrow is cut, her cheek is purple, her lip is split. And yet... she is beautiful, but it's not just that. It's her courage. The strength she doesn't even know she has. The determination to survive when everything and everyone is against her. She brings out something in me that I've never felt before: guilt.

I caused that accident. I hurt that girl. And now I'll do anything to protect her.

I touch her forehead. It's too hot. Zoe stirs slightly, moaning.

"Zoe." My voice is low, softer than I'm used to. Whenever I speak loudly, she trembles—and I can't bear to be one more thing in the world that scares this girl. "Princess, wake up."

She mumbles something. I lean closer, brushing the damp hair from her face.

"Give me your beautiful eyes, sweetheart. You need to take your medicine."

She sighs... And lets out a name.

"James... I love you, but let me sleep..."

The impact is like a punch. Something inside me burns. A feeling I don't recognize — jealousy. I've never felt this before.

I've never wanted anything so much it hurt. I swallow hard, forcing my expression to remain neutral, even though inside I am a chaos of stupid, primitive feelings.

“Zoe. It's Cole.” My voice comes out firm but low. “Wake up.” Her eyes open slowly. And when she sees me — when she recognizes me — something in my chest unlocks. She sits up quickly, startled. "Hey, calm down." I raise my hands. "It's just me. You have a fever again. You need your medicine."

She takes a deep breath. She runs her hand over her face, her chest, her hair. And God... she bites her dry lip and I almost moan.

"I... I was dreaming."

"I saw." My voice comes out too hoarse. I clear my throat. "You need to get better before we leave here. You're not going on the road like this. No way."

She flinches a little at the overly firm tone. Damn it. Breathe, Cole. Don't scare the girl.

“B-but… maybe the wind from the bike—”

“No way.” I cut her off immediately. “You’re weak, feverish, injured. I’m not taking any chances.” She looks down at her hands, her cheeks flushing. Damn it. She shouldn’t blush for me. And I shouldn’t like it. “I didn’t mean to… scare you.” I try to soften my tone. "You're beautiful, Zoe. Even injured. I just want you to be okay." I hold out my hand with the pills and the bottle of water. "Give me your hand, princess." She obeys—and her unwitting trust strikes me as something sacred, dangerous, and reprehensible. "These are antibiotics and painkillers." I wait for her to swallow. “Now you take a shower. I’ll get some food.”

She gets up slowly. When she holds the hem of her T-shirt to keep it from riding up too high, my eyes go straight to her legs. I can’t help it.

“Thank you, Cole.” Her voice is low. Sweet. Sincere.

She crosses the room and enters the bathroom. The door closes. I sit there, breathing, trying to regain control. A man like me doesn't deserve to want anything. Much less someone like her. But that doesn't stop my body—or my damaged soul—from wanting her anyway. I let out a long sigh and run my hands over my face.

I'm screwed.

Completely screwed for this girl.