The kiss wasn't gentle.
It was fire and fury, desperation and need all tangled together. Maxwell's hand cupped the back of my neck, pulling me closer, and I went willingly, my fingers fisting in his shirt.
He tasted like danger and dark promises. Like everything I shouldn't want but couldn't resist.
When he finally pulled back, we were both breathing hard.
"That was—" I started.
"A mistake," Maxwell finished, his voice rough. But his hand was still on my neck, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin there. "We shouldn't—"
"Probably not."
"You're my student."
"You're a wanted assassin."
His lips twitched despite himself. "We're a disaster waiting to happen."
"Yeah." I leaned in closer, my lips brushing his. "So what?"
This time when we kissed, it was slower. Deeper. Maxwell's other hand slid to my waist, pulling me onto his lap, and I went without hesitation.
My fingers threaded through his hair. His hands mapped my body like he was memorizing every curve, every line.
"Mia," he breathed against my mouth. "If we do this—"
"I know." I pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. "It's complicated. It's dangerous. It's probably insane."
"Yes."
"I don't care."
Something fierce blazed in his eyes—possession, want, something darker that made my pulse race.
"You should care," he said roughly. "I'm not a good man, Mia. I've killed people. Hurt people. Destroyed lives."
"I know what you are." My hand cupped his face, feeling the stubble rough under my palm. "And I'm still here."
"Why?" The word was almost anguished. "Why would you want someone like me?"
"Because underneath all the violence and darkness, I see who you really are." My thumb brushed across his bottom lip. "Someone who protected me when he didn't have to. Someone who's fighting to be better than what they made him. Someone who kisses me like I'm the only thing keeping him alive."
Maxwell's jaw clenched. "You see too much."
"Maybe you don't see enough."
For a long moment, we just stared at each other—two broken people caught in something neither of us understood.
Then Maxwell's phone buzzed, shattering the moment.
He tensed immediately, reaching for it. His expression darkened as he read the message.
"What is it?" I asked, sliding off his lap.
"Isabella." His voice was ice. "She sent coordinates. Wants to meet tomorrow. Alone."
"It's a trap."
"Obviously."
"So you're not going."
Maxwell's silence was answer enough.
"Are you insane?" I stood, anger flooding through me. "She just tried to kill you!"
"She wants the ledger. This is our chance to—"
"To what? Walk into an ambush?" I crossed my arms. "Absolutely not. We stick to the plan. We contact Sarah Chen, we—"
"Sarah Chen is dead."
The words hit like a physical blow.
"What?"
Maxwell turned his phone to show me. A news article—journalist found dead in her apartment. Apparent suicide.
"The Arrow Society got to her first," Maxwell said flatly. "Which means our only way out just disappeared."
My stomach dropped. "Then what do we do?"
"We meet with Isabella. See what she wants."
"She wants you dead!"
"Maybe." His eyes met mine. "Or maybe she wants something else."
"Like what?"
"Leverage. Protection. A way out." He stood, pacing to the window. "Isabella said she loved me. That she couldn't kill me. If that's true—even partially—we might be able to use it."
"And if it's not?"
"Then I die. But at least you'll have a chance to run."
"Stop talking like that!" My voice cracked. "Stop acting like your life doesn't matter!"
"It doesn't. Not compared to—" He broke off, jaw clenching.
"Compared to what?"
"You." The word was quiet. Raw. "Not compared to you."
My breath stuttered. Before I could respond, Maxwell turned away.
"Get some sleep, Mia. We leave at dawn."
The Next Morning
I woke to the smell of coffee and the sound of Maxwell moving around the kitchen.
For a moment, I just lay there, remembering the kiss. The way his hands had felt on my body. The desperate hunger in his eyes.
Not compared to you.
What did that mean? That he cared? That he felt something beyond physical attraction?
Or was it just guilt—knowing he'd dragged me into this mess?
I pushed the thoughts aside and got up.
Maxwell was at the kitchen counter, studying a map. He'd changed into dark clothes—tactical gear, I realized. Preparing for a fight.
"Morning," I said.
He glanced up. Something flickered across his face when he saw me—heat, regret, something undefined.
"Coffee's fresh," he said, gesturing to the pot. "And there's protein bars in the cabinet."
I poured myself a cup, studying him over the rim. "You're really going through with this."
"I don't have a choice."
"We always have a choice."
"Not this time." His voice was firm. Final. "Isabella knows too much. Where we've been, what we're doing. If I don't meet her, she'll lead the entire Arrow Society straight to us."
"Then we run. We disappear."
"And how long do you think that'll work? They have resources we can't imagine. Money, connections, informants everywhere. We'd be looking over our shoulders for the rest of our lives."
"Better than being dead."
Maxwell's lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Is it?"
Before I could answer, his phone buzzed again.
This time it was a photo.
Bianca. Bound to a chair. A gun pressed to her head.
My coffee cup slipped from my fingers, shattering on the floor.
"No," I breathed. "No, no, no—"
Maxwell's expression went cold. Deadly.
The next message came through:
Isabella: Change of plans, darling. Bring the ledger AND the girl. Otherwise, her friend dies. You have two hours.
My legs gave out. I sank to the floor, glass crunching under my knees, my whole body shaking.
"Bianca," I whispered. "They have Bianca."
Maxwell was already moving, grabbing weapons, supplies, his mind clearly racing through scenarios.
"How did they find her?" I asked, my voice breaking.
"Your phone. They must've tracked your contacts, your recent calls." He cursed under his breath. "I should've thought of that. Should've—"
"This isn't your fault."
"Yes, it is." His voice was harsh. "Everything about this is my fault. And now your friend is paying the price."
I forced myself to stand, ignoring the glass cutting into my palms. "Then we go get her."
"No. I go. You stay here."
"Like hell I do." Anger burned through the fear. "That's my best friend. I'm not letting you face Isabella alone."
"Mia—"
"Don't." I cut him off. "You said it yourself—we're in this together. So we do this together. We get Bianca back, and we end this."
Maxwell stared at me, something like pride flickering in his eyes.
"You're going to get yourself killed," he said quietly.
"Probably." I picked up the gun he'd given me. "But not today."
One Hour Later
The meeting location was an abandoned warehouse on the edge of the city. Classic villain move.
We parked two blocks away and approached on foot, moving through shadows, Maxwell's gun drawn.
"They'll have snipers," Maxwell murmured. "Probably three—rooftops, high ground. And ground forces inside. At least ten, maybe more."
"How do we—"
"We don't fight them all. We can't." His eyes scanned the building. "We find Bianca, we create a distraction, we get out."
"And Isabella?"
His jaw tightened. "Leave her to me."
We slipped through a side entrance—surprisingly unlocked. Too easy.
"It's a trap," I whispered.
"I know. Keep moving."
The warehouse was massive—rusted machinery, broken windows, shadows everywhere. Perfect ambush territory.
Then I heard it. A whimper.
"Bianca!" I started forward, but Maxwell grabbed my arm.
"Wait."
He was right. In the center of the warehouse, lit by a single spotlight, Bianca sat bound to a chair. But she wasn't alone.
Isabella stood beside her, gun pressed to Bianca's temple.
And surrounding them—a dozen armed men in tactical gear.
"Ah, there you are!" Isabella called out, her voice echoing. "Right on time. I was beginning to think you didn't care about your little friend."
Maxwell stepped forward, his gun trained on Isabella. "Let her go."
"Not until you give me what I want." Isabella smiled. "The ledger, Dante. Hand it over, and everyone walks away."
"You're lying."
"Maybe. But do you really want to risk it?" She pressed the gun harder against Bianca's head. Bianca whimpered, tears streaming down her face.
"Mia," Bianca sobbed. "I'm sorry—they found me and I tried to run but—"
"Shh." Isabella stroked Bianca's hair mockingly. "The adults are talking."
Rage burned through me. I stepped forward, raising my gun.
"Let. Her. Go."
Isabella's attention snapped to me. "Oh, how sweet. The little girlfriend wants to play hero." Her eyes glittered with malice. "Tell me, has he fucked you yet? Or are you still playing hard to get?"
"Don't," Maxwell warned, his voice deadly quiet.
"What?" Isabella laughed. "Don't tell her the truth? That you're just using her like you use everyone? That once this is over, you'll disappear and leave her with nothing?"
"That's not—" I started.
"Isn't it?" Isabella's smile widened. "Ask him, darling. Ask him what happens to people who get close to Dante Cross. Ask him about the last woman he claimed to care about."
"You mean you?" Maxwell's voice was ice. "The woman who lied for years? Who was planted in my life as a weapon?"
"At least I was honest about what I am!" Isabella's composure cracked. "A killer. An operative. But you—you pretend to be something better. You pretend you're not a monster. And you drag innocent people down with you when they believe your lies!"
"I never lied to her," Maxwell said quietly.
"No. You just kissed her. Touched her. Made her think she mattered." Isabella's eyes found mine. "He'll destroy you, girl. Just like he destroys everything. It's what he does."
"You're wrong," I said, my voice steady despite my racing heart.
"Am I?" Isabella tilted her head. "Then why hasn't he told you the truth about your mother?"
Everything stopped.
"What?" My voice came out barely a whisper.
"Your mother," Isabella repeated, relishing every word. "The car accident three years ago. The one that killed her. Did you really think it was random?"
My world tilted. "What are you talking about?"
"Tell her, Dante." Isabella's smile was poison. "Tell her how your last mission for the Arrow Society involved eliminating a witness. A schoolteacher who saw too much."
No.
"Tell her," Isabella pressed, "that the accident that killed her mother was your work."
The warehouse spun. My legs felt weak.
"Mia—" Maxwell's voice was rough, desperate.
I looked at him. Really looked at him.
And saw the truth in his eyes.
Guilt. Regret. Horror.
He'd killed my mother.