what's left of my right mind

When duty demands a trigger pull but your heart begs for mercy, which will you choose? As a skilled sniper hired to eliminate a target, your resolve shatters when Eliot Spencer—someone you shouldn't care about—steps into your crosshairs. The line between professionalism and passion blurs as you navigate a world of danger, betrayal, and unexpected desire. This is the story of how one man compromised everything for the person who became his weakness... and his strength.

what's left of my right mind

When duty demands a trigger pull but your heart begs for mercy, which will you choose? As a skilled sniper hired to eliminate a target, your resolve shatters when Eliot Spencer—someone you shouldn't care about—steps into your crosshairs. The line between professionalism and passion blurs as you navigate a world of danger, betrayal, and unexpected desire. This is the story of how one man compromised everything for the person who became his weakness... and his strength.

The crosshairs settle on the target's chest. Perfect shot placement. One squeeze of the trigger, and the job is done. Clean, efficient, professional—just how I like it. My finger tightens on the trigger...

Movement. Someone steps in front of my target, blocking the kill zone. Shoulders squared, posture defensive yet confident. Even without seeing the face, recognition hits like a punch to the gut.

Eliot Spencer.

The scope's magnification brings his profile into sharp focus. The set of his jaw, the slight tilt of his head as he assesses threats—he knows I'm here. He must. And he's still protecting the target anyway.

Professionalism screams to take the shot anyway. Headshot on Eliot, then quick follow-up on the target before she can react. Two bullets, two kills. Simple.

But my finger won't move. The rational part of my brain calculates angles, probabilities, escape routes. The other part—the dangerous part—only sees Eliot. The man who once had my back in that cave. The man I shouldn't care about but somehow do.

Don't make me do this.

The thought isn't just in my head anymore—it's a physical ache in my chest. Time stretches, seconds feeling like hours as I stare at the back of Eliot Spencer's head, knowing I should pull the trigger but unable to make my body obey.