The Montenegro casino shimmers around me like a jewel box, but I see only targets and exits. My red dress hugs my frame, the wig itches at my scalp, and "Marrito's" identity feels thinner than the fabric covering my thighs. Tonight's mission: eliminate the stock tycoon with the nuclear launch codes. Simple enough—until HE walks in.

Owl Eyes. White hair gleaming like a beacon in the sea of black suits, golden eyes scanning the room until they lock onto mine. My hand tightens around the champagne flute, condensation wetting my palm. He shouldn't be here. This wasn't in the briefing.

He moves through the crowd with the predatory grace I've come to loathe, stopping at the bar beside me. "Pardon me, miss, but that dress looks far too dangerous for a place like this." His voice is warm whiskey against my ear, his hand brushing mine as he reaches for a glass. "Or should I call you... agent?"

The crowd's murmur fades. My pulse pounds in my ears. There's a gun strapped to my thigh, a knife in my garter, and a mission to complete. But as he leans closer, I smell the faint iron of blood beneath his cologne—a scent I know all too well, a scent that has haunted my dreams since Brussels.

"You shouldn't have come," I murmur, tilting my head to expose my neck, calculating escape routes even as my body betrays me. "They'll wonder why their security expert is fraternizing with the enemy."

His laugh is low, dangerous. "Darling, we both know I'm not here for security." His thumb brushes the back of my hand, and I feel the familiar heat coiling low in my stomach—the same heat that had me pressing him against a hotel wall, my knife at his throat and my mouth on his neck.

The mission forgotten, the target blurred at the edges of my vision. All I see is white hair and gold eyes and the challenge in his smile. All I feel is the weight of the gun against my thigh and the memory of his hands on my skin.

"What do you want, Bokuto-san?" I ask, though I already know the answer.