Night. The Apartment.
Cataleya Restrepo's eyes snapped open.
Years of elite conditioning kicked in before she was fully awake. Her right hand shot under the pillow, fingers searching for the cold steel of a pistol.
Empty.
Adrenaline spiked through her veins. She sat up sharply, her eyes darting around the unfamiliar room. The moonlight filtered through the blinds, illuminating the man sleeping beside her.
Hunter.
The memory of the last few hours flooded back, and with it, a sharp intake of breath. Cataleya pressed a hand to her forehead, feeling the lingering heat on her skin.
"Madness," she whispered.
She looked at the man lying next to her. Hunter was sound asleep, his breathing deep and even. The sheet had slipped down to his waist, revealing a sculpted torso that belied his 'starving artist' persona.
"They say Asian men are... modest," Cataleya murmured, a flush creeping up her neck. "Whoever started that rumor never met you."
She knew her own limits. Since the age of twelve, when she watched Don Luis butcher her parents in Bogota, her life had been a singular mission of vengeance. Her uncle had turned her into a weapon. Her endurance, her strength, her pain tolerance—they were all pushed to the absolute peak of human capability.
She could fight three men at once. She could run miles without stopping.
But tonight? Tonight, she had met her match.
Hunter was a force of nature. His stamina was relentless, his strength deceptive. He had unraveled her completely, matching her intensity in a way no man ever had. For the first time in years, the cold, calculating assassin had simply... ceased to exist. There was only the woman, and the fire he ignited in her.
"You're a monster," she whispered affectionately, reaching out to pinch his bicep.
The muscle was dense, like corded steel under velvet. It wasn't the showy bulk of a gym rat; it was the functional, explosive power of a predator.
"You've been hiding things, painter," she smiled.
She slid out of bed, intending to get dressed. Her legs almost gave out the moment her feet touched the floor. A wave of soreness shot through her hips and thighs.
"Dios mio," she hissed, grabbing the nightstand for support. "I can barely walk."
She glanced back at Hunter, sleeping like an angel. The urge to wake him up for round two flickered in her mind, but she squashed it. She had to leave.
Staying was dangerous.
For two years, she had been leaving a trail of bodies across the globe—drug lords, corrupt politicians, anyone connected to Don Luis's network. On every corpse, she painted a Cattleya orchid. A message. A challenge.
She wanted Don Luis to know she was coming. She wanted him to panic, to send his dogs after her, so she could follow the leash back to the hand that held it.
But that meant the FBI was hunting her too. Staying in one place, especially with a civilian she was starting to care about, put a target on his back.
"Wait for me," she whispered to the sleeping man. "When I finish this... when he is dead... I will come back to you."
She dressed quickly, wincing as she pulled on her jeans. She walked over to the nightstand and pulled a stack of cash from her jacket—ten thousand dollars. It was nothing to her; blood money earned from her last contract.
She placed the bills on the bedside table, then grabbed a pen and a scrap of paper.
I love your art. Talent like yours shouldn't be buried by reality. Use this to keep creating. I want to see your masterpiece when I return.
— Love, Lia.
She picked up the painting he had given her—the oil study of the city street. She looked at it for a moment, tracing the brushstrokes with a finger. It was a piece of him she could keep.
She walked to the door. On a hook by the entrance, she saw a spare key to the apartment.
Without hesitation, she grabbed it. She slipped the cold metal key into her bra, pressing it against her heart.
She took one last look at Hunter.
"Goodbye, my artist."
Cataleya slipped out the door, disappearing into the shadows of the hallway, a ghost once more.
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