Harry Styles, a secret service agent working for British intelligence is tasked with finding the killer after a series of brutal but calculated murders across Europe. His mind is sharp, he's smart, arrogant and works with a precision that leaves no...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Harry Styles
I blinked, feeling like I was waking from some strange, foggy dream. Everything was hazy—my eyes not adjusting to the bright, artificial lights above me. I was surrounded by sterile, cold air and the sounds of machines beeping and humming around me.
A dull ache spread though my limbs, manifesting in my stomach and spreading through my body. Everything was groggy. I wasn't entirely sure what was going on, or why I was in pain. I didn't know where I was at first, didn't know anything. My mind was a blank slate, every detail of how I ended up here slipped away as soon as I tried to grab a hold of it. A hospital. That part I knew. I recognised it because I knew it wasn't the first time I'd woken up in a position like this, confused, injured, worried. But not worried for myself.
It hit me then—Winter.
Our 'not-date,'. The soft jazz playing, the room lit by candlelight, and the way she held my hand as we danced, fingers warm and gentle against mine. I could still feel the quiet sway of our bodies as we moved, her touch just shy of intimacy, like she was always holding something back. That kiss. Then I remembered her pulling away, the way she'd stiffened when I tried to draw her close.
Outside, when we argued, I'd watched her eyes shift, conflict flickering there, her voice edged with something sharp as she told me she wanted nothing to do with me. I knew it was a lie before she did. She proved it, too, when she kissed me back, like there was something raw, something desperate she couldn't keep buried anymore.
We had to leave after, I was almost certain. I remembered the three men blocking our path. And they'd called her Pretty Snowdrop — they worked for Roman, and they were looking for Winter.
Panic grew like a pit in my stomach instantly. Because I couldn't remember what had happened. But I knew if I was here, and she wasn't, they could have got to her. She could be back with Roman, he could be hurting her right now as I lay and did nothing.
As I moved to sit up, to leave and get out of here, something caught my eye.
Someone caught my eye.
There, slumped in a chair beside me, with her light hair resting neatly over her shoulder and her face half-buried in her arm—Winter.
My chest tightened. Not from the pain but from something else. Something that softened any ounce of fear I'd once felt. She was here.
I reached out, to touch her hand or her shoulder to reassure myself that this wasn't a dream. But my arm felt sluggish, heavy, moving took more energy than I currently had. So instead I listened to her breathing, and my eyes focused on the rise and fall of her chest.
"Winter?" I whispered her name, blinking a few times to try and wake myself up more. When there was no response at all from her, I raised my voice just a bit, not wanting to startle her. I just wanted to hear her voice, for her to tell me she was okay. "Winter? Flower?"
