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...
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Harry Styles
She knew who I was.
She remembered me. She recognised me. She knew me.
They'd not made her forget. And she'd come after me. She'd tried to kill me
She remembered me.
Winter was gone.
And for two weeks, I didn't see her.
Until she tried to kill me.
And the worst part was, she knew exactly what she was doing. Roman hadn't given her any sort of treatment to mess up her mind or memories. She knew what she was there to do, and she had actually followed me, planned it out, and hid in the darkness waiting to pounce. I'd known, of course, that she would come after me. That eventually I'd be one of her targets, especially because of the drawings of my tattoos she had been leaving behind at multiple crime scenes, like a warning. What I didn't expect was for her to be aware she was killing me.
Roman hadn't wiped her memories, but he had done something to her. He hadn't manipulated her into thinking I was someone she had never met. She was aware. Fully, completely aware.
And yet, she still did it.
I saw the look in her eyes. She wanted to kill me that night. She had actually thought about it until the exact moment she was going to end my life, only then did she hesitate long enough for me to get her off me.
I wondered if I'd let her, would she have killed me?
Every day was the same. Black coffee in hand. I'd only made one this morning instead of the usual two—one hot coffee, one iced coffee with a flavoured syrup for her. A walk with Bean, usually a walk that ended up reaching two hours when I'd get lost in my thoughts, replaying the past few weeks over and over again in my mind. I tried to create scenarios in my mind, anything with a different outcome. One where nothing was wrong, nothing bad had ever happened. A scenario where we were happy, and we were together.
"Morning."
A voice pulled me from my thoughts.
I glanced at Niall across the office.
Today was the same as every single fucking day last week. The same feeling, the same routine, the same dread. This feeling reminded me of impatience, but I knew that wasn't the right word. An agitation. Because everything had been so quiet, silent, and it unnerved me. Quiet was never good. Everything was out of my control, I didn't know what was going to happen, there was no way for me to predict the outcomes.
"Still nothing?" I asked, and I didn't know what I wanted the answer to be. Because nothing was bad, but something? That meant bodies, more lives lost by her hands. More paintings on the walls. At least then I'd know she was still out there. Still breathing. Still alive, even if it was through the taking of others.
