Mirelle woke to the distinct feeling that she was not alone. She didn’t jolt upright. Didn’t reach for the knife under her pillow. She simply opened her eyes. The candle by her bedside had burned low, its wax pooling unevenly across the wooden surface. The faint glow cast the room in shifting shadows—long, stretching shapes that did not belong. One of them moved. Mirelle exhaled slowly through her nose, shifting onto her elbow. “You’re getting slower,” she murmured. “I heard you this time.” The shadow in the corner huffed a quiet laugh. Deep, low, threaded with amusement and something darker. “You’ve been drinking,” the voice replied, smooth as oiled steel. “I was hoping that would dull your senses.” Mirelle turned her head slightly, allowing her eyes to adjust. He was standing by the window, half-lit in the candle’s glow, his body still wrapped in the night. She didn’t know his real name. That was how they worked—half-truths and silence. A fragile trust built in the space between. The one who passed her names.
The one who, on nights like this, passed her warnings. Mirelle sat up fully, stretching her legs beneath the sheets she was naked under. She didn’t reach for her knife, but she let the thought of it linger between them. His gaze flickered, moving too slowly across her. Not like a man looking at a woman. Like a man looking at something he should not be looking at. She caught the way his throat bobbed, the way his fingers twitched at his sides. He thought too much. About her. About things he shouldn’t. Mirelle tilted her head, lips curving slightly. “Enjoying the view?” His jaw flexed. The room was too quiet.
His gaze—that unreadable, unreadable gaze—lingered a moment too long before he exhaled, tilting his head toward the window instead. “You’ve been noticed,” he said. Mirelle arched a
brow. “Noticed?” “The Council knows someone is killing outside the ledger,” he murmured, voice edged with something heavier now. “They don’t know it’s you.” A pause. “Yet.” Mirelle exhaled through her nose, leaning back against the headboard. “That doesn’t explain why you’re standing in my bedroom like a ghoul.” His lips twitched. “Because I came to tell you something else.” Something in his tone made her pause. She watched him carefully, the way his fingers curled slightly against his palm. “The Council isn’t just watching you,” he said, voice quieter now. “They’ve sent something after you.” Mirelle’s fingers drummed once against her knee. “Something.” His jaw tightened. He was a man who chose his words too carefully, too precisely. Not tonight. Tonight, he looked at her like he wanted to say something else entirely. Like he wanted to say she should run. But she didn’t run. She only watched him, waiting. “What is it?” she pressed. His silence was answer enough. Mirelle exhaled, dragging her fingers through her hair, tilting her head just slightly to study him. The candle’s glow caught the sharp cut of his cheekbone, the faint scar along his jawline. His mouth was firm but not cruel. She had never thought much of his face before.
Tonight, she noticed.
Tonight, he looked like a man trying very hard to bury something that refused to stay buried. A man who had seen too much of her. A man who thought about it more than he should.
She let the silence stretch, exhaling a slow, deliberate breath as she shifted beneath the sheets. His eyes flickered. That stubborn, foolish gaze of his—the one that tried so hard to pretend he wasn’t looking when he was. Mirelle smiled, slow and sharp. A blade drawn without haste.
“Out with it.”
His lips parted. Then—so quietly, it barely reached her ears: “They didn’t send a man after you.” Mirelle frowned. The candle flickered. A draft curled through the open window. She turned her head toward it—and for just a moment, she swore she saw something move beyond the darkened rooftops. Not a figure. Not something living. Something else. A breath of silence. She looked back at him. For the first time, he looked afraid. “You need to take a break.” Mirelle blinked. “A break?” “Or stop.” He interrupted, taking a step closer to the bed. Now, she felt exposed. Her hand hovered near the knife beneath her pillow. He noticed. And stepped back.
“Look, I can’t say much,” he muttered. “But if it catches you—game over. No more. Your name goes on the ledger if they find you, and they won’t kill you right away either.” He hesitated, eyes flicking toward the door before settling back on her. “I’ve seen it before—what they do to people who disrupt the order…”
Mirelle sighed, rubbing a hand over her face. “I don’t disrupt anything. I create order.” Her voice was low, even, but something flared beneath it. Those men—those things—shouldn’t exist in the first place. “They should be thanking me for what I’ve done.” His body reacted before his mind did. He stepped forward, knelt close to her legs. Mirelle didn’t recoil. She caught the faint scent of sweat and peppermint on him, the warmth of his body this close. His eyes bored into hers, searching for something that wasn’t there.
“Look,” his voice was quieter now, steadier, “I wouldn’t have risked coming here if I wasn’t scared for your safety. You have to lay low. I won’t be sending any more names, and I don’t want you going out and plucking names for yourself.” His voice sharpened, edged with something almost desperate. “Do you understand?” Then—softly, deliberately:
“I mean it, Mirelle.” She went still. He never used her name. She didn’t like how it sounded from his mouth. It felt dirty. Her gaze held his, unblinking. “You can leave now,” she murmured. “I need to sleep.” He lingered, just for a moment. Then, without a word, he rose to his feet. The door clicked shut behind him. Mirelle exhaled slowly, sinking back into the nest of pillows and sheets. She knew he was gone. But still, she checked the lock. And as she lay back, letting the weight of the night settle over her, a single thought curled through her mind, sinking its claws deep: Something. Something was watching. And this time, it wasn’t a man.
The next morning, Mirelle decided she would have what she liked to call a normal day—a day without stalking, without slipping into shadows, without mapping the city’s movements like a predator tracking prey. She just wanted to pick up a book from the library. Maybe stop by Nina’s shop—not that she had any particular reason to visit her favorite herbalist, who had certainly not concocted a new paralytic agent she was eager to test. So, that was exactly what she did. And, of course, she people-watched—a habit she was unlikely to ever break. Nina was the closest thing Mirelle had to a friend.
The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
She owned a small shop in the underbelly of Erelis, nestled between an abandoned tailor’s and a cobbler’s who never seemed to have customers. From the outside, Nina was a humble florist, her shop brimming with fragrant bouquets, dried herbs hanging in bundles from the ceiling. But if you knew Nina well enough, you knew that with the right words, she could lace you with benadolla from the very air you breathed. Mirelle stepped inside, inhaling the familiar mix of dirt, lavender, and something sharper underneath.
“Good morning, my pretty petal!” A head of fiery red curls popped out from behind a cascade of peonies. Sapphire-blue eyes gleamed with mischief, sunlight catching on the freckles dusted across her nose. Nina bounded around the stall, arms open as she pulled Mirelle into a tight embrace. Mirelle allowed it, huffing in the scent of roses and damp earth. The only familiar smell she welcomed. Nina pulled back, beaming. “Have you finally come to buy a bouquet of roses for a lover?” Mirelle snorted. “Oh, absolutely. Twelve dozen. One of every color, if you please.” Nina gasped, hand flying to her chest. “As if you could afford that.” “Oi.”
Nina laughed, smoothing the wrinkles from her apron. “If roses are too expensive, I could always offer you something more… suited to your tastes.” Mirelle arched a brow. “Intriguing.” With a conspiratorial grin, Nina pulled out a small glass vial, filled with a shimmering blue liquid. Mirelle took it between two fingers, tilting it toward the light. “How long this time?” Nina smirked. “Forty-five minutes before you start feeling your limbs again.” “Oh, longer than last time.” “Oh yes.” Mirelle hummed in approval. “Wonderful. How much do I owe you?” Nina’s grin faltered. “Nothing.” Mirelle frowned, lowering the vial. “Nina—” “No, Mar,” Nina cut in. “I mean it. Nothing. Just… do what you have to do.” The lightness in her voice was gone. And Mirelle understood. Because Nina knew. Not everything. Not the full scope of Mirelle’s work. But enough.
They had met by accident—if accidents existed. Mirelle had been tailing a name, watching from the shadows, when she saw him drag a woman into a dark alley. A woman with red curls and a fierce mouth that had been forced shut. Mirelle rarely intervened. But that night, she did. And Nina never forgot. She didn’t ask for details. Didn’t want them. But she helped in the ways she could. Poisons. Nerve agents. Quiet little concoctions that left no trace.
The kind of help Mirelle never refused. Nina exhaled, smoothing her hands down her apron. “So.” Mirelle tensed at the teasing lilt in her voice. “When are you going to stop all this nonsense and find yourself a sweet thing to shack up with?” Nina batted her lashes. “I am dying for some gossip.” Mirelle scoffed, but before she could retort, Nina gasped dramatically. “Wait. Is that—a smile? A real, actual, human smile?” “Shut up.” “I’ll alert the press.” Mirelle rolled her eyes. “If you want to gossip so badly, I could ask you the same question.” “Me?” Nina clutched her apron like she had been gravely insulted. “Oh, no. My standards are much too high.” Mirelle grinned.
She would have pressed further, but then— The shop bell rang. And the air changed. It was subtle. The warmth of the room dulled, the vibrant petals of fresh-cut blooms seeming to wilt in unison. Nina’s bright expression faded. She turned slowly, her back going straight as she smoothed the edges of her apron. Then—sweet as honey, slow as poison: “Who,” she mused, “has brought such awful energy into my shop?”
Mirelle moved before she thought. Not far. Just enough. She took a slow step backward, pressing herself into the shelves, melting into shadow like it was second nature.
A voice cut through the quiet. “Apologies. Didn’t see you there.” A pause. “How can I be of service?” The speaker stepped forward. A man—plain, well-dressed, but with the quiet, efficient air of someone who had never had to ask for permission.
“Yes,” he said, glancing around the shop. “We’ve received reports of unlawful killings in the area. We’re following up with all local business owners. Just routine.” Mirelle did not move. Did not blink. Nina hummed, tilting her head. “Unlawful? Oh, I haven’t heard of anyone being cleansed around here recently.” The man’s gaze sharpened. “I didn’t say cleansed. I said killed.”
Nina did not flinch. She tilted her head, her face the picture of polite curiosity. “Is there…” The man glanced toward the rows of florals. “Is there someone else here with you?” “No,” Nina said simply. “Just me and my petals.” The silence stretched.
Mirelle could feel it—the careful balance tipping, the way his gaze flickered over the space, listening. “I could have sworn I heard you speaking to someone.” “Oh, I was.” Nina gestured toward the flowers, utterly unbothered. “They like being spoken to, you see. They all have personalities.” She reached out, plucking a tulip from a vase. “This one, for example.” She twirled the stem between her fingers, voice lowering to a whispered confession. “Tulips are feisty little things.” Mirelle had to clamp a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing.
The two men exchanged glances. Then—one of them sighed. “Come on. We’re not going to get anything here.” They left. The door clicked shut. Mirelle didn’t move. Not until she heard Nina’s footsteps round the corner, her face pale with amusement and nerves.
“Oh gods,” she whispered, pressing a hand to her chest. “I really thought they’d pry!” Mirelle smirked. “Thank gods for your flower talk, then.” Nina’s smile faded slightly. She swallowed, gaze flickering toward the door. “They were looking for you, weren’t they?” Mirelle hesitated. She knew the answer. And so did Nina. But those weren’t the ones her informant had warned her about. No, they had sent men—efficient and watchful, but still only human. Her contact had told her to fear something else. Mirelle exhaled slowly. She didn’t like being hunted. But she liked not knowing what was hunting her even less.
