They kissed in the back of a cab.
It was raining. Always raining. She was half-laughing, her voice hoarse from the wine and the late-night piano she'd played for him in her apartment. Nothing formal — just half-melodies and unfinished thoughts. She hadn't looked at him while she played.
But he hadn't taken his eyes off her.
When their lips met, it was clumsy at first — human. No seduction. No performance. Like neither of them had expected to need it that badly.
Andres didn't remember closing his eyes.
He just remembered the heat.
And the horrifying thought that followed:
If she asked me to stop killing, I might. If she asked me to kill her, I would.