He was gone by the time I woke the next morning.
The other side of my bed had gone cold. The sheets were untouched and empty, which could only mean that he hadn't just slipped out moments ago. He left like a thief.
If it weren't for the prominent ache between my thighs, I could've convinced myself that I had dreamed the entire night. There was no lingering warmth, no imprint of a body, nothing to suggest that he had been here at all.
I told myself I didn't mind, that this was exactly what we had agreed to in the beginning. Just one night, no consequences, no expectations. He was supposed to leave, and I was supposed to let him. That was the agreement. Clean and simple.
But the ache in my chest didn't care about bargains.
It pulsed beneath my ribs like a bruise, sharp and embarrassing. As if some part of me had hoped for...something. A goodbye, maybe. Anything to acknowledge that what had happened between us had been real.
I knew I had no right to feel this way, and yet the hollow space beside me felt like a quiet accusation. One I couldn't explain, and one I couldn't ignore.
So the moment I arrived back at our estate later, I didn't bother unpacking or pretending that everything was fine. I simply walked straight into my room, changed into my gear and headed for the shooting range, desperate to clear my head.
The instant I mounted the rifle to my shoulder, the world narrowed. The earlier noise in my head dulled. My heartbeat steadied.
Everything from last night, him and all the ache he caused, slipped away the moment I stepped into the range. It always did.
The stock settling against my cheek have never felt more natural, like it was molded for me and me alone. I inhaled slowly, the sight alining with my eye. The range smelled the same as it always had, like hot brass, gun oil and the metallic bite of burnt powder. Familiar. Steadying.
But up close, it was the rifle that spoke to me.
I exhaled, letting the last of my restless thoughts drain away. My world narrowing to a single line of sight, and the small black bull printed on paper. My finger found the trigger on instinct, tracing it like it knew the path home.
I didn't think. I didn't even need to. I just pulled, confident that the bullet would land exactly where I wanted it to. Just like it always had.
The first shot cracked through the air.
The recoil punched into my shoulder and rolled down my spine. Cleaner, sharper with a rifle, as if I had just unleashed a contained thunderbolt. I fired again. Two, three, four quick shots. The paper target jerked with each hit, holes blooming exactly where I meant them to.
Head. Heart. And between the legs.
With it, came the odd, hollow contentment. As if my body remembered a language my mind kept questioning. I didn't want to think about the memories that had flared last night, triggered by the sensations he had pulled from me.
Now that he's gone for good, I could stop dwelling on them. I could simply seek out those same sensations elsewhere. Maybe then, all my memories would return.
People think memories are made of photographs and names, but they forget that the body keeps its own ledger. From the way my shoulder loads and locks, the way my breath still catches when the first shot broke. How to keep the pressure subtle when I pulled the trigger, to keep the barrel level.
My body remembered it all, even when the rest of me still feels like a stranger.
This range had been the first place Grandpa had brought me to, once I could walk on my own two feet. He wanted to see what I can do. How far I remembered.
"Nice shot," Grandpa said, his voice sliding out from behind me before I even sensed him there. "I see you've still got it in you, Isolda. Makes me wonder if this whole memory loss thing of yours was an act."
I peeled off my headphones and lifted my goggles, clicking the safety on before letting the rifle rest in its cradle. "I don't think I could fake something like this for that long, Nonno. I want to avenge what they did to me as much as you do."
He let out a low chuckle, quiet and humorless. "True. Subtlety was never one of your strengths. You've always worn your heart where everyone could see it. It's a weakness of yours."
He extended his hand. Not a gesture of affection, but an expectation. A command.
I take it and pressed a kiss to the back of his palm. It's a ritual in our family. A reminder of hierarchy. Of who truly held the reins.
"About last night," he said. His tone didn't change, but something in the air sharpened. I straightened instinctively, folding my hands behind my back.
"It made me reconsider whether I've been...doing the right thing."
My brows knit together as we walked side by side along the range. His steps slow and deliberate, guided with his cane, the kind that forced me to match his pace. We moved toward the training grounds outside, gravel crunching under our boots like a whispered warning.
"What do you mean, Nonno?" I asked, even though a part of me wasn't sure I wanted the answer. But curiosity tugged at my anyway. If there was one thing about my grandfather, it was that he had never doubted his decisions.
Something must've happened last night.
He slowed when we reached the sparring rings, stopping just at the edge. The new recruits were running drills on the lawn. Young and eager, all sweating under the sun. He watched them with the detached interest of a man appraising livestock. Measuring their potential, listing their weaknesses with a single glance.
"That's because I've got a special mission for you," he said finally, resting both hands atop his cane as if it were a scepter.
Then he turned to me fully. His icy gaze locked on mine, steady and penetrating, making the silence before his next words felt weighted, inescapable.
"I need you to kill someone."
His voice didn't rise, nor did it drop. It was like he was delivering an edict carved into stone.
"But this mission won't be quick. Or simple. It will be long...difficult." His eyes dragged over my face, assessing, judging. "And it will be the thing that proves your worth before you settle down and take over my position."
"Name the person," I said, almost impressed by how steady I sounded. "And I'll get it done."
Grandpa's expression didn't shift. His eyes stayed flat, pale and unreadable. Like he had already predicted every possible reaction I could have. He inhaled once, slow and deliberate, before letting the name fall between us.
"Alexandre Barinov."
The world didn't tilt. It buckled.
The name hit somewhere deep beneath my sternum, sharp and wrong. Like a memory was tyring to claw its way out of a locked room. My palms went slick. My chest tightened so quickly, it stole the air from my lungs. Breath came in shallow, thin gasps that felt too fragile, too breakable.
"Barinov," I echoed, the syllables scraping my tongue. Saying it didn't help. It only made the unease spike. My voice sounded distant, like it belonged to someone else. "Do I...know him?"
I felt my grandfather's icy gaze on me. He wasn't even concerned. He was observing my reaction. Measuring how the name of my supposed target could unravel me.
A rope around my ribs tightened another notch. A hollow ache pulsed there, familiar in a way that made my skin prickle.
"No," he said at last, his tone dry, almost dismissive. "I don't believe you do. But you'll receive the details soon enough."
Grandpa stayed true to his word.
Because an hour later, once I've showered, dressed and headed straight into my office after lunch, I saw it. The envelope sitting on my desk. Perfectly centered. Its presence so deliberate, it made the air felt heavier.
For a moment, I simply stood there, staring at it. I could feel the faint tremor in my hands, the thrum of a pulse that had suddenly quickened. It was as if my body had already understood what my mind refused to acknowledge. The way it urged me not to touch it, not to open it, not to confirm whatever instinct was clawing at the back of my throat to reach for it.
But I walked forward anyway.
I lowered myself into my chair, picked up the envelope and slid the letter opener through the seal. The paper inside slid free with a soft whisper. A single photograph. Glossy. Cold. Heavy in a way a picture shouldn't be.
And then I saw him.
The same man who had pressed me against the wall last night. The man whose breath, hands and mouth still lingered on my skin. The stranger with a smile that hid more secrets than answers.
Alaric Voss.
In the photo, he was leaning casually against a marble pillar, that cigar balanced between his fingers. Half his face concealed by shadow. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes, those sharp, green eyes, sparkled with mischief as he watched the ballroom. He was watching me, I realized, twirling around the dance floor in Dario's arms.
The name printed beneath the image made my breaths stop entirely. His real name.
Alexandre Barinov.
He wasn't a stranger anymore. He was my mission.
And I was expected to track him down...
and kill him.