Adele woke slowly, her body feeling like it had been through a meat grinder. At first, the world was sluggish, her thoughts weighed down by the fog of painkillers and exhaustion. Then, gradually, clarity seeped in. The dull ache of her wound pulsed in time with her heartbeat—a steady reminder of just how close she had come to death.

She forced herself to take stock of her surroundings. The sheets beneath her were smooth, crisp, and clean. The air carried a faint sterile scent, mixed with something warm—broth? Her fingers flexed against the fabric, instincts kicking in, searching for anything out of place. But what struck her most was the stillness. The quiet presence of someone nearby.

Julian.

She turned her head slightly. He was seated beside the bed, posture impeccable as ever, gaze steady. He was watching her, but not in the predatory way she was used to. Not like someone waiting for weakness to exploit. No, he studied her with an intensity that unsettled her for an entirely different reason. Because it felt like he cared.

Adele was not accustomed to being cared for.

The Ruska Roma didn't nurture. They refined. Disciplined. Sharpened until there was nothing left but a blade. Even the Director, who had shaped her life from adolescence, had done so with cold efficiency. Adele had never been delicate enough to be a ballerina, never seductive enough to enthrall her victims with womanly charm. But she had been useful in other ways. And the moment she ceased to be useful, she would be nothing.

But Slowik had tended to her wound, changed her bandages, ensured she was comfortable. His precision was unnerving. He was meticulous in all things, and this was no exception.

She exhaled carefully, testing the pain. Manageable. Her fingers flexed again, then twitched toward the bandage at her side.

"Don't," Slowik said smoothly, his voice quiet but firm. "You'll only make it worse."

Her lips quirked. "What, no monologue about how pain builds character?"

Something flickered in his gaze—amusement, perhaps, or something close to it. "You don't need a lecture on pain."

Adele let her eyes drift shut for a moment. No, she supposed she didn't. Pain had been her constant companion since childhood. It had shaped her just as much as discipline had.

But Slowik's statement wasn't a question. It was an observation. He knew. Maybe not everything, but enough. She opened her eyes again, fixing him with a careful stare. "How long have I been out?"

"Three days."

Her brows lifted slightly. "And you've been here the whole time?"

He inclined his head slightly, a non-answer that still spoke volumes.

She didn't know what to do with that. Didn't know how to process the way her chest tightened at the thought of someone staying. Of someone seeing her weak and not walking away.

She needed a distraction.

Adele pushed herself up slightly, ignoring the protest of her muscles. Slowik watched, unimpressed, but didn't stop her. He was waiting. He knew she had something to say.

So, she deflected. "You handle a needle well. Ever consider a different kind of kitchen?"

Slowik hummed. "Precision matters in all crafts."

Of course it did. Everything about him was measured, exact, intentional. Even now, as he studied her, it was with the same scrutiny he had once reserved for his craft. She wondered if he saw her as another failed experiment. Another Menu gone awry.

His eyes flickered to the wound at her side, then back to her face. "That wasn't an accident."

It wasn't a question.

Adele exhaled slowly. "No. It wasn't."

She turned her head slightly, meeting his gaze. He studied her, searching for something beneath the surface.

"How do you feel?"

"Like shit," she rasped, her throat dry. "But alive."

Slowik nodded, as though that answer had been expected. He leaned forward slightly, hands clasped together, exuding the same quiet intensity she had seen that night at Hawthorne. "What happened to you?"

Adele exhaled through her nose, forcing her expression to remain neutral. "A misunderstanding."

Slowik's lips pressed into a thin line. He wasn't a fool. "You don't move like someone unfamiliar with pain," he said evenly. "You move like someone who's fought through it before."

His gaze flickered over her scars. "Many times."

Something twisted inside her—admiration? No. Wariness. He was too perceptive for his own good. She could lie, keep deflecting. But for what? The cat was out of the bag whether she liked it or not. And more importantly, she found that she didn't want to lie. Not to him. Not when she had started to feel something for him—something dangerous. Something unfamiliar.

But how? How could she tell him what she was without driving him away? She knew of his beliefs, caught him reading the Bible a few times. How would he reconcile that with what she did? Would he see her as damned? Would he turn from her in disgust?

She swallowed, voice deliberately steady. "I kill people, Julian. For a living."

Silence stretched between them. She watched him closely, waiting for the recoil, the horror, the disgust. But none came.

Instead, Slowik studied her as though he had already suspected the truth but needed to hear it from her lips. There was no judgment in his gaze—only contemplation.

After a while, for the first time since she had woken, Slowik looked away. His fingers tapped against his knee in a thoughtful rhythm, his mind working through a labyrinth of realizations. Everything made sense now—why his Menu at Hawthorne had failed. Why she had saved him.

He should walk away. This was too much.

Yet he didn't.

Adele tilted her head slightly. "You're not shocked."

"I had my suspicions."

That intrigued her. "Because?"

Slowik's gaze didn't waver. "The efficiency with which you killed the staff at my restaurant." His voice was quiet, unwavering.

That made her pause. He saw too much.

Adele exhaled, shoulders sagging slightly. "I was stabbed on a job."

Her voice was flat. "The people who did this to me were cleaning up loose ends. I was supposed to be dead before I even reached you."

"And yet, you survived."

A wry smile tugged at her lips. "I tend to do that."

Silence again. Heavy, but not uncomfortable.

Slowik sat back slightly, his expression unreadable. "And now?"

Adele hesitated. That was the real question, wasn't it? What now?

She wasn't sure. She should be getting up, planning her next move, setting up for retaliation. But instead, she was here. With him.

And he wasn't walking away.

Slowik's fingers tapped lightly against the armrest of his chair. "You saved me, back at Hawthorne."

She looked at him sharply. "That's different."

"Is it?"

Adele hesitated.

Slowik tilted his head slightly, considering her. "You shouldn't have interfered. But you did. And now I find myself in the position of returning the favor."

Something twisted in her chest. "You don't have to."

He studied her for a long moment, then, with quiet finality, said, "I know."

Adele swallowed. He should walk away. She was dangerous. She had no illusions about what she was.

But then, so was he.

Slowik's eyes darkened slightly, his voice taking on that same quiet weight it always did before he said something irrevocable. "Do you believe in salvation, Adele?"

A humorless smile curved her lips. "Not for people like me."

He was silent for a long moment, then said, "The Bible speaks of devils disguised as angels. But sometimes, it is the devils who reach into the fire."

She looked at him. Something unsteady shifted between them.

She should be afraid.

He should be afraid.

And yet, neither of them moved.