Chapter 2 (Part 2)
It's wonderful to know that there are still people reading this story, even though it has been a while since I started writing it! I am truly flattered by all of your comments. The fact that it continues to receive views and interest has reignited my motivation. As a token of my gratitude, I am once again going to commit and re-engage with the story ,and make my best efforts to update it as frequently as possible.
"They're quite persistent, aren't they?"
Bourbon maneuvered the car with expert precision, weaving through narrow streets and glancing at the rearview mirror where two police cruisers kept pace. His grip on the wheel was firm, his jaw tense. He glanced sideways—Vermouth was slouched against the passenger seat, pale, breathless, her platinum golden hair damp and tangled.
His mind was racing. A hospital was out of the question—too risky. Headquarters was too far. She might bleed out before they even got halfway. He hadn't gotten the chance to properly check the wound; he couldn't tell if the bullet had lodged itself in her thigh or if it was a clean graze. It looked deep—too deep.
He stepped on the accelerator abruptly, the car jerking forward with a snarl. Vermouth gritted her teeth and reached out, grabbing onto his arm for support. He heard her hiss something under her breath—definitely a curse. The sound made him turn again, taking another quick look at the bloody mess on her leg.
From what he could see, the bullet didn't appear to have fully penetrated, but still... he couldn't afford to be wrong.
"You're bleeding excessively." He didn't even know how many times he'd said those words around her anymore.
"Always so perceptive, aren't we?" she replied, her voice strained and hoarse, yet tinged with that infuriatingly familiar playfulness. Even when she was in pain, she played her part.
Their eyes met—briefly. Hers were glassy but still glimmered with that unreadable mischief.
"Endearing. I'll take that as a good sign," Bourbon muttered, shifting his gaze back to the mirror before jerking the wheel into a sharp left. The tires shrieked. The engine roared.
Vermouth shut her eyes and leaned back, a smirk still etched on her lips despite the tension in her brow.
The chase went on for what felt like forever before Bourbon finally lost the tail. He pulled into a dark alley and killed the engine. The street fell into silence, broken only by the dying whir of the engine and Vermouth's heavy breaths.
Bourbon scanned the alley quickly before turning back to her. She met his eyes with a furrowed brow, panting.
"What now?"
He didn't answer right away. Instead, he tore a strip of fabric from his shirt sleeve and leaned over her, wrapping the cloth tightly around her thigh. Tight enough to make her wince—and whimper.
"What's the plan?"
He paused, still lost in thought. Her eyes studied him. Was he out of ideas?
"Call Gin," she said between ragged breaths. "He'll know what to do."
For some reason, hearing her say Gin's name out loud set something unpleasant off in him. He didn't say anything about it. No time for that. No time for bitterness. He made the call.
It didn't last long.
Unsurprisingly, they couldn't agree on anything. The call ended unresolved, useless. Typical.
"What did he say?" she asked.
"We're completely on our own."
He exited the vehicle and came around to her side. Opened the door, reached for her. She didn't protest much when he grabbed her arm and hoisted her up—limping and leaning heavily into him. Together, they pushed down the alleyway, every movement cautious, eyes flicking toward every dark corner and shadow.
"Down there," Vermouth said, gesturing with her chin toward the end of the alley.
They turned the corner and hit a dead end—almost. A tall chain-link fence loomed ahead. Boxes and barrels were scattered around.
"Fantastic," Vermouth muttered.
Bourbon didn't waste time. He stacked the boxes, climbed swiftly, and leapt over the fence with practiced ease. On the other side, he scanned the ground for anything he could use. He spotted a wooden platform, dragged it into place against the fence, and climbed back up partway.
"Give me your hand."
Vermouth struggled. Her wounded leg made it nearly impossible. He sighed, climbed up further, and without another word, reached through the fence and scooped her up—arms under her back and thighs, practically slinging her over his shoulder like some exasperated knight rescuing a particularly uncooperative damsel.
"In case you've forgotten," she grumbled, "I was shot in the thigh. I can't exactly leap like a ballerina."
"You're doing great," he muttered.
They cleared the fence and limped forward—until they spotted someone. A man sitting lazily on a parked motorcycle, smoking, completely unaware.
Bourbon approached swiftly, silently, and in one motion struck a pressure point at the side of the man's neck. The stranger collapsed like a rag doll.
Vermouth raised an eyebrow. "Effective."
They mounted the bike. Bourbon adjusted her carefully behind him, hands light but quick. The engine rumbled under them.
"Where to?" she leaned in close, lips brushing near his ear.
Bourbon's Apartment
The sofa was stained red. Her blood.
The first thing she uttered as they entered was, "Such a lovely abode you have here…"
Condescending, of course. That tone of hers never failed to find its mark. His place wasn't much—bare, minimalist, the kind that didn't leave impressions. And it wasn't as if he had a habit of dragging half-dead people into it.
"I've never invited anyone in before," he replied flatly, helping her ease down onto the couch.
"And you should never," she shot back, her voice dry despite the pain.
"If anything, you're the first."
"Oh? Is that supposed to flatter me?"
"Only if it'll make you feel better."
"So far, you've only taken me to run-down holes, Bourbon. You're going to have to try harder if you want to impress."
"I'll take note of that—for next time."
"Now," she exhaled, leaning back with effort, "enough with the small talk. Let's get you working, shall we?"
He crouched in front of her, inspecting her from just a few inches away. She looked oddly softer like this—still dangerous, still amused—but touchable in a way he didn't often allow himself to notice.
Her penthouse had too many security layers to risk. Bringing her there could've triggered alarms. His place, dull and easily overlooked, was safer.
"Do you even know how to do this?" she asked lazily, though the way her body tensed—and the flicker of a wince across her face—betrayed her discomfort.
He did. Of course he did. But for the sake of theatrics—or maybe just to keep the edge between them honed—he muttered, "It's my first time."
Then he looked up at her, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I usually leave people behind when they become a burden."
She arched a brow, unimpressed.
"But you," he added, leaning in just a little, "are the exception. Aren't you lucky?"
"I'm forever in your debt," she deadpanned. "Thank you ever so much, gentle sir."
He chuckled, then tore through the fabric of her pants to get a better look. The rip was abrupt—too harsh—and it earned him a low growl from her.
"A bit rough for your first time," she frowned, biting down a hiss of pain.
He didn't reply. His focus shifted to the wound now that it was fully exposed. A deep graze. Raw. Bleeding heavily. But clean. No shrapnel. No bullet.
"It's a graze," he said at last, his voice quieter, more focused. "Good news—no bullet. Bad news—it's deep."
"Well, it burns and hurts like hell anyway," she muttered, her tone clipped.
He sighed. The fabric was still in the way—blood soaked through the seam of her jumpsuit.
She caught his hesitation and rolled her eyes. "Just get on with it, Bourbon."
He didn't move.
"Do you want me to remove the whole thing?" she asked matter-of-factly. "It's a one-piece, in case you haven't noticed. I have to take it all off. Oh well, lucky you."
She smirked and began to tug at the sleeves of the jumpsuit, but her hands trembled.
It made him freeze.
"Well don't look so alarmed," she murmured, her voice light but strained. "I can't possibly do it myself. I need you to take it off for me. So—if you please."
It was one of the rare moments he was caught off guard, visibly. Speechless, even.
She was left in just her underwear, blood trailing down her thigh.
He focused. Stitches. That's what mattered now. No anesthesia—there was no time.
"This is going to hurt," he said, voice low. "But you can take it. Here—" He offered her a towel. "Bite down if you need to."
She didn't take the towel.
Instead, she leaned in, slow and deliberate. And sank her teeth into his shoulder.
He hissed, his body going taut from the shock of pain.
She'd shifted while he wasn't looking—her injured leg bent and propped over his thigh, the rest of her body slumped against him for support. She was half-seated, half-draped over him on the sofa, one arm looped around the back of his neck to keep herself upright. Her forehead rested briefly against his collarbone, her breath fanning over his skin in shallow bursts.
It left him crouched awkwardly between her legs, one knee on the floor, the other braced under her thigh to keep it elevated. His hands moved quickly over the wound, his fingers firm and practiced as he cleaned the gash and prepped the thread.
Her grip on him tightened with every pass of the needle.
She didn't cry out. Not once. Just breathed harder, bit down harder—his shoulder throbbed in time with her pulses of pain.
The closeness was unbearable.
He tried not to notice the warmth of her skin, the way her chest pressed against his with every ragged breath. Tried not to look at the exposed curve of her hip or the red streak of blood trailing down her thigh. But she was everywhere—on him, around him, under his hands and teeth in his flesh.
"Almost done," he muttered, voice hoarse.
She didn't reply. Only bit harder.
He tied the final stitch with sharp precision, the thread pulled taut. He exhaled through his nose, slow, trying to calm the adrenaline simmering under his skin.
But when he looked up, she was already watching him.
Her weight still leaned heavily on his lap, her leg hooked over his. One hand gripped his shoulder for balance. Her face had lifted slightly from where it had buried against his neck—and now hovered just inches from his own.
Her eyes flicked down. To his lips.
And then back up.
Their foreheads nearly touched. Her breath, still uneven, brushed against his cheek.
She didn't move.
Neither did he.
Her lips parted faintly, as if she wanted to say something.
But she didn't.
Instead, after a long, loaded moment, she exhaled slowly—smirking, faintly. And then reclined back against the sofa like nothing had happened at all.
He stayed kneeling for a second longer, dazed, until the sting in his shoulder brought him back to earth.
There was a bite mark. A vicious one. It throbbed in protest.
Fair and even, he supposed.
He disappeared into the kitchen, fetching fresh towels and a water basin. The sound of running water filled the brief silence between them.
"Not bad for your first time," she muttered from the sofa, voice slurred with exhaustion. Her eyes fluttered shut briefly, lashes brushing her cheeks as she sank deeper into the cushions.
She looked spent. So he treated the smaller wounds too—a nick above her brow, a bruise along her ribcage. Silent, methodical. The gash on her thigh was the worst, but now that it was taken care of, she seemed less guarded, a little less defiant.
Without asking, he lifted her in his arms.
Her body was warm. Too warm.
He tried not to look down as he carried her to the bed.
"I'm an actress, you know," she said with a faint smirk, even half-conscious. "You should watch the movies I've done. I've shown a considerable amount of nakedness in them."
"I'm sure you do," he muttered, eyes fixed forward.
"It's irritating."
"What is?" he looked at her questioningly.
"The sweat. The blood. All the damn dirt." She was still panting, breath shallow and uneven.
He nodded quietly and left to grab one of his button down shirt and a clean wet towel.
When he returned to the bedroom, she was watching him again, eyes narrowed in suspicion—or maybe curiosity. He couldn't tell anymore.
"This might help a little," he said.
He sat beside her on the bed and gently pulled her up to sit. She barely resisted.
"Alright, help me get out of this dirt," she mumbled, voice hoarse.
He helped her peel off the bloodied remains of her upper body. They paused for a moment, frozen in place—her body exposed under the dim light, and his hands hovering near her waist. He looked at her face, not her body. Waiting for something. A nod. Permission. Anything.
She sighed and shoved the towel into his hand with an eye roll. "Go on. Get it over with."
She was drifting in and out—too delirious to manage it herself. So he cleaned her off as gently as he could, wiping down her skin, careful not to linger. Then he helped her into the oversized shirt.
"This'll do," he said finally.
She slumped back onto the pillows, eyes already closed. "Thanks."
"You owe me one," he added.
When she opened her eyes again, he was still there—watching her with a crooked smirk.
She rolled her eyes. "Sure. I'll bathe you next time."
He laughed under his breath. "I'll remember that."
She rolled her eyes again—but this time there was a hint of amusement in the gesture. She noticed he hadn't moved from the bed.
Their eyes locked.
"I'll take the couch," he said finally.
She raised an eyebrow, but didn't argue.
"Just… let me know if you need anything."
Then he stood and walked out.
Sleep didn't come.
He stood on the narrow balcony, city lights flickering beneath the night sky. The distant wail of police sirens echoed against the buildings, mingling with the hum of late traffic, an orchestra of life continuing on without him.
He stayed out there longer than he should've. Thinking. Breathing. Waiting.
Eventually, he returned and made a decision to check on her one last time.
And there she was.
Asleep. Peacefully.
His breath caught in his chest.
A dark thought pierced through the haze of exhaustion. He could do it. Right now. No one would notice. The infamous platinum-blonde woman—Vermouth—was lying right there. Defenseless. Disarmed. Vulnerable. He could call it justice. Retaliation. Strategy. She was a link to ano kata. A threat. An enemy. She would've pulled the trigger if their positions were reversed.
So why not?
But the thought was gone just as quickly.
It evaporated under the rhythm of her breathing. The delicate twitch of her brow. The soft part of her lips. Even asleep, she was enchanting—hauntingly so. A siren dressed in shadows. Dangerous. Bewitching. Enigmatic.
He exhaled slowly and turned away, eyes closed.
Maybe not tonight, but it's gonna happen one day no matter what.
Soon, or maybe sooner even.
And when the time comes, he knows he has to make a choice.
Morning sunlight filtered through the half-closed blinds, casting soft stripes across the bedroom. The air was quiet, heavy with the scent of gauze, antiseptic, and something vaguely sweet—he'd made her toast with jam and scrambled eggs. It wasn't much, but it was warm.
She couldn't stand properly at first. Her thigh throbbed when she tried, so he brought the breakfast to her in bed. She didn't thank him. She never did. But she ate in silence, slowly, savouring the comfort it brought while he sat nearby, speaking into his phone with a low, professional tone.
She watched him the entire time—sharp eyes cutting sideways between bites. He looked oddly domestic in the morning light, like he belonged to a different world altogether. Normal. Real. Almost gentle.
"I'm starting to get used to this," she murmured, interrupting his conversation with herself more than him.
It wasn't the first time they'd ended up like this. Maybe the fourth. Those late-night missions had a way of unraveling everything—plans, pretenses, personal boundaries. When they were away from everything, when the adrenaline wore off, there was nowhere left to go but here.
The bathroom was filled with steam by the time she padded in barefoot.
No glass panels. No divider. Just open tiles, soft humidity curling along the edges of the mirror, and the steady rhythm of water hitting skin. Her thigh still throbbed with every movement, the bullet graze stiff and sore beneath fresh bandages.
He stood under the stream, shoulders taut, hair plastered wet against his neck. Water cascading down his back all the way to—underwear.
He was wearing underwear.
She blinked once. Then again.
"Wearing underwear in the shower?" Her voice rang lazily through the mist. "That's a crime."
He didn't turn around. "So is barging into someone's shower uninvited."
"Oh, please," she scoffed, stepping in. The steam welcomed her like silk. "Your hypervigilance never fails to amaze me."
His head turned at that. Slowly. "What happened to the decency of knocking first before entering?"
"Well, my apologies," Vermouth drawled as she stepped closer, her hips shifting with unease, the bandage peeking out from beneath the hem of his oversized shirt. "I thought we were way past asking for consent when you've seen me naked already?"
A beat of silence.
A long, charged pause filled only with the sound of running water and unsaid things. Her arms crossed over her chest —not out of boldness, but challenge. His eyes met hers. Her eyebrow arched.
"Should I go back and knock first to satisfy your bruised ego?" Her tone was bored, almost disdainful.
He sighed. Broke eye contact. Ran a wet hand through his hair like he could wash away the headache already forming.
"Fine. Just get in."
"I'm already in," she replied smugly, stepping fully under the spray. "You sound unwelcoming."
"I'm very welcoming," he muttered, turning slightly to give her more space.
Her fingers moved casually, undoing the buttons one by one. Slow. Effortless. Like this was just another morning. The fabric peeled open, revealing the curve of her waist, the bandage wrapped tightly around her upper thigh, and the stitches blooming like watercolour just above it.
His silence was thick.
She shrugged the shirt off her shoulders and let it fall, leaving her in just her lacy underwear. Again. She stepped forward, bare skin catching the warmth of the rising steam, and gave him a look.
That ever-present glint in her eyes—half amusement, half dare. He didn't flinch. Didn't look anywhere but her face. His expression was unreadable, untouched, like this was nothing. Just water and two people and not even the ghost of tension between them.
She reached past him deliberately, brushing his arm as she adjusted the nozzle, tilting her face up into the water with a sigh.
The silence stretched again, this time heavier, steam-laced, edged with something unspoken.
He glanced at her from the corner of his eye, then handed her the sponge. "You need help cleaning up?" He said it in a business-like manner. Undeterred. Collected. Too nonchalant for her liking.
She made a small, pleased sound. "Finally, some manners."
Bourbon shook his head, lips twitching in something dangerously close to amusement. "Don't make me regret this."
"You always regret things that feel good. That's your problem."
She turned around, baring her back to him with exaggerated innocence. "You know where to start."
He began working the sponge slowly across her back, careful to avoid shifting her too much. His hands were steady, methodical—detached, almost. When he moved lower, he crouched slightly, cleaning around the thigh with clinical precision. His fingers brushed against the outer edge of the bandage as he rinsed the skin just above it, neither hurried nor hesitant.
No tremor. No pause.
She inhaled—sharp and shallow—but didn't pull away. Pain, maybe. Or something else.
"You're awfully quiet," she said after a beat. "Usually you'd be grumbling about my lack of shame."
He didn't answer.
"I'm starting to worry you don't find me aggravating anymore."
Finally, he straightened and set the sponge down on the edge of the sink. Turned to face her slightly.
"Oh, I still do," he said flatly. "Just prioritizing."
Her eyes sparkled. "And what, pray tell, is today's priority?"
"Getting you cleaned up and out of my bath before I start questioning my own sanity."
She laughed—soft, warm, real. Now, that's a reaction. Small crack to his carefully guarded facade. But still a reaction.
Still close. Still too close.
"You know," she said, fingertips lightly tracing her neck to her collarbone down to her arms, "for someone who sighs every time I walk into the room, you sure don't seem to want me gone."
Another silence. His gaze dropped to her lips, just for a second.
And maybe she saw it.
Maybe that was why she leaned forward, brushing the damp edge of her bandaged leg across his as she shifted in the narrow space, the ghost of a smirk still playing on her lips.
"I like it here," she murmured. "Think I'll stay a while."
He leaned back slightly, looking skyward, biting back a sigh.
"Of course you will."
She let her eyes roam down, trailing over his abdomen, pausing on the distinct bruise just on his shoulder. Faint, but unmistakable. A perfect impression of her teeth.
"Hm." She tilted her head. "I did that?"
"Yes, you did that," he answered, without a hint of drama.
"I got carried away a little bit."
"You did. Painfully, if I may add."
"Oh, stop. It's not that terrible."
She smirked, then tapped a fingertip against his chest. "We've been having a lot of kinship lately. Cuddling, biting, washing, now taking a bath…" Her eyes sparkled again as she tilted her head playfully. "I wonder…"
He looked at her, expression unreadable.
Her voice dropped, velvet-soft, playful and low. "I wonder what's gonna come next."
A beat.
He smiled—nonchalantly, almost lazily. "I'm just as curious as you."
That made her pause.
"You may not be as boring as I perceived you to be."
"I'm glad you're realizing that now."
She scoffed and turned back toward the water, pretending she didn't like his answer.
But her smile lingered.
Note: Part 3 will be uploaded shortly. You won't wait in years, I promise. And this time I meant to honour my words (4/18/2025).