I had the stable boy saddle a horse and rode into town a few minutes early, unable to wait, and eager to set my new plan in motion. While I had been to this part of town once before, it hadn’t exactly left me with the best impression, and before dismounting and entering the Flying Albatross tavern I double checked to make sure my dagger was in place.

I dearly hoped I wouldn’t have to kill Marlowe again. I had hardly enjoyed it the first time around, and I knew it would only make things worse. Considering my options, I pushed open the tavern door.

Perhaps I could threaten him. A well-placed threat could get him to confess why he had turned against me. Letting my eyes adjust to the dim tavern lighting, I nearly smiled at the idea of getting one up on the assassin, forcing him to tell me just what exactly had led him to decide that poisoning me was his best option. Only, how could I explain something that hadn’t happened yet?

A few tables to my right, a patron grabbed another man by the collar and body-slammed him back against one of the tables—I vaguely recognized the two whose fight had expelled them out the tavern door and nearly at my feet during my last visit here. Moving through the crowd, I braced myself for the leers and disgusting comments I knew would come from the men, one of whom proceeded to make the exact same filthy gesture he had before. I bristled, rolling my eyes, but mostly kept my head down. I couldn’t afford anyone recognizing me, especially when I was here to meet an assassin.

Despite knowing what I needed to do, my nerves were kicking in as I climbed the rickety staircase to the third floor, narrow stairs protesting under my feet. Memories of the last time I had done this flooded my senses; Marlowe’s thumb brushing against my cheek, the full force of his dark gaze turned upon me.

I was going to have to go through it all again, but this time with one important difference—I needed to win him over.

The door off the third floor landing beckoned me forward, this time slightly ajar, a thin ray of candlelight filtering out into the corridor. Strange, but then again I was early. I approached the door, unsure if I should knock, and settled on giving it a few soft raps.

“It’s open,” came Marlowe’s deep voice, resonating from the interior.

Steeling myself, I pushed the door all the way open—and gasped.

It wasn’t as though I had never seen a man before. I saw men every day, more or less. But this particular man was like a handsome panther, large and muscled, power evident down to his little fingers.

He also happened to be shirtless.

As I entered the room, he was wiping his face, a towel draped over his bare shoulder and chest.

My breath caught in my throat, and he smiled. “Welcome.”

He gestured to the room as though in apology, the clean yet dingy white of the bed and the walls evident even in the low light of the room. “Perhaps it is not as luxurious as a lady like yourself would prefer?”

Averting my eyes from his muscled torso was proving difficult. I had to remember why I was here in the first place—I needed to get him on my side.

“And perhaps you should put on a shirt,” I suggested, looking deliberately at a spot on the wall adjacent to his glistening pecs.

Marlowe had been toweling his hair dry, but paused at my words in what seemed like genuine puzzlement. “Why?”

I swallowed. “It’s…distracting.”

He stared at me for a moment, mouth slightly open, and then laughed—a deep, booming sound that was easy on the ears. Giving his toweled hair a final squeeze, he dropped the cloth in a heap on the nightstand and stepped towards me.

I had to crane my neck to look up at him, my pulse speeding, and the more he loomed over me the more I stepped back until I was right in the doorway. Utterly casual, Marlowe reached past me with one thick, muscled arm and shut the door closed behind me, pulling a key from his pocket. “We wouldn’t want anyone interrupting our conversation, would we?”

I was opening my mouth as though to respond when I heard the key sliding into the lock, the mechanism clicking into place with a sense of finality. He was so close I could feel the heat radiating off him like a blacksmith’s oven.

All thoughts deserted me. My plan, my reason for being here—all evaporated in a haze of heat and candlelight and dark eyes.

Marlowe turned and walked back into the room, grabbing a shirt from a pile of folded clothes in the corner. I watched as he pulled the shirt on, the muscles in his back rippling with the gesture, and I paused to take a steadying breath, lingering by the door as though it could lend me a measure of support in the face of his presence.

He shook out his damp hair and walked back towards me, the distance between us eaten up with his every step as he moved in the way that hunters move. “You wanted to see me. Why?”

He overwhelmed my senses; I couldn’t breathe. His eyes sparkled in the flickering candlelight as he looked down at me, inquisitive.

Fear tight in my throat, thinking fast, I forced a smile, my voice barely a whisper. “I’ve heard so much about you, I wanted to meet you.”

He paused, a hand sliding through his thick hair, and cocked his head with a slight smile. “What have you heard?”

I took a breath to steady myself. My heart was pounding, and I needed to stay calm. “I’ve heard that you’re an assassin for hire.”

For a moment, his eyes narrowed, and my heart clenched. Was that the wrong thing to say?

Then he chuckled. “And what if they speak the truth?”

The relief that swept through me was only momentary. It was time to really sell it. I needed to sound as convincing as possible. “I’ve always found something alluring about assassins,” I explained, couching the words in a confessional tone, “I just think you have a certain…je ne sais quois.”

His eyebrows raised in surprise; I’d caught him off guard. “And now that you’ve met me, what do you think? Am I alluring?”

I stole a few glances at the bottom of his shirt; I could see his muscled abs as the fabric rode up. Then, all at once, I felt his fingers lift my chin. “Keep your eyes up here,” he scolded.

Humiliation heated my cheeks; words evaded me as all of a sudden I could barely string a sentence together. Could a person endure this kind of embarrassment, and live? “I think you’re very…intriguing.”

He hummed, smiling, and just when I thought I had passed muster, his grip on my chin tightened, his eyes darkening. “And I think you’re lying,” he said, his voice a menacing growl.

Then he leaned in closer, almost conspiratorially. “Why are you here?”

I could feel myself trembling like a prey animal, my hand moving automatically towards my dagger. In a single fluid gesture, he pulled the knife from its hidden spot in my dress, moving so quickly I didn’t even realize at first what had happened. Suspicious eyes narrowed at the blade. “Was this meant for me?”

I tried to shake my head; he still held my chin in a vice grip. “I only brought it because I’ve heard this neighborhood is highly unsafe.”

“Well, what do you know,” he intoned, lip curled into a slight sneer, “You heard correctly.”

He released my chin, pinning my hands above my head against the door with his hand. “Who sent you?”

“Nobody sent me,” I swore, feeling suddenly rattled, “I only came here because I had heard of your reputation and—”

He pressed a finger against my lips with one hand, the other still holding my dagger. “Let me tell you a little something about my line of work.”

I stood as still as I could against the door, eyes wide. “As an assassin,” he explained, “one must be proficient in various means of inducing death in a person.”

He counted them off on his fingers, almost leisurely. “Swords, rope, axes…my preferred method happens to be poison.”

With a smile, he raised the dagger. “But a good assassin has to be flexible.”

He let the tip of the knife brush my cheek, and I inhaled sharply. “So, tell me. What are you really up to?”