His Perfect Poison

The sound of gunfire was deafening, a rhythmic crack that echoed in my bones. I adjusted my stance, shoulders squared, my grip firm around the pistol. My final shot lined up perfectly. I could see the bulls-eye as clear as a heartbeat.

Bang.

The target swayed. A sharp exhale left my chest.

Not perfect. A hairline miss.

Damn it.

For a second, I didn't care. I never cared about losing. Competitions like this were just another way to pass time between the real battles-deals, negotiations, the daily wars I always won.

But then I saw her.

She stood three lanes over, and I swear the room tilted.

She wasn't celebrating her win, not like the others were cheering for her. She was still, quiet, as if none of this mattered. Her black hair was pulled into a loose ponytail, with a few strands falling against her face like shadows. Her posture was flawless-focused, lethal, yet graceful.

When she lowered her gun, I knew.

She'd beaten me.

And I hated that I didn't mind.

I watched her-no, stared at her. And then she turned her head, and her eyes-dark, sharp, unflinching-met mine.

It was like taking a bullet to the chest.

Something stirred in me, something I didn't recognize. A strange déjà vu, like I'd known her in another life, another war, another story. I couldn't look away.

When she walked past me to collect her scorecard, my body moved before my mind did.

He was watching me.

I could feel the weight of his gaze like an unwelcome touch, heavy and unrelenting.

The cheers and chatter around me faded to static as I set my pistol down, my movements as smooth as water. To them, I was a winner. A new face who'd beaten the reigning champion of the shooting range.

To me, this was nothing. Just another test of patience.

I glanced at him-tall, broad shoulders, sharp suit even in a casual arena like this. He radiated wealth and confidence. The kind of man who believed the world belonged to him.

It's you.

The name rose in my throat like bile, but I swallowed it with a smile.

On the surface, I was gentle, composed. A picture of calm elegance. My lips curved politely as I walked past him, but inside? Inside I wanted to sink my nails into his skin.

"Congratulations," he said, stepping closer.

I stopped, and the faintest smile touched my lips. His voice sounded rough, heavier than usual, but I didn't care.

I turned to face him fully, and the world narrowed to him.

His eyes.

They were like a storm I couldn't look away from. Dark, endless, with something hidden so deep I almost felt dizzy trying to read them.

He extended his hand. "You were impressive. Most people can't beat me."

I took it.

His hand was warm, strong, and a strange heat rushed through me at the contact, but I buried the discomfort under a practiced smile.

"Thank you," I said, my voice smooth and quiet.

But something about the way he looked at me-like I was nothing more than a flicker in his world-made my chest tighten.

He didn't like being dismissed. I could see it in the way his eyes narrowed slightly.

The moment our hands touched, I felt it-revulsion, sharp and bitter, burning through my veins like fire.

It would've been so easy to crush his fingers. Twist his wrist. Watch his smile falter.

But I didn't. I tilted my head, smiling softly as though his presence didn't make my skin crawl.

"You shoot well," he said, holding my gaze like he wanted to peel me open.

I forced a laugh, light and gentle. "So do you."

It was a lie. He was good, but I was better.

He looked like the type of man who hated to lose. That made this even sweeter.

Around us, people were chatting, congratulating me, clapping my back. But none of them saw the storm swirling in my mind. None of them saw the sharp edge of my thoughts, the daggers I was already sharpening for him.

He kept looking at me. Studying me.

Like he was trying to figure out why I felt familiar.

Don't remember me, I thought. Not yet.

"What's your name?" he asked before I could walk away.

I hesitated. Just for a second. Then:

"Aria."

The name rolled off my tongue like music, but I made sure it was careful. Measured.

"Aria," he repeated, tasting it, memorizing it. "I'm Damien."

I didn't flinch, didn't blink, though I wanted to.

Damien.

The name was a blade against my throat.

I kept my smile soft, my voice even. "Nice to meet you."

Lies, all of it.

But I needed to play this game carefully. If I showed even a hint of what I felt, the entire plan would crumble. So I tucked the rage back into its cage, let my lashes lower, and pretended to be unbothered.

I could feel his stare, heavy and unrelenting, as I walked away to collect my things.

She walked away, but I couldn't take my eyes off her.

There was something about Aria-something I couldn't name-that gripped me. Her beauty was undeniable, but it was more than that. She had this quiet confidence, this unshakable calm, like the world couldn't touch her.

And I wanted to know why.

As she stepped out of the range, the sound of her heels clicking against the floor, I knew one thing for certain.

This wasn't the last time I'd see her.

No. I wouldn't let it be.

Outside, the air was cooler. The sky stretched endlessly above, stars twinkling like broken glass.

I took a deep breath, letting the mask slip for just a moment. My hands clenched into fists, nails biting into my palms.

This is the man, I thought, the storm roaring louder.

But I smiled, because no one could see.

Not yet.

He didn't know it yet, but he'd just shaken hands with the very poison that would ruin him.