A hand—his hand—rested gently on my forehead. I opened my eyes, confused, expecting cold steel or flame or worse. Instead, I saw him standing before me, close, too close.
He wasn't looking at me like a predator.
He looked… concerned?
"Are you sick?" he asked, voice low, surprisingly soft.
I blinked.
What?
Was this some kind of mind game? Some twisted setup? Or was he actually—no, that didn't make sense. Nothing about this made sense.
He leaned in a little more, just enough to catch my temperature, maybe check my breathing. His hand was still on my forehead—solid and oddly reassuring, like someone checking on a feverish friend, not a target.
"What… what is going on?" I finally whispered, voice cracking as I stared into those unreadable silver eyes.
He didn't answer right away. Just studied me, almost like he was trying to figure something out that even he didn't understand.
The silence stretched. The city outside felt like a world away.
In that moment, I wasn't Black Cat.
I wasn't the daughter of Walter Hardy.
I wasn't a thief or a fighter or even prey.
I was just… Felicia.
Alone. Confused. Vulnerable.
And for some reason I still couldn't explain—
Michael White hadn't killed me.
"Hmm," he said, watching me carefully. "Are you having trouble or something?"
What was I supposed to say to that?
Yes, I'm terrified.Yes, I don't understand why you're not killing me.Yes, I feel like I'm dangling over a cliff, and even your mercy feels more terrifying than a bullet to the head.
But I couldn't say any of that.What if he read it as weakness?What if he wanted fear?
So instead, I laughed. Bitterly. Quietly. "Just kill me already," I muttered, eyes downcast. "This is more terrifying than if you'd actually done it."
But then—I saw it. His hand moved under his coat.
Here it is.He's going to end it.
He reached inside, and my breath caught in my throat. My knees weakened instinctively, preparing for pain, for cold steel, for—
But it wasn't a gun.It wasn't a blade.
He pulled out a small glass vial—deep red liquid swirling inside like molten ruby.
Not fire. Not death.But… poison?
My head spun. "W-What... what are you doing?" I tried to ask, but my vision blurred at the edges. My legs gave out before I could finish the thought.
Thud.
The ground rushed up to meet me.
Felicia's POV ends.
Michael caught her just before her head hit the hardwood floor. Gently, he lowered her down, eyes narrowing slightly—not in annoyance, but confusion.
"She's seriously sick," he muttered to himself, brushing a strand of white-blonde hair from her damp forehead. Her breathing was shallow, her skin cold.
Without hesitation, he lifted her in his arms—weightless to him, but fragile like fine glass. He carried her across the apartment to her room, laying her down softly on the bed.
And then he took out the health potion, he was going to giver her before she fell unconscious.
He uncorked the vial and carefully brought it to her lips.
"Come on, Cat," he said quietly. "Don't you pass out on me now."
A drop. Then another. Her throat twitched.
It was working.
He exhaled—relieved, though confused.
There was no wound. No visible trauma. Not even a trace of internal damage when he scanned her aura. Physically, she was fine.
Then what the hell happened to her?
Michael frowned, his silver eyes narrowing slightly. He wasn't the kind to let uncertainty linger.
"Whatever it is," he muttered under his breath, glancing at Felicia's still, sleeping form, "I'll ask when she wakes up."
With that, Michael stood, stretching the stiffness from his shoulders. The silence in the room was oddly peaceful now, the chaos of their earlier tension gone.
He scanned her modest apartment. Sleek but messy. A stack of books was piled near a desk. He noticed one near the edge, half-opened—Thieves of the 20th Century: The Shadow Lineage.
Michael's curiosity piqued. He picked it up, flipping through the pages slowly as he settled into the nearby chair. The worn pages had notes scribbled in the margins in neat, feminine handwriting. Hers, obviously.
He let the silence stretch, the soft rustle of pages the only sound in the room.
Outside, the city buzzed. Inside, time felt like it slowed.
And so, the reaper of death sat quietly beside a sleeping cat burglar—reading in the hush of an unexpected calm.
***
Felicia Pov
My eyes fluttered open slowly. The ceiling above me was mine. My room. My bed. The faint scent of lavender air freshener and vintage wood polish confirmed it.
I'm home?
I sat up too quickly, my heart lurching. The last thing I remembered was him. Michael White. A walking nightmare cloaked in human skin. The way he looked at me. The way I thought death had finally reached out to collect.
But I was alive.
My hand went to my chest—still warm. No pain. No wounds. Not even a scratch.
What in the hell?
I threw off the blanket and swung my legs to the floor, barely registering the softness of the rug underfoot. I scanned the room. My suit was draped neatly over the chair. My boots, lined up. My comms device on the nightstand—charging.
That's when I heard it.
Clatter.
A metallic sound—then the unmistakable sizzle of something frying.
My kitchen?!
I crept toward the hallway, bare feet silent against the hardwood. Slowly, I leaned out just enough to peek into the kitchen.
There he was.Michael White.Casually flipping something in a pan like he belonged there. Like this was just another morning and I wasn't supposed to be dead.
WHAT?!
My breath caught. I ducked back around the corner.
Okay. Okay, think, Felicia.He didn't kill me. He brought me here. Tucked me into bed. And now he's… cooking?
My hands curled into fists. My heart was racing and my brain was screaming for an explanation. He could've hurt me. He didn't. He could've taken things from me. Nothing was missing. No signs of a struggle. No forced entry. The wards on the windows were untouched.
Why is he here?
And even worse—
Why is he cooking in my damn kitchen?
I leaned forward again and stared. He wasn't armed. His coat was slung over one of my stools. He wore a plain dark shirt, sleeves rolled up, revealing forearms laced with faint veins—these are some sexy veiny hands I have seen. He was focused, flipping an omelet like he'd done it a thousand times before.
And then…
He glanced toward the hallway.
"Morning," he said without even looking surprised. "You're awake."
I froze. Caught. Breathless.
Okay… I am so not ready for this.
*******
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