The Rival's Puck Bunny

NAVIRA

The first thing I notice isn't the blood covering my hands. It isn't the gun hanging uselessly from my trembling fingers either. Hell, it isn't even the body bleeding all over the floor, which is saying something because someone is very dead at my feet and I'm usually a lot better at paying attention to dead people.

The blood keeps spreading in slow little rivers around him like it has nowhere better to be, staining marble that probably costs more than my entire wardrobe, and somewhere in the back of my head I briefly wonder if the hotel charges extra for murder cleanups.

I've seen blood before. I've caused it before. Death and I have crossed paths enough times that pulling a trigger isn't supposed to make my hands shake. Usually it doesn't. Usually I complete the mission, make sure my target is actually dead, and leave before anyone has the chance to ask inconvenient questions.

That's how I was raised. That's how I was trained. So the reason I can't move has absolutely nothing to do with the corpse decorating the floor. It has everything to do with the man standing across the room.

The world around me is collapsing into absolute chaos. Glass shatters somewhere behind me. Someone screams loud enough to make my ears ring. Chairs scrape violently across the floor as people shove each other toward the exits, desperate to escape before another bullet finds them.

The room smells like expensive perfume, gunpowder and blood, a combination I sincerely hope never becomes a candle scent, and somehow, through all of it, my eyes never leave Elian Caldwell.

A hand clamps around my arm so hard my shoulder protests.

"Navira." His voice slices cleanly through the noise.

"We have to leave. Now."

I know that voice. I've followed it through enough operations to recognize every shift in his tone. I've heard him bark orders while bullets flew over our heads, swear at me for taking unnecessary risks, and lecture me because apparently I have an unhealthy relationship with danger. If there is one person I should be listening to right now, it's him.

He pulls again, but I don't move. Because Elian is still standing there. Still wearing his hockey jersey like he'd walked straight out of the rink and accidentally wandered into a massacre. The white collar is soaked in blood, and my stupid brain immediately decides to panic over the wrong thing.

Please don't let it be his.

Which is ridiculous because there is literally a dead man at my feet and somehow my biggest concern is whether one annoyingly attractive hockey player has been shot.

He isn't looking at the body.

He isn't looking at the officers rushing into the building, He's looking at me, Calmly. Like none of this surprises him. Like he already knew tonight would end this way. My pulse starts doing things that should honestly be illegal. Don't smile.

Please don't—

As if on cue, the corner of his mouth lifts, just a little though, not enough for anyone else to notice, enough for me.

And somehow that tiny smile terrifies me more than the gun in my hand ever could because Elian Caldwell only smiles when he's already decided something.

He starts walking toward me. Which is creepy, because he's not rushing, not panicking. He's just…. walking. The room could collapse around him and I genuinely think he'd apologize for stepping over the rubble.

When he reaches me, he gently slips the gun from my numb fingers. I don't even realize I'm still holding it until it's gone. His fingers brush mine for barely a second before he folds my hand closed, almost like he's trying to erase the weight of the weapon from my palm.

My throat tightens.

"El..."

He looks down at me with those grey eyes. That infuriating composure that made me want to kiss him and strangle him in equal measure over the last five months.

"Run, little witch." He says calmly.

Just one sentence, the longest one he's willingly said to me all night. And somehow it's still nowhere near enough.

"What?" I whisper, staring at him. "What are you doing?"

He doesn't answer, of course he doesn't, talking has never exactly been his favorite hobby. And it's not going to be now.

The sharp click of boots striking marble echoes through the room before voices begin shouting over each other.

"FBI!"

"Nobody move!"

"Weapons down!"

People in tactical gear flood the lounge, surrounding every exit with frightening precision.

My stomach drops, No. No, no, no. This isn't right. This isn't how this was supposed to—

"Elian Caldwell."

A woman's voice cuts through everything.

"You are under arrest for the murder of—"

I don't hear the rest. Because Elian calmly places the gun in front of him, my gun that has green stamps on it. The gun I fired.

Then, without the slightest hesitation, he lifts his hands.

"No." The word leaves my mouth before I even realize I've spoken.

"What are you doing?" I shove at his shoulder hard enough to make any normal person stumble. He barely moves. "El, stop."

He doesn't, instead the officers step forward, snapping the cuffs around his wrists. The loud clink fills the quiet air. Causing something inside me to crack.

"He didn't do it!" I shout before anyone can drag him away. "You're arresting the wrong person!"

"Navira."

The warning comes from behind me. I ignore it, like everyone else is ignoring me.

"It wasn't him!" I scream, my voice breaking as I throw myself in front of Elian. "I pulled the trigger! I was the one who—"

Strong arms wrap around my waist before I can finish. Causing me to kick, twist, fight and claw with my manicured nails. But to no avail.

"Let me go!" I yell, thrashing hard enough to nearly drag both of us to the floor. "Let me go!"

Nobody listens.

Nobody ever listens.

I wrench one arm free and stumble toward Elian again, grabbing the front of his bloodstained jersey before they can push him into the cruiser.

"You can't do this to me," I whisper, and for the first time in years, my voice sounds small.

"So tell them."

He looks at me, his expression softening just enough to hurt. Then, with those handcuffed wrists, he gently removes my fingers from his jersey.

The door slams shut, the engine starts, the car pulls away. And I stand there watching the taillights disappear into the darkness until they're nothing but two tiny red dots.

The agency raised me. Fed me. Trained me. Turned me into the woman standing in a full of blood, wishing with every broken piece of herself that she could take back a single bullet.

I always thought that if the day ever came when I had to choose between the agency and anyone, I'd never hesitate.

Turns out I was spectacularly wrong.

Because somewhere between pretending to fall for Elian Caldwell, jumping on him in front of an entire hockey arena like an absolute lunatic, leaving him green candy and sticky notes on his locker, and convincing myself it was all part of the mission...

I forgot which parts were fake.