Wanted : by Her

Chapter Four: What I Don’t Say Aloud

Celine’s POV

4:11 a.m.

I used to believe in clear lines.

Good and bad. Criminal and law. Right and wrong.

Then came the night I stopped believing in anything that simple.

I haven’t spoken about it since.

Not to my unit.

Not to Romero.

Not even to the agency shrink they forced me to sit with, two months after it happened.

Because how do you explain it?

That something inside you shattered in a room full of blood and glass.

That everything you are — the badge, the discipline, the loyalty — started to rot the moment his name appeared in that report.

Ares Montecillo.

I remember reading it.

Typed at the top of the page.

So casual. So detached.

Like it didn’t mean anything.

But it did.

I folded the paper. Buried the photo evidence. Hid the real reason I volunteered for the case.

Because if anyone knew what happened that night — what I saw, what I heard — they’d pull me off the investigation before I could even put my boots on.

Too close, they’d say.

Too emotional.

They wouldn’t be wrong.

But they’d never understand.

This isn’t just about justice.

It’s about the unfinished sentence that still echoes in my skull.

The blood trail I still see when I close my eyes.

The promise I made when I was standing in the dark, heart hammering, hands shaking, with a gun I didn’t fire.

He doesn’t know what he took from me.

He doesn’t know what I remember.

Not yet.

I pressed my palms into the sink until my knuckles turned white.

“You’re not falling for him,” I whispered to the glass. “You’re falling into the trap.”

I stared at my own reflection like it owed me an explanation.

Because something about him still clung to my skin — the scent of him, the heat of his hand at my waist, the sound of my name in his mouth like it meant something.

I hated it.

I hated him.

I had to.

Because if I let this become anything else — if I let myself believe that connection, that tension, that twisted spark meant something — then I lose.

He wins.

And the woman I failed to protect stays forgotten in a file drawer.

No.

This is not a love story.

This is a bullet waiting for the right target.

This is a reckoning two years overdue.

This is the part where he gets what he deserves.

Not the part where I blush.

Not the part where I break.

Whatever this feeling is — this heat in my throat, this ache in my chest when he walks away — it isn’t love.

It’s the warning before I finally end him.

And if I have to fake indifference, flirt back, step into his world and let him think he’s pulling me under...

Then fine.

Let him believe it.

Let him think he’s winning.

Because when I put the cuffs on him — when I remind him what justice feels like —

I want to see the look in his eyes when he realizes:

I was never his.

I was just getting close enough to finish what he started.

I’ve read his file a hundred times. Memorized every target, every escape, every smirk caught by security cam.

Ares Montecillo.

Infamous thief. Master manipulator. Weaponized charm. Classified as non-lethal but emotionally lethal? That part they skipped.

He’s good at pretending things matter. Good at turning attention into affection.

That’s what he’s doing to me.

It has to be.

Because the second I start to believe he means any of it — the glances, the softness in his voice, the dance — I’m screwed.

I didn’t survive this long by being easy to fool.

And I won’t let him be the one who does it.

I walked across my apartment like the floor was made of glass, careful not to touch the photo he left. Like it might burn.

But the worst part?

It already did.

It burned me the second I realized I had memorized the way he looked at me before he disappeared.

Like he was saying goodbye.

Like he was waiting for me to follow.

And I did.

Not because I’m weak.

But because I want to see him break.

I want him to feel what I felt the night I lost everything.

I want him to look me in the eyes and understand what it means to lose control.

To beg for time that won’t come.

To realize no one’s coming to save you.

That’s why I’m still in this.

Not because of the way he smiles.

Not because of the way he says my name like a secret.

But because he has no idea what he cost me.

And when I finally tell him…

I want to see the smile fall from his lips.

By 6 a.m., I was done feeling.

No more replaying his voice in my head.

No more staring at the damn photo like it meant something.

No more questioning myself.

This isn’t a mistake.

It’s strategy.

Ares isn’t just a thief — he’s a narcissist with a taste for danger and a god complex to match. He thinks he’s untouchable. Irresistible.

So I’ll let him believe that.

I’ll let him think I’m slipping.

Let him think I’m caught in the game.

Let him think he’s winning.

And when he steps close enough to taste the victory?

That’s when I’ll strike.

I opened my encrypted tablet and started typing. Fast. Cold. Focused.

Bait location: prepped.

Movement pattern: predictable.

Timing: mine.

The message wasn’t for HQ. Not this time.

This was for me.

Because I’m done chasing shadows.

Done flinching when he looks at me like I’m something he wants instead of something that could end him.

He doesn’t get to want me.

He gets to fear me.

When I finally stood, the sun was creeping through my blinds. A clean slate. A perfect lie.

I put on my jacket. Slicked back my hair. Covered the softness in my face with steel.

Let him come.

Let him flirt.

Let him reach for something that was never his.

Because the next time we meet, I’ll smile right back at him...

…while leading him straight into the trap.