Chapter Seven — Fire Before Midnight
763 Words
The air in the penthouse shifted the moment the plan was set.
Midnight. Blood. Strategy.
And yet—neither of them moved toward the door.
Anthony’s smile lingered, slow and dangerous, his gaze locked on Poppy as if the mission had already faded into the background.
“Of course I’m in,” he said, voice low. “But we still have time.”
Time.
It felt heavier now.
Poppy stepped closer, her eyes glinting with something playful, something bold.
“Time for what?” she asked softly.
Anthony didn’t answer.
He simply pulled her in.
The kiss wasn’t gentle—it was charged, immediate, the kind that carried everything they hadn’t said aloud. Heat flared between them, fast and undeniable, as if the tension from days of watching, chasing, testing had finally snapped.
His hands moved along her waist, firm but controlled, like he was still measuring her—still deciding where the line was.
Poppy didn’t give him the chance.
In one swift movement, she shifted her weight and pushed him back onto the bed.
Anthony landed with a quiet breath of surprise, his eyes darkening instantly as he looked up at her.
“Well,” he murmured, a hint of amusement threading through his voice, “that’s new.”
Poppy straddled him, slow and deliberate, her movements confident, unhurried. There was no hesitation in her, no uncertainty—just intention.
“Revenge,” she whispered, her lips curving. “I think I earned it.”
Anthony’s hands came to her hips instinctively, gripping just enough to feel her, not enough to stop her.
“You’re playing with fire, little assassin,” he said, voice rougher now. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
She leaned down, her lips brushing his—barely there.
“I don’t play,” she murmured. “I win.”
That was all it took.
Anthony’s control cracked—not completely, but enough.
He pulled her down into a deeper kiss, slower this time, more deliberate. It wasn’t about urgency anymore. It was about feeling—learning the rhythm of each other, the balance between control and surrender.
The room seemed to shrink around them.
Outside, the city moved. Inside, time stalled.
Their movements became a quiet negotiation—push and pull, challenge and answer. Poppy refused to be led, and Anthony refused to fully yield, and somewhere in between, something sharper formed.
Not dominance.
Not submission.
Equality.
Dangerous in its own way.
“You’re trouble,” he murmured against her skin at one point, his voice softer now, less guarded.
“You like trouble,” she replied without missing a beat.
He didn’t deny it.
What followed wasn’t rushed.
It unfolded slowly, like a fire building—heat layering over heat, tension deepening instead of breaking. Every touch carried intent. Every breath felt heavier than the last.
Anthony’s hands traced her like he was memorizing her—learning her reactions, the way she moved, the way she refused to be predictable. Poppy answered in kind, matching him, challenging him, never letting him take full control.
It wasn’t about winning anymore.
It was about connection.
And that made it far more dangerous.
Later, when the room finally stilled again, the world came rushing back in.
The city lights.
The mission.
Midnight.
Poppy lay beside him, her breathing slower now, her body still close to his.
Anthony didn’t move away.
For once, neither of them did.
He turned his head slightly, studying her in the quiet.
“You’re distracting,” he said.
She smirked faintly, eyes half-closed.
“You’re welcome.”
A pause.
Then, softer—
“We should go soon.”
Anthony nodded, but didn’t move yet.
Not immediately.
Instead, he reached for her hand, his fingers brushing lightly against hers—an unspoken gesture, brief but real.
“Belluti won’t know what hit him,” he said.
Poppy’s eyes opened fully now, sharp again, focused.
“No,” she replied. “He won’t.”
She pushed herself up, already shifting back into the assassin he had first met—controlled, precise, unreadable.
But something had changed.
Not gone.
Just… layered beneath the surface.
Anthony watched her for a second longer before standing, the shift in him just as clear.
From desire—
To war.
“Midnight,” he said.
Poppy nodded.
“Midnight.”
And as they prepared to step back into violence, into strategy, into blood—
One thing was certain.
Whatever had started between them in shadows and danger…
Had just become something far more difficult to walk away from.
- Writer
