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“Oh my god,” I said. “It is you.”

He looked away for half a second, and that tiny movement shifted his torn collar. That was when I saw it. The skin at his throat. A dark mark curling out from beneath the fabric. Faint, not fully surfaced, but clear enough to know what it was.

My stomach dropped. “Oh.”

He went still.

I laughed once, sharp and ugly. “You like me. But you have a mate.”

His fingers tightened against his thigh.

“That’s disgusting.”

He leaned forward quickly, then stopped with a hard wince, hand flying to his ribs. Pain dragged him down before intimidation had a chance.

“She hasn’t chosen me,” he said.

I froze.

“What does that mean?”

“It means that if she knew what I was, she would do the smart thing.”

“Reject you?”

His silence answered that. Something twisted under my ribs. I knew the stories. Everyone did. Mate rejections broke people in ways time rarely fixed.

“Because you’re an assassin?”

“Yes. No.”

“Because you’re psychotic?”

His mouth curved. Of course I was attracted to the ultra-dangerous, crazy assassin. Unfortunately, that tracked for me.

“So it’s really you,” I whispered. “The masked one. The boogeyman.”

A little humor touched his mouth. “Boogeyman is acceptable.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Yes.”

“And mated.”

“The mark exists. The bond isn’t yours to worry about.”

“That is absolutely something a man with a secret mate would say.”

“I’m not trying to make you the other woman,” he snapped. The anger in his voice hit somewhere soft.

“Then why the mask?” I asked.

“If you see my face, you can describe me. If you can describe me, you become useful to people who should never know your name.”

“I already know enough.”

“You know a mask. A rumor. Rumors are hard to kill but easy to deny.”