They pulled up to his place. Lights low. A warm glow through the windows.
She stepped inside and instantly smelled garlic and herbs.
"You cooked?" she asked, surprised.
He shrugged. "You like pasta."
Her heart did a weird thing—kind of like a skip. Then a stumble. Then maybe a little jump.
"Wow. You're trying really hard to be irresistible tonight."
He was already pulling off his hoodie, revealing a white tank underneath that clung in all the right places.
"I don't have to try, baby."
Viola groaned. "You really were raised on arrogance, huh?"
"French toast and confidence, sweetheart."
Dinner was perfect. Viola couldn't lie—he'd nailed the pasta. Rich, garlicky, just enough spice. She was two bites from declaring him officially dangerous when he brought out wine and cheesecake.
Now she was suspicious.
"You're trying to seduce me," she said around a forkful of dessert.
Mack leaned back, lazy grin stretching across his face. "Trying?"
She smirked. "You're the worst."
"You're the one wearing my shirt. In my kitchen. Eating food I made for you." He stood and walked behind her slowly, brushing her shoulder with his fingers as he passed. "Looks like I'm doing alright."
Her breath hitched—just slightly—as his hand drifted to her neck, his thumb brushing her jaw.
Then—
Bang. Bang. Bang.
A knock. Sharp. Urgent. At the front door.
They froze.
Viola looked up at him. "You expecting someone?"
"No."
His body shifted in an instant—from relaxed and playful to cold and alert. That calm, lethal energy she'd only seen in flashes… was fully awake now.
Mack moved to the door, checking the small security cam screen built into the side wall.
His jaw locked. "Stay here."
"Mack—"
"Viola," he growled low. "Please."
She went still.
He opened the door.
On the other side stood a bruised, frantic young man—no older than twenty—holding his side where blood seeped through a shirt torn at the hem.
"Boss," the guy rasped. "I didn't know where else to go. They found me."
Mack didn't hesitate. He caught the guy just as he swayed and went limp.
Viola was on her feet, ignoring Mack's "stay back" as she rushed for a clean towel and a glass of water.
"Who is he?" she asked, pressing the towel into his wound.
"One of mine," Mack said, his voice dark. "From a newer unit."
"From what, Mack?"
He looked at her.
And she knew—deep in her bones—this night just changed everything.
- - - - - - - - - - - -
Viola stood there frozen, a damp cloth in her hand, her eyes locked on the bloodied young man now laid out on Mack's long leather couch.
Mack had already ripped the man's shirt open and was patching him up with quiet precision. His shoulders were tense, movements sharp—but not unkind.
Viola approached slowly, still in his shirt, her bare legs chilled from the tile floor. She crouched next to him and gently pressed the wet cloth to the young man's forehead. He groaned but didn't wake.
Silence pulsed between them for a beat too long.
She finally broke it. "You going to tell me what the hell that was?"
Mack didn't look at her at first. He stayed focused, wrapping gauze like he'd done it a hundred times. Maybe more.
Then: "He's part of my team. One of the new recruits. They were ambushed on a clean-up job. Someone was waiting."
Viola's voice was quiet. "A clean-up job?"
He exhaled through his nose, jaw clenching like it hurt.
"I'm not just a businessman, V. The companies—the security firms, the investments—they're legit. But I also have a private task team. Quiet work. We catch people others can't. The kind that fall through the cracks. Smugglers. Traffickers. Arms dealers." His eyes flicked to hers. "Sometimes… bad people need to disappear."
Viola stared.
Not shocked. Not running.
Just watching him—like she was trying to see the man beneath the muscles and the Glock cap and all the careful calm.
"You kill them?" she asked, voice steady.
"Sometimes," he said.
"And you thought I'd run if I knew that?"
"I was afraid you'd look at me differently," Mack said, finally meeting her eyes fully. "Like I was a monster."
She tilted her head. "You're not."
His brows lifted slightly.
"You're brutal. And protective. And kind. That's not the same as a monster." She turned to dip the cloth again and leaned closer to the injured guy. "He's safe because of you. That's not something I'd ever run from."
Something shifted behind Mack's eyes. Like something tight had loosened in his chest—and it was so raw, so real, it made her breath catch.
"You don't have to protect me from this, Mack. I'm not glass."
A beat of silence passed.
Then he reached out, fingers threading through her messy bun, gently tilting her head toward him.
"You're not glass," he murmured. "You're fire."
And he kissed her—slow and deep and thankful—right there beside the bleeding man on his couch.
They pulled apart only when the guy stirred and groaned again.
Viola smirked. "Guess we should finish saving him before we make out."
Mack grinned. "Good point. But afterward—"
"Yeah?"
"I'm not done kissing my fire."