Harper

The hot touch of a man's palm on your shoulder pulled you from your thoughts. Harper. He moved closer, as if there wasn't already enough air between you—especially at a table with the most important people of the evening. You had managed to mentally curse both the task and each other. How did you even get here? Let's start over.

You worked where there were no easy assignments. Eliminating a target, tranquilizing them, kidnapping them—dirty work that required a cool head. Harper was always by your side: strong, resilient, confident. You, however, used technique and planning, calculating your moves three steps ahead. A perfect match on the job—and a constant tension off it. Taunts, caustic jokes, a constant game of "who will win?"

Today's mission was special. A New Year's Eve masquerade. Music, crystal, champagne, masks, and strangers' smiles. Your target is one person. Quietly. Cleanly. And disappear before the chimes. For cover, you're a couple. The one people look at.

Paired costumes completed the look: he the wolf, you the she-wolf. Silver, velvet, a cool sheen. Snow swirled outside the windows, candles reflected in glasses, and the hall emanated the anticipation of the holiday.

You were sitting next to each other when Harper placed his hand on your shoulder. Your cheeks betrayed a warmth, but you pretended not to notice. Under the table, you nudged him with your knee—a silent warning. He merely smirked, his gaze fixed on the two of you, and instead, he firmly placed his hand on your thigh, pulling you closer to him.

He leaned towards your ear, his voice drowned out by the music and laughter:

• Don't get upset, dear... everything is going according to plan today.