Ashton Carter
Thud.
The man crumpled to the floor, lifeless, as I withdrew my dagger from his chest. The final target—clean, precise, silent. Just the way I like it. I wiped the blade with the edge of his designer suit—real shame, it was a nice one—and slid it back into its holster beneath my coat.
Straightening my tie, I exhaled slowly.
Mission: complete.
And now, the only thing on my mind?
Home.
I could barely contain my excitement. Three whole weeks away—three long, bloody, hellish weeks—and finally, finally, I'd be seeing her again. My wife. My Ellie. The softness to my sharp edges. And of course, the two little tornadoes we created together—Mila and Luca. Our tiny terrorists.
As I stepped out into the cool night air, imagining Ellie's warm smile and how good she'd smell in my arms again, my phone buzzed.
Of course.
It was him.
"Boss," I answered, voice clipped and professional. "Vesper reporting. Mission accomplished."
A pause. Then his voice came through, deep and gruff. "Good. You're cleared to return home. I'll contact you when your next assignment comes in."
Vesper.
That's what they call me. A name whispered in the underworld like a prayer you don't want answered. To them, I'm a shadow. A myth. A walking death sentence with a perfect kill streak.
But not to her.
To Ellie, I'm just Ash—Ashton Carter—her sleepy, lovestruck husband who sometimes forgets the laundry and burns toast but can cradle her like she's glass.
I like being her Ash more than I've ever liked being anyone else.
Hell, I've slit a man's throat with less care than I use to undo her bra strap. But I digress.
Ellie and I have two tiny monsters. Mila, five years old, already a drama queen with more attitude than her tiny frame should allow. And Luca, two, who can cry like the world's ending when his banana breaks in half. My glorious little chaos duo.
God, I missed them.
But mostly, I missed her. Her hands, her voice, her laugh when I fall asleep in the middle of her rants. The way she says my name—Ash—like it's something worth being.
And tonight, after weeks of bloodshed, all I want is to be under the covers, tangled with my wife, making up for lost time. Slowly. Thoroughly. Repeatedly.
If the world could just give me one night of peace, I'd be the happiest damn assassin alive.
I quickly changed out of my bloodstained suit and into something a little more... domestic.
A hoodie and jeans — the unofficial uniform of tired dads and harmless husbands.
Perfect.
The thing about being an assassin is that you never really get to exist in the world. You blend into it. Stay beneath it. I've worn so many disguises I sometimes forget what my real face looks like. But this—this hoodie, this worn pair of jeans? This is as close as I ever get to feeling human.
To most people, I'm just a boring government desk guy who travels too much and avoids family reunions.
In reality?
I'm the government's sharpest blade.
Their shadow.
Their secret weapon.
I do the kind of dirty work they can't file paperwork for. Eliminating people the legal system can't touch. I've silenced monsters, ghosts, men who think themselves gods. All of it—off the record. Untraceable. Forgotten.
Even my own parents think I'm a glorified travel agent.
They just assume I have a lot of meetings in "Eastern Europe."
Only one person knows the truth.
Ellie.
I never meant to tell her. I thought I could keep that part of me separate.
But Ellie… she sees through walls. She saw right through me.
And instead of running?
She stayed.
She accepted me—bloodstains and all.
Sometimes I still wonder what I did to deserve her.
My thoughts were interrupted by the flight attendant's voice:
"Sir? Boarding pass, please."
I blinked, slightly dazed, then quickly handed over my boarding pass, passport, and the other documents. She scanned them with a practiced smile and waved me forward.
As I walked toward the boarding tunnel, I pulled out my phone for the hundredth time that day. My lockscreen glowed to life.
Her.
Her photo stared back at me — soft and warm and stunning.
Those doe-shaped hazel eyes, always wide with curiosity or mischief.
That little button nose, which she always scrunches when she's annoyed with me.
Those flushed cheeks, always glowing — even when she denies blushing.
And those lips... full, plush, rosy. God, the things I wanted to do to her.
I smiled like an idiot.
It was ridiculous how badly I missed her.
I'd taken down five highly trained men this week, crawled through sewers, jumped off a fifth-floor balcony, and poisoned a mafia heir — and yet, none of that compared to the sheer thrill of seeing Ellie again.
I wanted to kiss her senseless. Pin her to the wall. Bury my face in her neck and pretend the world didn't exist.
I felt... giddy.
Like some awkward teenager in love for the first time.
That's what Ellie did to me.
She made me stupid.
Happy.
Human.
And in a life full of shadows, she was the only thing that ever felt like daylight.
Within a few hours, I was back in my city—back where I belonged.
The moment I stepped off the plane, my heart kicked up like I was on a battlefield again. But this wasn't adrenaline from danger. No.
This was excitement. Longing.
Ellie.
I hailed a taxi the second I could and gave the driver my home address so fast I might've broken a speed record. Even that short, fifteen-minute ride felt like crawling through molasses. Every red light was an insult. Every traffic jam, a personal attack. I had taken bullets faster than this.
Finally, the car rolled to a stop in front of my house—my sanctuary, my soft place. I shoved some cash into the driver's hand (definitely overpaid, definitely didn't care) and practically jumped out.
I walked up the familiar pathway, my steps quick and light. My fingers trembled as I raised them to knock on the door, and then—
The door creaked open.
There she was.
Ellie stood in the doorway, sunlight painting her face like a dream. Her hair was pulled back in that casual way she always wore it at home, and her eyes sparkled the moment they landed on me.
"Welcome home, honey," she said softly, her voice like warm tea after a storm.
God. I could've cried.
Instead, I surged forward, desperate to kiss her—to taste her lips, to breathe her in like I'd been drowning for weeks.
Just as I was about to press my lips to hers—
"Ah! Ash! You're home??" came my mother's voice from the living room.
I froze mid-lunge like I'd been caught stealing cookies. My lips hovered near Ellie's cheek, and I awkwardly swerved and landed a quick kiss on her temple instead.
Ellie blinked, clearly confused.
I pulled back with the grace of a malfunctioning robot.
"Uh—hi, Mom!" I called out, my voice cracking just slightly.
Because nothing kills passion faster than your mom's voice echoing from the couch while you're trying to devour your wife.
Ellie covered her laugh with a cough, and I glared at her playfully.
Operation: Kiss Her Senseless — status: failed.