Chapter 3

Ashton Carter

I hate it. I repeat — I hate it.

I’m a trained assassin, for crying out loud. I've toppled crime syndicates, escaped death traps, and delivered high-level threats with a calm expression and blood on my gloves.

And yet—here I am.

Sitting in a comically tiny plastic chair.

Wearing a tiara.

Holding a neon-pink toy cup.

Pretending to sip air while playing "royal tea party" with my daughter.

This is not how I imagined my glorious homecoming.

All I wanted was to wrap myself around my wife like a koala and burrow into her soft, warm body for an entire evening. Was that so much to ask?

Apparently, yes. Yes, it was.

"So, what do you think of the taste, Miss Emily?" Mila asked in a delicate, practiced voice. She even raised her pinky. Her pinky.

Honestly, where does she get this from? The child was five but carried herself like a duchess at a Buckingham gala.

“It suits my taste, Miss Mila,” I replied blandly, still clinging to my last shreds of dignity.

She narrowed her eyes. “Not like that, Daddy! Act like a girl!”

From behind me, I heard a stifled laugh. I didn’t have to turn.

Ellie.

Oh, that cruel, gorgeous woman. Laughing at my downfall.

I cleared my throat and tried again, this time in the highest, shrillest voice I could manage without dying of shame.

“It suits my taste, Miss Mila~!”

Mila nodded approvingly, then straightened her posture. “Very well. How about a morning walk, Miss Emily?”

I internally screamed.

“Sounds delightful!” I chirped, fluttering my fingers.

“Wrong!!” Mila huffed, looking genuinely scandalized. “Royal princesses don’t walk! They ride in their horse chariots! Their gowns will get dirty!”

I blinked. “...Right. Of course. How could I forget the gown emergency.” I cleared my throat again. “How about we ride in our horse chariot, Miss Mila?”

She beamed. “Sure, Miss Emily!”

We both pranced around in slow, awkward circles — her in full princess mode, me holding the toy teacup like it was made of plutonium. If any of my colleagues saw this, I’d have to kill them.

Just as I was about to mentally plan my escape, a sweet voice rang out from the kitchen.

“Okay, okay — we’ve got to pause this royal stroll. It’s dinner time,” Ellie called.

Thank. God.

I nearly dropped to my knees in gratitude.

“Duty calls, Your Highness,” I said to Mila, handing her the tiara like I was surrendering a crown.

She took it with all the seriousness of a queen. “Indeed, Miss Emily. We shall continue after the royal feast.”

Please no.

I shuffled toward the kitchen with the energy of a war survivor.

Ellie raised an eyebrow at me as I passed her.

“How’s it going, Miss Emily?”

I shot her a look. “You are evil.”

She smirked and pecked my cheek. “But you love me.”

“Unfortunately.”

She laughed and slipped her hand into mine as we walked to the dining table. “You're a good dad, Ash.”

“I was trained to withstand torture,” I muttered. “Didn’t realize it would be glitter and imaginary scones.”

She squeezed my hand.

“And you look very cute in a tiara.”

“…Don’t push your luck.”

We sat down for dinner, and I naturally claimed the chair beside Ellie. She was still moving around, making sure everything was perfect—setting out the bowls, pouring water, wiping down a spot that didn’t need wiping. Classic Ellie.

Once she finally sat down beside me, I was ready to pounce.

Well…figuratively.

Literally? I just placed my hand on her thigh under the table.

Subtle. Smooth. Assassin-level execution.

I felt her body jolt ever so slightly in surprise, but she didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away, didn’t glare at me. Of course she wouldn’t. The whole family was seated right there — her parents, my parents, and two kids who would absolutely repeat any weird sentence they heard.

But the warmth I felt under those soft grey sweatpants?

It nearly broke me.

I kept my expression neutral, casually forking some mashed potatoes into my mouth while my thumb gently traced slow, innocent (not really) circles against her skin.

I peeked sideways.

Her cheeks were definitely turning red. She was doing her best to ignore me, acting like she wasn’t blushing to the roots of her hair. Her jaw was tight, her grip on the spoon just a little too stiff.

God, I wanted to kiss her. I wanted to scoop her up in my arms, toss her over my shoulder, and disappear upstairs like some caveman with a mission.

But fate, as always, hated me.

“So, Ash,” her father — Michael Juanes — cleared his throat and leaned forward, “how’s work treating you these days? Any promotions or raises lately?”

I froze. For just a second.

Then, slowly, I withdrew my hand and forced a tight smile.

“Work’s going good, sir. The boss is…very pleased with my performance.”

Which was true. The last mission was clean, precise, and ended with me dodging twelve bullets and a pipe bomb. The kind of job that deserved a bonus.

Not exactly dinner table material.

Michael nodded, thankfully not noticing Ellie subtly inhaling like she was trying to regulate her pulse. “That’s great. You’ve always been a brilliant man. I’m proud of the way you provide for your family.”

“Thank you,” I said, genuinely touched — and also deeply frustrated.

If only he knew that providing for this family sometimes meant hanging off helicopters or sneaking into shady arms deals in Belarus.

Across from me, Ellie cleared her throat, still looking very pink.

My mother, oblivious, smiled brightly. “Ash is always so composed. Calm, reliable. Even as a kid, he was like that.”

Ellie nearly choked on her water.

I leaned over and whispered in her ear, voice low enough so only she could hear:

“Apparently I’m calm, reliable…and extremely patient.”

She bit her lip, eyes flicking up at me—sharp, flustered, and warning all at once. If looks could kill, I’d already be six feet under, murdered by my own wife's playful glare.

I grinned and leaned closer. “Payback for the tea party,” I whispered smugly.

Her response was low and dangerous, like silk laced with daggers.

“Just wait until we get back to our room.”

I raised a brow, excitement bubbling in my chest. “Oh, I can’t wait, darling.”

We returned to our meal, pretending everything was perfectly normal. Except it wasn’t. Because under the table, my hand remained firmly on her thigh. A silent rebellion. A bold promise.

And then I got braver.

I let my fingers slowly trail upward, from her knee to the softer, warmer skin of her inner thigh. I didn’t look at her, just kept chewing my food like the perfect gentleman. But I could feel the tension in her body. She stiffened, shifted slightly, pretending to reach for the salt just to mask her movement.

Her face was scarlet. Her spoon clinked against her bowl, just slightly off rhythm. Her father looked at her for a split second but dismissed it as maybe her being flustered from the hot soup.

I, of course, decided to push my luck.

My thumb grazed the most sensitive spot near the hem of her sweatpants, and her entire body gave a subtle jolt. She let out a small breath, quickly covering it with a fake cough. I smirked down at my plate, utterly delighted.

But fate had one more plot twist waiting for me.

“Mumma! Mummaaaa!!”

A shrill whine pierced through the air, and we both turned just in time to see our two-year-old son, Luca, dramatically upending his bowl of rice onto the table like he was offering it to the gods. A perfect, sticky, globby mess.

“I no want this! I want cheesy noodles!” he wailed.

Ellie jumped up, her chair scraping the floor. “Luca! Oh my god—baby, no—!”

I sat back, hand slipping away from her thigh with a silent, mournful goodbye.

There it was.

The Assassin’s Curse.

Interrupted again.

I wiped my mouth with a napkin, watching my beautiful wife dash toward the kitchen, her hips swaying with urgency—and, let’s be honest, no small amount of unfulfilled tension.

I sighed heavily and ate my food.

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