A First Glimpse

Some stories announce themselves loudly.  They arrive with genre labels, clear heroes, and tidy expectations.

This one didn’t.

This story I've been working on lately crept up on me sideways.  It's equal parts romantic comedy, character study, and a problem of my own making.  At its center are two people who never should've met, and who would most likely insist at great length, that the meeting was a mistake.

Killian is an assassin with a rathe specific set rules and a disdain for gaudy decor.

Lark is a thief who treats rules more as suggestions.  They're sometimes useful, ignorable at other times.

They collide because of a theft.

They continue colliding because neither of them is willing to yield ground.

They absolutely do not intend to fall in love.

This isn't a sleek romance, it's inconvenient and occasionally ridiculous.  It's about control meeting chaos, about certainty rubbing against improvisation.  It's about what happens when two people see the world in different ways and refuse to look away.

The humor comes from their friction.  From the moral lectures delivered at the worst possible moments.  From situations that escalate because someone refuses to admit they care.  There's tenderness, too, often where neither character expects it.

I didn’t want to write an assassin who is secretly soft in obvious ways, or a thief who is punished for being clever and alive.  I wanted them sharp-edged.  Competent and frustrating.  They should be capable of change, but only when it costs them something.

In short, I wanted them to misbehave.

Over the coming weeks, I’ll be sharing glimpses of this story here in the form of short scenes, moments of collision, pieces that reveal who these two are when no one else is watching.  Think of them as lantern-lit snapshots rather than a straight path forward.

I feel like they see me and go "Nah, we're good."  Should I be insulted?

For now, here’s a first taste.

Killian’s gaze drifted around the study, lingering on the candles that were slumped over in their holders, their wax crawling down polished surfaces like surrender.

Opening his arms he gestured vaguely.  “This is the problem.  The candles.  There’s too many and no restraint.”  Killian’s eyes flicked to the baby.  “You’ll want to have that little one raised somewhere with better taste.”

Killian stopped mid-thought and blinked.  His brow furrowed, his mouth tightening as if he’d opened the wrong mental drawer.  He tapped his finger against his temple once.  Twice.  “We’ve gotten off track.”

Lord Whitcombe nodded so hard his wig shifted.

Killian absentmindedly paced a step, then sapped his fingers.  “Ah!  Yes, that’s it!”

Lord Whitcombe’s breath hitched.

“I was supposed to kill you,” Killian said, using a tone that one uses to mention a missed appointment.  “There was a reason, now what was it?  Bribery, extortion…naming a racehorse after your mother without asking her permission.  It lost badly.”  He paused, thinking, then shrugged.  “Your mother was very upset.  She even underlined things.  I never get underlines!”

“My—?”  Lord Whitcombe croaked.

“She hired me.  Said you lost your moral spine and your sense of proportion.”  His gaze slid back to the globe in the corner.  He sighed.  “At the time I thought she meant politics.”

A beat passed. Then another.

Killian’s eyes returned to Lord Whitcombe and then to the baby, happily chewing on its own fist.

If you enjoyed this glimpse, there’s more to come. The rules are sharp. The thief is sharper. And neither of them is prepared for what happens next.