Page 7

Phantom

I f anyone asked, I’d be the first to admit I had no fucking idea what a healthy human family was supposed to be like. My own parents kicked me out of the nest as soon as I could walk, which was normal for abominations. When you were a hated species everyone wanted to hunt, kids were a liability.

Besides, an abomination who couldn’t survive on their own since early childhood wasn’t likely to survive at all.

So no, I didn’t know how loving human families behaved, and yet even I noticed there was something horribly wrong in the Ashford-Kingsley household. It threw me, how angry and forlorn Barbara looked when her mother offered to arrange a talk with a therapist instead of trying to talk to her daughter herself. After she almost died.

It was fucked up.

Maybe that was why I made the stupid mistake of checking up on her under the pretext of getting my book. And why I let her keep my jacket.

Rookie mistakes, both of them. I knew very well any fraternization with a client was forbidden, and I was smart enough to know it started innocently. A smile, a few minutes spent talking, and yes, giving them your jacket when they were cold.

Well, it had to end. I wasn’t an idiot and I wouldn’t behave like one.

I growled under my breath, tearing into the raw steak that had been laid out for me. The residence was enormous, and it included separate rooms for having your breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I sat in the breakfast room, where an antique sideboard was laden with multiple breakfast choices and decorated with fresh flowers.

There was also a heavy crystal bowl filled with lollipops, bless Clarissa Ashford’s shriveled heart.

The madam herself was gone from the house, having left with her husband at half past six. From the snippets of their hushed conversation that I made out as I strolled outside the open breakfast room windows I understood she was busy at work fixing “Barbara’s mess”.

Her words, not mine.

It was now eight, and Barbara was in her dance studio, working out, while I sat here, listening intently to the natural rhythm of the house so I could detect anomalies later.

The Ashford-Kingsleys lived in style. Their household staff counted six people, including the main housekeeper, personal grooming assistants for the Mister and Missus, a cook, and two housemaids. The staff all lived in the house for better availability.

I supposed it made sense. What use was generational wealth if you couldn’t get hot cocoa delivered to your bed by a devoted servant at three a.m.?

Done with my steak, I wiped my bloody fingers on a pristine, white linen napkin and got myself a fifth cup of the insanely good coffee they had here. I had to do some more research on the family. The kosher info was in my official files, but I wanted to dig deeper, and what better sources than trashy press and social media?

Ten minutes of searching later, I managed to dig out an article that was now taken down but still lurked as a series of crappy screenshots in the depths of Reddit.

A few years ago, Mr. Kingsley’s PR team decided it was a good idea to run a piece on how great an employer he was, which included interviews with his household staff. The piece backfired horribly, because it’s impossible to boast about employing a personal groomer and come across as a nice guy.

I snorted into my coffee, reading the gushing praises the housemaids heaped on their employer for the article. He was apparently “generous”, “understanding”, and “supportive”, and it all sounded so fake. With articles like this in the press, who needed a mind manipulator to destroy the man’s career? He did a great job himself.

But judging my employer wasn’t a part of the job, so I closed the article and got up for one more cup of coffee. I knew the deadly dose for a human was somewhere around eighty-two cups, but for abominations, that limit was much higher. I indulged with a clean conscience.

Sipping on my double espresso, I scrolled some more, clicking on a few images of Barbara. She smiled in every one, either walking somewhere and waving, standing behind her father when he spoke, or dancing ballet, all graceful and innocent in pristine white.

Between those aesthetic shoots were stills from the viral video. Barbara laughing, gorging herself on food, showing the middle finger when she spoke about her father.

It was like looking at two different people. I kind of liked the mind-manipulated one better. She seemed to enjoy herself, at least. The clean, pristine Barbara looked more like a doll than a girl. She was still gorgeous, though.

Realizing I was staring at a picture of her smiling intimately into the camera as she posed in a café, I huffed at myself and put my phone away.

Bad Phantom. Don’t stare at your principal. Focus!

From my files, I knew the estate employed three gardeners and a small security team, whose resources were mainly spent on manning the gatehouse in shifts. There was an alarm system on the property, but it wasn’t in use. Overall, the security here was shitty, and it was a wonder no one had exploited it until now.

The security team should patch up the holes soon enough. I’d handed them my recommendations in the morning, pointing out all the blind spots I’d noticed. If that fucker came in again to finish the job, I’d know.

A door banged somewhere in the house, classical music mashed with a heavy beat turning up louder and louder until it boomed through the walls. Unable to resist the call of chaos in the respectable dwelling, I drained my cup and followed the music through a maze of plush-carpeted corridors and old-money wainscoting.

The door to Barbara’s studio was closed, and I had too much self-respect to peep through the keyhole, so I went outside and climbed a tree to look at her through the wall of windows. I justified this by wanting to make sure she wasn’t a danger to herself, though I kind of knew it was a bullshit excuse.

I just wanted to see her dance, especially if she did it to such rebellious, blaring music that was so unlike the feeble piano plonking I associated with ballet.

In the large, well-lit room, she was a whirlwind of graceful, explosive movements. Her lithe body clad in leggings and a black top twirled in tight, dazzling pirouettes only to stop and burst up in a violent jump or drop to the floor, her legs stretched open, her spine bent in a graceful arch.

She followed the harsh beat of the music that boomed out through the open windows, growing faster and heavier even as the classical notes became shriller. I watched, mesmerized, the beat reverberating in my ribs. She flung some hair that escaped her bun away from her cheek and rolled, coming into a seamless split, then jumped up to her feet in an acrobatic display that made me want to clap.

Sweat poured down her neck, soaking her top, and still, she twirled faster, her legs coming high, arms working gracefully, before she twisted her entire body and contorted into a shape more eerie than graceful, her fingers splayed wide, face dark and angry. As the tune grew faster, her movements lost their grace, becoming violent and sharp as she attacked shadows and turned in a dizzy whirl, madness in her eyes.

It was beautiful.

When the music stopped, so did she, her shape a dark slash in the middle of the bright, airy room. She stood there, her chest heaving, face glowing from exertion.

I should have looked away then. I really should have.

When she raised her top without a hint of self-consciousness, I jerked. I saw her lean stomach and the undersides of her breasts. A small beauty mark dotted the left one. She didn’t wear a bra.

She wiped her face with her top, flashing me with a clear view of her tight nipples. I fell off the tree.

My fall made a horrible racket, impossible not to notice. I crushed right into a huge, pedantically manicured bush that, as it turned out, had thorns.

“Who’s there?” came her panicked shout.

I groaned, disentangling myself from the thorny bush that, thankfully, didn’t even scratch me. The door flew open, and Barbara shot out of the house. I just managed to roll out onto the grass, landing flat on my back, when she stood over me, her eyes dark, face red.

“What are you doing?” she asked, her foot tapping angrily mere inches from my face.

“A penetration test,” I said without thinking, eyeing her foot with unhealthy curiosity.

If I told her the truth, would she kick me? Fuck , did that thought make me tingle. I liked a feisty woman—maybe a little too much. A woman like that was fun to wrestle with until I reduced her to needy whimpers.

What a horribly wrong thought to have right now.

“A pene…” She trailed off, her face growing redder, eyes darker. “Bullshit. You were peeping! What the hell?!”

“If I admit to it, will you get violent? Oooh, will you kick me?” I asked with mock excitement, stretching comfortably on the grass while she seethed.

She paused, some of her fury dissipating as she regarded me with incredulity. It seemed my manner confused her, and rightly so. This wasn’t how I was supposed to behave, but when I saw a hot, angry woman, I couldn’t help but play.

She shook her head.

“I’m wearing pointe shoes,” she said, gesturing at her feet. “You wouldn’t even feel it. Why did you watch me? I thought I was alone.”

I sat up, wondering how to answer that. She pursed her lips and took a step back, her eyes flitting away before they stubbornly settled on my face. She seemed flustered. I knew why it was—the balance of power was askew, with me on the ground, her standing.

I leaned back on my arms and relaxed with my thighs splayed wide, looking up at her with a grin. I was comfortable down here, even more so because she wasn’t.

“You blasted that music for the entire house to hear. I came out to see what the noise was. You have to be more mindful of the people you live with, you know.”

“I have to… What? Do you even hear yourself?” She shook her head in outrage, her hands clenched into fists. “That was private! I was in my private studio, and you had no right!”

“I mean, the windows were uncovered,” I said, raising a finger, “so technically , anyone could have seen you.”

She growled. I wondered idly why she was so pissed. Did she really hate it so much that I saw her dance? It was so fucking beautiful. I wanted the whole world to see it.

Barbara stomped the grass with fury. “No, they couldn’t! You climbed a tree to peep. It wasn’t an accident.” She took a deep breath. “I’m going to report you. My mother will fire you.”

I crossed my ankle over my bent knee, wiggling my foot tauntingly. I should have stopped at that point, I knew, but a little imp sat in my brain, urging me on. The same hunger that I failed to satisfy with Jordan, and then again last night when the mind manipulator got away, reared its ugly head, demanding a meal.

“And who will protect you if I’m gone?” I inquired mildly, projecting unconcerned languor. “I am the only abomination in the employ of the Monster Security Agency. No other species can resist mind manipulation.”

She huffed quietly and rolled her eyes, her foot tapping in irritation. I grinned, an idea popping into my head. Just as she opened her mouth to argue back, I cut in.

“Besides, if anyone was harassed, it was me! I should report you and demand compensation. You flashed me! I am scarred for life! I fell off the tree because of you!”

I sat up straighter, playing up this new angle. It was true, after all. I wasn’t peeping to see her in the nude, for fuck’s sake, I just wanted to see a ballerina dance. That was far more innocent and not at all the nasty thing she made it out to be.

My accusation wasn’t received well. Barbara paled instantly, clutching the front of her top and backing away. “You… You saw that?”

I almost said “fuck”. Almost. I bit my tongue to keep it in and tasted blood, because of course, my teeth were razor-sharp. Never a good idea to bite anything I wasn’t planning to eat.

“Well, I fell off the tree at once, so I didn’t see much,” I said, backpedaling fast. “Actually… I saw nothing. Nothing at all. Pinkie promise.”

I offered her my armored pinkie in an attempt to lighten the mood. She took a deep, shaky breath, eyeing me warily. After a thoughtful pause, her forehead smoothed, her eyes gleaming with determination. The change was eerie, as if all of her anger had been wiped with a sponge, replaced by cool calculation.

The back of my head tingled. Never a good sign.

Before I could retract my hand, she extended her straight leg to bump my pinkie with the tip of her pointe shoe.

“Fine, I’ll believe you. If you do me a favor,” she said with a stern look that was utterly too cute on her pretty face.

Aha. She wanted something from me. Unfortunately, she had some good leverage. I did fuck up, and if she reported me, there would be consequences.

I groaned, rubbing my temple. “A favor. Right. Well, for your sake, I hope you’re about to ask me to be extra careful while guarding you, and not, say, pop out to get you some tampons while you ditch my protection.”

She blushed but held my gaze, crossing her arms on her chest. “And does it happen to you often? People try to ditch you? Gosh, I wonder why. It surely can’t be because you peep at them!”

Damn, if I could sweat, I would. That belligerent expression did things to me, and even though I should have grabbed onto the tattered remains of my professionalism, I fought back instead.

“Oooooh, the kitten can do sarcasm!” I mock-exclaimed, clapping in encouragement. “Report me all you want, doll. You’ll get laughed at, because I wasn’t freaking peeping. It was a penetration test, and you failed.”

She drew herself up, as straight as a stick, her eyes casting thunder. “ I failed? It’s your job to protect me! Instead, you’re… playing in the bushes!”

I realized with alarm my body got substantially warmer over the course of our argument. A nice shade of pink tinted my vision as I looked up at the furious, disheveled woman in tight clothing, who happened to be my principal I was forbidden to fuck.

It was time to stop this.

I shot to my feet and patted my butt to make sure no grass stuck to it. Barbara’s nostrils flared cutely as she shot me an irate look.

“The only favor I’m willing to perform is to guard you around the clock and follow you everywhere you go,” I said primly, putting my hands behind my back in an attempt to reclaim my lost professionalism.

For just a second, her eyes slid down my body, making the pink coloring my vision intensify. It was bad. I only saw the world in pink hues in the company of someone I was really into. My default mode was a yellowish sort of tinge, and then red when I fought or gave chase.

Abomination eyes were funny that way. They colored the world in different hues, which served as an early threat detection system, because my vision would turn red even before my brain realized I was in danger.

And it turned pink before I realized I was turned on, helping me better identify potential mates.

“I really want to kick you right now,” she said darkly, eyeing my crotch with a menacing frown.

“Don’t,” I said at once, alarmed by the influx of pink that made the world look hideously cute in my eyes. “It will make me hard.”

She looked up, eyebrows arched in disbelief.

“What did you just say?”