Page 4 of Huntsman

No.Nononono.

Given the distance separating us, it’s not possible that she hears me. Especially since the sharp cry is only in my head. It’s also not possible that she sees me. But I swear… I swear our gazes connect and she looks straight at me.

And her lips move to mouth,Go.

Doesn’t matter if I imagined it or not.

I go.

No one notices me racing off on my ’Busa in the chaos.

And no one’s there to hear when my throat finally unlocks and my screams are ripped away by the wind.

CHAPTER ONEThe Huntsman

NOW…

“Bring me her heart.”

I swallow a grunt.

Bring me her heart.

How cliché and… expected. Then again, there’s nothing particularly fucking original or inspiring about Abena Diallo. Yeah, as “queen” of the Mwuaji for the last nine years, she’s ruthless, with a moral compass that’s permanently pointing somewhere south and no conscience to speak of. And those are her better qualities. Still, in our world—a world where crime and murder are just appetizers to the main course of power and corruption—that’s standard operating procedure. Hell, that shit’s required.

Still…

No imagination.

“I want it done as soon as possible.” Abena spins around before striding toward the high-backed ebony chair rimmed in silver and glittering black diamonds, the top fashioned into a crown of wickedly sharp, deadly blades.

Like a throne.

She’s really leaning into the “queen” thing. The ornate chair. The black raised dais. The huge oval mirror with the ornate, gold-encrusted frame behind the “throne.” The velvet drapes pulled back to reveal a view of the Boston skyline and the gleaming waters of the harbor as moonlight hits it. The cavernous room with a cathedral ceiling of glass that invites the night sky inside.The array of weapons—swords with jeweled hilts; short daggers with gems decorating the actual blades; shields with the Mwuaji “coat of arms” mounted on the walls.

It’s overkill, if you ask me.

And hints at compensating for the lack of something. Curiosity about exactly what that deficiency could be flickers in my mind like a candle’s flame before sputtering to darkness.

Yeah, I don’t give a fuck.

As an assassin, I don’t usually question the motivation behind a kill order. I have allegiance only to myself, and if it doesn’t affect this party of one, I don’t care about the who or why someone finds themselves at the end of my gun or knife. Or whatever weapon I choose to dispatch a target.

My lone rule is no children.

But Abena isn’t commissioning the death of a child.

Just her niece. Because the woman is a threat to her crown.

See? No imagination.

She sinks down on the chair, settling her fingers on the arms, her back ramrod straight. Her gaze, as black as the chair underneath her, meets mine. If she expects me to flinch or shrink from her dark scrutiny, she’ll be disappointed. Even that flicker of lust that’s simmering just beneath the calculation doesn’t move me. Someone would need to feel curiosity, interest, or fear to do that.

Someone would need tofeel, period.

That someone isn’t me.

“This is time sensitive, and I need her dead before the week is out. How much?” she presses, crossing long legs encased in white leather.