Page 1 of Lady and the Hitman

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To: Alpha Mail

From: Zara Hughes

Subject:I want to be hunted.

Message:

Someone dangerous. Someone who doesn’t ask.

I want to feel like I’m not supposed to be there.

Like I said the wrong thing, and now he’s here to make me regret it.

I don’t want names. I don’t want kindness.

Just a man who doesn’t give a damn that I hate everything he stands for.

Tall. Dark. Handsome. Strong enough to toss me around.

One night.

Make me shut up.

–Z

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There was something humiliating about climaxing to a man who didn’t exist.

My skin was still hot when I pushed the sheets off my thighs. My breath, uneven. I stared at the ceiling like it might shame me back to reality. Moonlight pooled across the wooden floor in my bedroom, soft and ghostly, and I felt like someone else entirely.

I had used my fingers. Slow at first, then rougher, the way I imagined he would be. Whoever he was. The man I’d invented and summoned in the dark. The man I wrote to like a woman who'd lost her mind.

Dangerous. Uncompromising. Strong enough to bruise.

He didn’t say “please.” He didn’t ask if I liked it. He just took—with those rough hands and that unreadable mouth. He dragged me against a wall, told me I was too mouthy for my own good, and made me pay for every article I’d ever written.

And I came—hard.

To that.

I should’ve felt sick.

Instead, I rolled over, pulled my tank top back down, and reached for the notebook on my nightstand.

There was always a list.

Topics. Outrage. Fodder for the flame.

In the morning, I’d write about the defense budget expansion and the new data on military recruitment in underfunded Southern schools. I’d touch on gendered propaganda in the wake of the latest drone strike. I’d make sure every word was sharpened to a knife-edge.

Because this was my job.

My purpose.

I didn’t just write opinion pieces. I shaped national conversations. My column, “State of Her Union,” had been reposted by every major liberal publication in the country. Young girls sent me emails from Ivy League dorms. Older women thanked me for making them feel less alone in their rage.