Page 10 of Wraith (Deviant Assassin #1)

Wild

C hrist!

The little fucker bit the shit out of me. I run my bloody hand under the water and scrub it with the antibacterial soap from the first-aid kit. By the time we arrived at the office, the bleeding had stopped. But the holes between my thumb and forefinger have swollen and my hand throbs painfully.

That feral beast bit me so deep it looks like two tiny volcanoes.

But even that attack shows calculation. Everything about Kiera Blaque is deliberate. Two years of surveillance reports, and I'm no closer to understanding what drives her—or why I care more about that than finding her husband.

I wrap it with gauze, eager to get into the interrogation room. It's my first lead on Wraith in the five years I've been chasing him. I'm pissed at my grandmother—who's currently not pleased with me either—brought my partner and her longtime family friend's grandson, Colton, into the mix.

Grandmother expects results from her investment in my FBI career. Intelligence gathering, not personal obsessions with surveillance targets.

But right now, the woman in the other room waiting for me has my full attention. I'll deal with kiss-ass Colton later.

Taping the gauze in place, I clean up the mess, then slide the kit back into its spot on a shelf next to the sink. I push a strand of my long blond hair behind my ear while checking my appearance in the mirror to make sure there aren't any stray blood droplets.

The hair Grandmother hates. The tattoos she disapproves of. How much of my undercover persona became who I really am?

I should have cut my hair by now, but it's only been a day since I wrapped up my undercover assignment and I haven't had time. Besides, I like it longer than the expected high and tight cut.

Two years living like a criminal, and coming back to bureau standards feels like putting on a costume that doesn’t fit.

Kiera has my full attention the instant I enter the observation room. I'm drawn to the two-way mirror as I take in her beauty. My forehead lowers to press against the glass as the fingers of my injured hand press against the smooth surface—reaching for her.

Five years of case files. Two years of active surveillance. When did finding Blade Resnik become secondary to understanding every expression that crosses her face?

She's pulled her long blonde hair into a knot at the top of her head.

The silky tresses no longer hide the fucking man-eating ferret wrapped around the back of her neck.

Strands hang down, caressing her high cheekbones.

Anger brightens her amber eyes. She's pissed as hell at me; not only for arresting her but also for putting her poor baby Boo—her words—in the position of fighting for his life.

I've memorized every angle of that face from surveillance photos. I can predict her micro-expressions before she makes them. That's not professional expertise—that's obsession.

Yet she isn’t behaving as I expect. She remains composed.

"Wilder, are you going to stare at her all night, or do you plan on doing your job?" My partner's grating voice interrupts my thoughts, but I can't tear my gaze away from her. "Or should I handle it while you stand here drooling like a dumbass?"

I react instinctively, grabbing his arm as he reaches for the door handle. He's not questioning her.

She's mine.

Mine to investigate. Mine to profile. Mine to... what? Two years of surveillance reports, and I still can't classify what she is to me.

"Wait here," I say, my voice gruff, so I clear my throat. He snickers, but my glare shuts him down. "Something you want to say, Colton?"

He raises his hands in surrender before retreating into his phone as I snatch the file out of his hands, my teeth bared, then shut the door behind me.

Grandmother planted me in the FBI to gather intelligence, not to get personally involved with targets. But after twenty-four months of watching Kiera Blaque, the lines have blurred beyond recognition.

The stark interrogation room, lit by a single fluorescent bulb—so cliché—casts harsh shadows across the walls. Her amber eyes look right through me as I toss the file on the table, smooth a hand over my tie and settle into the hard plastic chair across from her.

Leaning forward, I rest my arms on the table, clasping my fingers together. Her eyes flick to the stark white bandage on my hand, before locking on mine, but she says nothing. No apology for her vicious rodent's hand mangling seems to be coming soon.

Fucker probably gave me rabies.

But even that attack was calculated. Everything about her is deliberate, measured. She's not the innocent the file suggests.

There's intelligence in her eyes, a hidden fire behind her facade. I want to crack her control and force her to react. What will it take to break her composure? To bend her to my will?

What would she do if I put her against the wall and wrapped my hand around her slender throat?

Jesus. This is supposed to be professional. My job is intelligence gathering, not sexual fantasies about surveillance targets.

"Thank you for coming in tonight."

An eyebrow cocks as she tilts her head. Her lip quivers momentarily, as though it's trying to form a sneer.

I'm amused when her best efforts to suppress it fail, and her face twists into the exact expression that had formed in my mind.

I swallow my triumphant chuckle at how effortlessly and swiftly I've wrenched a response from her.

That's professional expertise, not obsession. Right?

"Thank you for coming in? Are you mental?" she scoffs. "You arrested me, in public no less, and drug me here like some kind of criminal." She leans back in her chair, sliding an arm over the back, trying to project calm. "Why?"

I press further, enjoying her struggle to contain her reaction.

It’s just one of the many games I want to play with her.

Games. Since when do FBI interrogations become games? Since when do I care more about her reactions than building a case?

"Come on, don't play the stupid little girl act. You know exactly why I brought you here."

She stiffens but quickly regains her composure.

"You can either tell me why I'm here, or cut me loose, Agent."

Agent. Not Wild, not even Wilder. She's putting distance between us, trying to remind me of my obligations. If only she knew how far I've already strayed from professionalism.

I want to keep her off balance, to wring every emotion from her. After years of staring at her picture, dreaming about her, I want to drink up every drop of emotion she spills. I want to own her.

Five years of case files. Two years of active surveillance. All to find her husband. But when did finding Blade Resnik become secondary to understanding Kiera Blaque?

With two fingers on the manila file, I slide it over the smooth metal table to her next to her rabid ferret who now sits on the table, his beady eyes watching my every move. Hissing, the mini-monster side eyes me. I bare my teeth, imagining him trussed up on a spit over a fire.

Focus. This is about Wraith. About the case. About gathering intelligence for Grandmother's organization. Not about how I've memorized every freckle on her shoulder from surveillance photos.

“Unless you can get Wraith to join us?"

I leave the question open-ended to emphasize how alone she is and how fucked she'll be if she doesn't start talking.

She runs a tongue over her plush bottom lip, and I have to force myself to look away before I do something stupid like slam her against the wall and fuck her until she forgets any man who came before me.

Christ. Professional distance, Wild. You're supposed to be investigating her, not fantasizing about claiming her.

"Who the fuck is Wraith? I told you; I haven't spoken to Blade for a very long time." She cocks her head to the side in thought. "Actually, scratch that; if I never speak to the bastard again in my lifetime, it'll be too soon."

Her hostility toward her husband is genuine. My surveillance confirms that. But why does hearing her dismiss him make satisfaction curl in my chest?

If she would stop saying fuck, maybe my pants wouldn't be getting tighter by the second.

I shove one hand in my pants pocket to hide my growing semi and try to forget about how many times over the years of surveillance I've imagined subduing her sassy mouth by shoving my cock down her throat.

Images of her full red lips wrapped around my dick try to distract me, but I clear my throat.

This is the problem. I stopped being objective about her months ago. Maybe longer.

"Never bullshit a bullshitter, Mrs. Reznik. We both know your husband is Wraith."

At the word husband, her jaw ticks. She really hates Reznik, but the fact he's a notorious assassin doesn't faze her.

Her lack of fear plays right into my hands.

I've been in situations like this before.

Kiera's loyal to a fault, and in the end, people like her will always choose the person they have a past with.

It doesn't matter how much water lies under the bridge.

She'll lead me to Wraith. I feel it in my gut.

Or maybe I just want to believe she'll lead me to him because it gives me a reason to keep watching her. Keep being near her.

Her strength and beauty tempt me to break her and leave her breathless and begging. I've spent so long studying every detail of her life, trying to figure out what could have made Blade Reznik leave this goddess behind.

Maybe he can't handle strong women. Didn't crave the challenge of taming her like I do.

Taming her. Listen to yourself. You're supposed to be an FBI agent, not a stalker developing an obsession with your surveillance target.

The door swings open, and Sinski swaggers in.

Kiera has gained the attention of none other than the FBI's director of Special Activities.

His bulbous nose and red cheeks coupled with his white hair and goatee give him the appearance of a youngish Saint Nick.

Even with his slender frame. I always expect him to grab his stomach and toss out a jolly laugh when he smiles at me.

Right now, there's zero chance of that happening as he glares at me from under white, bushy eyebrows, before turning to Kiera, directing a tight smile her way.

Sinski's intervention means I've crossed a line. He can sense my lack of objectivity. If he reports this to Grandmother...

"Ms. Blaque," he says with a nod, smile still in place.

"You're free to leave." He waves a hand toward the door like he's Vanna White, his neck turning red with his frustration.

He points to Colton, who stands just outside the door jamb.

"Agent Merrick will show you to the exit. Have a pleasant day."

I bite my cheek to keep from growling at the thought of Colton being in Kiera's space for more than a minute. Before she can get out the door, Sinski turns to me with a scowl.

"When are you going to cut that damn hair?"

The hair Grandmother hates. The tattoos she disapproves of. The undercover persona that went too deep. How much of who I've become is rebellion against her expectations, and how much is losing myself in this case?