Page 17 of Wraith (Deviant Assassin #1)

Blade

K arma’s a bitch. I’d been so sure someone was impersonating my life. I was so fucking wrong. Every damn thing about this situation is mother fucking wrong.

My research into who might be ballsy enough to play this game has left me reeling.

Again. I uncovered the overdose death of Kiera’s mother, Donna, about a month after I left for my Umber training.

The last moments of that twisted bitch couldn’t have come soon enough.

I almost killed her myself, the way she and her husband sold Kiera’s not quite developed body to the highest bidder.

As if that wasn’t enough to ruin her life; they manipulated Kiera to keep her under their control.

Dear old Donna told Kiera they had no family, and there was no one who cared or could help her; it was just another of her disgusting lies.

Her death led to Beulah and Vernie Blaque finding their deceased runaway daughter had a sixteen-year-old kid of her own.

Kiera. My fucking Kiera. They took her in as their only family and willed everything they owned to her, including their funeral home business.

She’s been running the place with the help of the manager, Justine since their death.

Is that why she kicked me to the curb? She found her actual family and didn’t need me to get her away from her tragic life anymore?

Now she’s somehow wrapped up with an FBI agent and an assassin lover?

Beyond ironic. I’m the best assassin in the world, and her lover is about to get caught by the goddamn FBI.

Well, I’ll have wasted his ass before the inept, crooked FBI agent can claim any glory.

The land surrounding the Blaque Funeral Home takes up quite a few acres, affording a wide berth between a crematorium and a mid-sized cemetery and the adjacent neighborhood Elmwood Trails.

The funeral home stands like a silent sentinel, its facade adorned with somber wreaths and polished brass plaques. A sign above the entrance reads ‘Blaque Family Funeral Home’ and I wonder about the secrets harbored within those walls as I infiltrate the main house.

What the fuck has Kiera been up to in the last eight years?

Is this how her lover, Wraith, covers his kills? Is he using her for her crematorium? What better cover than a business that deals in death?

And why is he using the nickname I gave her so long ago as his code name? Is it just another thing she took from me and gave to this mysterious lover?

My heart slams against my ribs as if trying to escape my chest.

Eight long ass years, Kiera.

Eight years since she shattered my world.

Her betrayal still cuts through me like a dull rusty knife.

One would think the pain would ebb as time passed, leaving behind a sense of curiosity and unresolved emotions.

Bullshit. I’ve gotten more pissed with every passing day.

Maybe because I’ve had so long to let it fester.

The pain, the resentment, the fucking fury.

She took my money and used it to create a life without me, without even the decency to say goodbye.

I gave her everything, and she just ran off at the first opportunity.

She’s fucking treacherous. Hell, I’m doing this Wraith mother fucker a favor by offing him before she ruins his life.

Before he meets his maker, I’m gonna make damn sure he understands what happens to men who touch my wife.

The scent of pine and petrichor become lilies and wood oil as the threshold yields to my touch, and I slip into the heart of the funeral home—an unhallowed sanctuary where the living tiptoe on the edge of eternity.

The air, thickened by whispered elegies and unshed tears of the past, clings to my skin like a shroud.

Lilies, their petals bruised and bittersweet, exhale their final breaths—a scent that mingles grief with the dust of forgotten yesterdays.

Within, shadows stir—an insidious choreography.

They stretch across the room, elongated fingers tracing secrets upon the walls.

Each crevice harbors memories—the hushed confessions of mourners, the weight of unspoken regrets.

These shadows, they’re not mere absence of light; they’re the ghosts of choices made and unmade, the specters of Kiera’s decisions.

I crouch in the viewing room, my silhouette melding with the encroaching darkness. Black-clad, I’m an executioner draped in midnight. I dance with the shadows; here to take out Wraith and make Kiera pay for using me.

My eyes adjust, recognizing the drunk manager, discerning her mask of sorrow.

She shuffles past, oblivious to my presence, the click of her high-heeled footsteps echoing like dirges.

I move through the house, inspecting, searching for signs of who this other man could be.

Taking the curved staircase, I’m careful not to touch the polished wooden banister as I ascend.

Upstairs, I find two closed doors leading to what are probably bedrooms, a door halfway open, and a bathroom.

I search that room first, checking for anything that could point me toward Wraith.

Unfortunately, it appears to be strictly for guests as there’s nothing personal on the vanity or the cupboards underneath.

However, a snarky sign hangs above the toilet stating: This is not an internet cafe. Shit and split.

That’s so Kiera. The phantom sound of her laugh fills my mind.

I move on to the door closest to me. First, I listen to any signs of life going on behind it.

Once I’m sure it’s silent, I crack the door and find the room empty.

A quick glance around clues me in that this room belongs to a performer.

Feather boas hang from hooks in the open closet.

Wigs rest on mannequin heads spread out across a windowsill and costume jewelry spills out of an open leather box on the vanity.

I glimpse a framed picture of two people who used to be family.

But someone’s missing. I know because I burned the same picture long ago.

I grab the corner, open the back, and pull it out. Sure enough, it’s bent to cut me out.

Felix.

Sadness creeps over me, settling in the place in my chest where I’ve held my rage.

He was my best friend too. I push the pain aside.

He knows what she did to me and still he’s by her side.

Went on to live this new life she created for them, probably never giving me a second thought.

The anger returns and a tick starts in my eye.

Could he be Wraith?

If he is, there’s no lover for me to kill. But my anger cools and I realize there’s no way that squeamish diva is an unsanctioned assassin.

The next door down is cracked open so I peer in.

Kiera’s room. Her bed is made meticulously and the scent of vanilla clings to the sheets.

On the dresser there’s a collection of framed photos, capturing happy times.

A stuffed animal she used to have on our window seat now sits on a high shelf, out of reach, observing her life.

She loved to curl up by the window on rainy days with a blanket and pretend to read, but more often than not, I’d find her staring out into space, one hand wrapped around the rabbit.

Tearing my gaze from the worn plush fur, I shake off the memories and assess my surroundings.

“It’s too damn orderly in here,” I mutter to myself.

It’s like she’s prepared to flee.

Does she fear Wraith?

I once promised to keep her safe. Unwanted memories chase my heels as I stride back across the room and into the hall. Retreating from the room, my mind races with the need to find Wraith and punish him for taking Kiera from me and ruining the life we were meant to have.

I’ll make them pay for all the pain and loss that eats at me. I’ll make him beg for his life.

Karma may be a bitch, but I’m the angel of death that will make sure justice is delivered to them both.