Page 36 of Wraith (Deviant Assassin #1)

Kiera

T he fluorescent lights hum, a sterile buzz that vibrates against my skull.

My needle dips, a silver flash against the corpse’s skin, the thread a precise dance, each stitch a small defiance.

Today I can’t reach the artist’s disposition to preserve the dignity of the dead.

I’m firmly in the mentality of the monster inside me that brings death.

Not that any of the bodies on my table today are my handiwork. The ones who are, I don’t fix up.

I replay last night’s disastrous scene in my mind. Blade’s face a mask of shock, as any illusions he may have about me shattered. Who am I kidding? He made it clear he’s epically pissed at me, although I don’t know why, since he’s the asshole who walked out.

He saw the predator beneath my skin.

The memory of the danger in his gaze prickles my sense of self preservation and yet shockingly arouses. It simmered in his black eyes, too.

I should’ve been more careful. I despise him knowing my secrets, of feeling this vulnerability.

But Blade isn’t my biggest problem. If he were going to kill me, he would have done it already. It’s Wild I need to be worried about. Death at the hands of my husband is preferable to a federal prison.

A soft snuffling breaks the quiet. Boo, my constant companion, noses at my elbow, his dark eyes bright with concern. He’s a furry reminder that not all creatures are out to hurt you. I scratch behind his ears, the soft fur a welcome contrast to the coldness of the corpse.

“You think too much,” I mutter, knowing he doesn’t understand the words, but always understands my mood.

He chirps, then darts across the table, his tiny claws clicking on the steel.

Boo snatches three cotton balls and performs a clumsy juggling act Fi’s been teaching him, a ridiculous dance meant to make me smile.

He’s exceptional at making me laugh. A small smile tugs at my lips, a brief respite from the turmoil churning inside me.

“Idiot,” I laugh.

Boo puts two cotton puffs on the table and nudges them toward me with his nose, his black eyes sparkling. A silent request for me to join his game.

The hair on the back of my neck stands on end, interrupting our fun before it can begin.

It’s not Felix or Tini. They know better than to interrupt.

My gaze narrows as Wild steps inside. The aroma of coffee and donuts precedes him as he carries a cardboard box, making it seem like he’s brought along a pretentious patron from Necromancer’s.

Perfect! I’m seriously cranky and in the mood for a fight.

I watch him. The tension in his hard body doesn’t quite match the casualness of his entrance. He’s a predator too, I realize. His charm is a thin veneer over something darker. He places the box on the counter with a soft thud.

“Morning, Heathen,” his voice a low drawl that sends a shiver down my spine.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” my voice is cool, dismissive.

I don’t need any more bullshit piled onto the mess in my head. Hoping he takes the hint, I keep my focus on the stitches. I won’t let him see how much he unsettles me.

“And you’re not supposed to be helping to kill people,” he counters, his tone light, but with an underlying edge. A challenge. My head snaps up, even as I wonder if I’m having a nightmare. No way they both know .

I’m too good at my job for that. Years have passed and I’ve remained undetected, for fuck’s sake.

He pulls out a folder, the FBI logo a stark reminder of his allegiance. He lays it on the table, open, revealing crime scene photos.

Or maybe not. What the actual fuck?

My heart gives an erratic thump. Not just any crime scene photos. Some of my crime scene photos, although different from the ones he associates with Wraith. Each a meticulously crafted scene, although I’d missed the chance to take photographs and leave my preferred signature on these jobs.

A banker’s watch glints. The art dealer’s brush lies across his chest, the judge’s hands clasped in prayer.

My gaze snaps to Wild’s, my jaw slipping open in surprise. His gaze is unnervingly intense as he watches me, a flicker of something akin to admiration in its depths. The air crackles between us, unspoken words, a silent challenge charging the room.

“Impressive work,” he murmurs, his voice a low caress. “You have a real flair for the dramatic. Does it come from trying to win the approval of your husband? To outdo even the notorious Wraith?”

I swallow my throat sandpaper despite the cold sweat slicking my palms.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. You shouldn’t be here,” I repeat, hoping the hard words drive him away and end this nightmare.

A low chuckle rumbles through the room.

“I think,” he says, eyes locking with mine, “I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. Where I need to be.”

He moves closer, all but eliminating the space between us.

I try to maintain composure, but it’s hard when my thoughts are running wild.

My hand tightens around the needle, the metal digging into my palm.

A familiar sensation, the slight pain a reminder that I’m still alive, still in control. Or at least, I should be. I will be.

His body looms over me, blocking the light as he stops inches away. The faint scent of his cologne is a subtle threat, not just an FBI agent, but something far more dangerous.

His eyes are dark, intense, as he traces the paths of my kills.

“This one,” he murmurs, voice low, “the art dealer. I like how you used his own brush. A final touch, a twisted signature.”

His description is precise, almost clinical, yet there’s a strange intimacy, an unsettling understanding of my methods. He dissects me, peeling back the layers to reveal the monster beneath, pushing to see if I’ll admit to it.

A shiver travels down my spine, a mix of fear and something I don’t name. I want him to stop, to go, but the words catch. I’m a predator, not prey. Yet, I feel hunted.

He backs me against the cold steel of the embalming table. His hands rest on either side, a cage, trapping me in his gaze.

“And this one,” he whispers against my ear, “the judge. The way you positioned his hands, a last plea for mercy. Did he beg? Did he cry?”

His breath is warm against my neck, a thrill of arousal mixed with dread.

He knows, he sees me, and I hate him for it.

His fingers brush my arm, a feather-light touch that sends jolts of electricity through me.

My breath hitches. I want to pull away, to break free, but my muscles refuse.

A strange paralysis, a surrender to his heat and energy surrounding me.

What the hell is wrong with me?

“Wild…” I whisper.

“You have a gift, Heathen,” his lips almost touch my throat. “A dark, beautiful gift. Perhaps you’ve refined the methods of your husband when you were trying to get his attention. You’re not just killing, you’re creating a work of art.”

Twisted, a dark seduction that chips away at my defenses. I’m supposed to be in control, dictate the rules, but here I am, trapped by his words, his gaze, the unsettling intimacy surrounding us.

He’s Dangerous. A Threat. Kill him. Now.

I see the raw truth as he shifts, something broken in his eyes.

“My first,” his voice drops to a low, gravelly hum, “wasn’t a choice.

I was a rookie, barely out of the academy.

A hostage situation, a strung-out guy with a gun.

I took the shot, clean. Textbook. But he was barely more than a kid.

I was sick. Fucking sick. I thought my career was over before it even began.

” His gaze intensifies, a dark hunger rising.

“But what I didn’t know then was after the shock wore off how good it would feel.

How…easy it would become as I dealt with those who deserved to die.

My reasons now? They’re just excuses. Thin whispers of justification to pull the trigger again and again. ”

His confession hangs, an ugly truth that mirrors the darkness I keep hidden. A shocking revelation, a glimpse into his twisted soul. He understands. A connection I never expected, a terrifying intimacy that has my heart pounding in my ears like a bass drum.

Even more unexpectedly, he leans forward and kisses me.

Soft, a stark contrast to the hardness of his eyes.

A gentle brush of his lips, a tentative exploration, not the hungry demand I’ve come to expect from him, and it throws me off balance.

I want to push him away, to lash out, to reassert control.

But I don’t. I can’t. I’m mesmerized by his lips moving over mine.

A silent agreement, a shared understanding of internal darkness.

A darkness that could bind us together. He wants it to.

Wild’s kiss detonates an emotional bomb, a shockingly soft explosion, lethal to my resistance.

A moment of tenderness that leaves me breathless, as if his hands were around my throat.

His lips and body radiate heat, a stark contrast to the cold steel of the table pressing into my back.

It’s so different from the consuming hunger his kiss usually carries.

This is more intimate, a silent acknowledgment of the darkness we both carry.

A question, a dare, a dangerous invitation to something deeper that terrifies me.

He pulls back, his eyes searching mine. I don’t know what’s he’s looking for or what he sees.

I want to push him away, to reassert control.

My hand goes instinctively to the scalpel, the familiar weight grounding me.

I could end this now. One swift move, one precise cut, and he’d be another body on my table.

One less threat. Another secret I could bury.

I should do it. Cradle him as he meets his last sunset and be done with the confusing shit storm of complications he’s brought into my life.