Page 38 of Wraith (Deviant Assassin #1)
Wild
T he stink of sweat and stale beer coats my tongue.
The underground fight club throbs around me, a chaotic pulse of grunts, shouts, and the thwack of fists on skin.
Raw energy, unfiltered and primal, vibrates through the enormous space, matching my mood.
My skin tingles, every nerve ending screaming for a taste of her.
No matter what I’m doing, I always want Kiera.
I invited her here tonight, so she’ll learn something new about me.
She’s here. I feel it. A subtle shift in the air, a current that sends a shiver down my spine.
Her gaze, a silent caress with the weight of challenge, burns into my back, igniting a fire in my gut.
This isn’t just a fight; it’s a performance, a dance of dominance and desire, and she’s the only audience that matters.
My muscles coil, anticipating her reaction, needing her to see me.
The crowd roars, a faceless mass of adrenaline-fueled spectators—the underbelly of law enforcement—eyes glazed with bloodlust. I’m focused upon my opponent, Jenkins, his muscles coiled tight, eyes narrowed with bravado and a flicker of fear.
He sees the cool, collected agent I am during the day. But tonight, he’s dead wrong.
I step into the ring, the roar of the crowd fading to a dull hum.
My body moves on autopilot, muscle memory honed from years of training, each movement a calculation of risk and reward.
Jenkins lunges, a flurry of fists aimed at my head, but I’m already moving, a blur of motion, letting his momentum carry him past me.
My fist connects with his ribs, the satisfying crunch of bone a familiar sensation.
He grunts, stumbling back, eyes wide with surprise and pain.
A primal thrill ignites within me, a jolt of adrenaline courses through my veins.
This isn’t just a fight; it’s a release, a way to channel the darkness always simmering beneath my skin.
A darkness she ignites and feeds. The fear and suspicion in her eyes this morning haunts me.
I need to show her, to prove to her, how well I understand her twisted nature.
The fight becomes a blur of motion, a chaotic dance of violence and aggression, the roar of the crowd a distant echo.
My mind drifts, pulled back into the vortex of my obsession.
Two years. Two years I’ve been watching her, tracking her, my professional interest morphing into something darker, something all-consuming.
It’s not a job anymore, it’s a need, an insatiable hunger clawing at my insides.
My opponent lunges, a wild swing I easily deflect, his fist colliding with my ribs, a dull thud that sends a jolt of pain through my body.
I barely register it. My mind locked on her.
I imagine the way she moves, a predator in her natural habitat, a dance of death that’s as beautiful as it is terrifying.
Jenkins’ eyes are nearly the same shade as my Heathen’s, a phantom image of her I need to reach floats in my mind’s eye.
My body moves with a lethal grace that mirrors her own.
The banker, the way she used his own watch, a final punctuation mark on his life.
The cold precision, the chilling artistry of her darkness, a twisted beauty that both terrifies and fascinates me.
My blood pounds in my ears, the taste of copper coating my tongue.
It’s not just blood; it’s a taste of her.
Another blow lands, this one on my cheek, the metallic taste of blood filling my mouth.
I barely flinch. I’m not just fighting, I’m dissecting her, peeling back the layers of her persona, trying to understand her soul as well as I want her to understand mine.
It comes from a need to know every facet of her, the darkness and the light, the killer and the woman.
The judge, the way she positioned his hands, a final plea for mercy. Did he beg? Did he cry?
The thought sends a heat rushing over my skin, a mix of revulsion and a dark, twisted fascination. I need to know, to understand, to taste the darkness she embodies. My fist clenches. A desperate need to touch her, to claim Kiera.
Jenkins charges, his fists a blur. But I see it all, every feint, every shift, every telltale sign.
I anticipate, predict, and move with a precision that surprises even me.
It’s her movements, the way she shifts her weight before a strike, the subtle tilt of her head that gives her away.
I’ve studied her so intently—in person, on buried surveillance cameras—I’ve absorbed her mannerisms, her fighting style, her very essence.
My body moves as if it’s speaking a language only Kiera will understand.
I unleash a flurry of blows, each one precise and powerful, each one a deliberate echo of her technique.
I use the same jab she might have used to take down the art dealer, a lightning-fast strike that leaves my opponent staggering.
Then, I follow with a series of brutal kicks, mimicking the devastating combination I imagine she used on the banker, each movement a twisted homage to her dark artistry.
The crowd gasps, a collective breath that hangs heavy in the air.
They sense the shift, the raw power I’m unleashing, the dangerous energy I’m channeling.
I’m no longer just fighting; I’m performing, putting on a show for my Heathen.
He comes at me again, his movements desperate, his strength fading.
I see an opening, a vulnerability, and I seize it, my fist connecting with his jaw, the sickening crack of bone a satisfying release.
He falls, a crumpled heap on the mat, his eyes glazed with defeat.
I stand over him, my breath ragged, adrenaline coursing through my veins.
The crowd roars, but I barely register it.
My body, a finely tuned weapon, needs only her.
My opponent, face a mask of pain and confusion, tries to mount a defense, but it’s too late.
I see an opening, a weakness, and I seize it, my body moving on instinct, my mind clear and focused.
I execute the exact technique she used to kill the judge, a brutal and precise maneuver, a final punctuation mark on this charade.
His body crumples to the mat, broken. The fight is over.
The crowd erupts, but I barely hear them.
I’m too focused on her, the ghost of her presence that lingers in the air. My skin crawls with need.
Did she see? Did she recognize her darkness reflected in mine?
I want her to see me, to acknowledge me, to know that I’m not just a hunter; I’m also a predator.
The locker room is a stark contrast to the chaos of the fight club.
Close, cramped, and private, the air thick with sweat and disinfectant, the silence broken by the drip of a leaky faucet.
Moving through the space, I’m hyperaware of every shadow, every sound, waiting for her.
I’ve no doubt she’ll follow me. I’m anticipating the moment of confrontation, the inevitable clash I set into motion this morning.
The door creaks open, and I turn, muscles tensing, senses on high alert. She stands in the doorway, a dark silhouette against the dim light, body coiled tight, eyes narrowed.
“You were showing off,”she accuses. Her voice is husky, a low growl that sends a shiver down my spine as she crosses the room to face me.“Playing on the edge of darkness. Like a twisted fanboy.”
I smirk, a slow, predatory grin.“Are you flattered? That I’ve been studying you so closely?”
She flinches, a subtle shift that betrays her facade.
I reach out, my fingers brushing her wrist, a feather-light touch that sends jolts of electricity through me.
She tries to pull away, but I’m faster, my hand tightening around her arm, spinning her until she’s pinned against the lockers.
Her eyes widen with surprise, a flicker of fear mixed with desire.
“Let me go,”she whispers, breathy, not meaning it at all.
“Why? Afraid of what I might see?”I lean closer, breath ghosting over her ear.
“I know the way you shift your weight to gain leverage, how you favor your left side when you’re planning something lethal.
The way your eyes darken when you’re about to take a life.
I know you, Heathen. Every detail.”I whisper into her ear,“I’ve watched you so closely, I’ve become a reflection of your darkness. ”
I whisper details across her skin, things from FBI unsolved case files. Her shoulders tense, breathing changes. Each tiny shred of evidence a twisted testament to my obsession. A mirror reflecting her own twisted beauty.
She shivers, body trembling.“You’re insane,”she seethes, voice a mix of fear and something that makes my blood run hot.“You brought me here so I could see that you’re losing your mind?”
“Maybe,”I murmur, lips brushing her neck.“But you’re just as twisted as I am, aren’t you, my Heathen?”I lean in closer, teeth grazing her earlobe, voice a low growl.“And I think that’s what you want, isn’t it? To be seen, to be understood, to be embraced for the monster you are.”
My mouth crashes into hers. The kiss is violent, teeth and possession.
Blood from my split lip marking her mouth.
The metallic tang mingles with her sweet taste, a twisted cocktail that sends a jolt of lust through me.
It’s not just a kiss; it’s a claim, a desperate need to possess, to consume, to merge our darkness.
Her hands claw at my back, nails digging into my skin, a mix of pain and pleasure.
I pull her closer, body pressing against hers, every inch a burning brand against my flesh.
I want her, all of her, the killer and the woman, the darkness and the light.
I want to lose myself in her, to be consumed, to become one with her twisted soul.