Page 54 of Wraith (Deviant Assassin #1)

Wild

“ I ’m Wraith.”

Though we’ve moved from the porch into the bedroom, the words hit with the force of the bullet that tore into my side, stealing my breath. A kaleidoscope of crime scene photos—bodies artfully arranged; death made beautiful by her hands float through my mind.

“What did you say?” My voice comes out raw, strangled. Like I’m choking on years of obsession finally crystallizing into perfect, twisted clarity.

Kiera moves toward me, gliding with a predator’s grace. The flickering light from the bedside lamp catches her face, throwing shadows, making her look otherworldly. Dangerous. Beautiful.

“You heard me, Wild.” Her eyes—those deadly eyes I’ve dreamed about—lock onto mine. “I’m Wraith. Always have been.”

“No.” I mutter. The refusal keeps me afloat as I process her words, the earth-shattering revelation.

Every crime scene I’ve studied, each body positioned just so, every detail that made me hard with sick fascination—all her work.

Her art. “That’s not possible.” Blood seeps through my bandages, hot and sticky against my skin. “I’ve been tracking Wraith for?—”

“Years,” she finishes, the word dropping between us like a bomb.

Blade’s low growl cuts through the fog of arousal and pain clouding my mind. He shifts closer to her, angling his body protectively—no, possessively. The same tendency I have toward my Heathen.

Bastard.

“For fuck’s sake, Kiera.” There’s history in his voice, dark and heavy with shared secrets.

“He deserves to know.” She doesn’t look away from me. “Especially now.”

My vision tunnels, the edges bleeding into darkness as memories assault me. So many dark scenes. Cases I connected to her and buried. Evidence I destroyed. Nights spent alone with crime scene photos and my own desperate need. But I never imagined she would be behind the deaths with the Polaroids.

“This is a shit show,” Blade spits, his voice tight with barely contained fury.

His hand rests on his weapon, and I wonder if he’s imagining putting a bullet in my other side. The thought sends a twisted thrill through me.

"It was you?" The words taste like gunpowder, betrayal... and desire. Her smile is sharp enough to cut. A killer's smile. My killer's smile.

"Jesus Christ." I bite my tongue hard enough to draw blood. The metallic tang floods my mouth, mingling with the taste of revelation. "All this time..."

All this time I've been hunting my own obsession. The Bureau's most wanted, and I've been— The thought cuts off as arousal spikes through me, hot and unwelcome.

"Now you know." She steps closer, close enough that her jasmine scent fills my lungs. "The question is," she breathes, "what are you going to do about it?"

The air between us crackles with a dangerous possibility.

The sharp edge of realization continues.

Every case file, every piece of evidence, every witness statement, they all rearrange themselves in my mind with sickening clarity.

Evidence I contaminated. Surveillance footage, I doctored. Witnesses I discredited.

My badge. My oath. Everything I swore to uphold ? —

But even as the thoughts form, my body betrays me. The revelation should sicken me. Should have me reaching for my cuffs, reading her rights. Instead, I'm harder than I've ever been, knowing the truth about what she is.

"That footage last week," my voice comes out hoarse. My fingers trace my badge through my jacket. The gesture now feels like mockery. "The one where a glitch conveniently obscured the killer's face..."

I spent six hours on that edit. Six hours destroying evidence for the Bureau's most wanted. The same time I should have been building a case against her.

Kiera's lips curve into the knowing smile that's haunted my dreams since the day we met.

"You mean when the security camera mysteriously malfunctioned?"

Pride colors her voice, making my cock throb despite the pain radiating from my wound. Pride. She's proud of the kills I helped cover up. And God help me, so am I.

"I altered that footage." My laugh sounds hollow against the concrete walls. "Spent six hours editing frame by frame, thinking I was protecting you from being connected to the scene." I drag my hand through my sweat-dampened hair. "But you—you were already there. You were the killer."

The killer I've been obsessing over for years. The killer whose crime scenes made me come harder than any woman ever has. The killer I've been protecting without even knowing it.

Blade shifts even closer to her. His possessive stance makes my jaw clench, teeth grinding. The way he looks at her—like she's his masterpiece—ignites something dark and jealous in my gut.

"You've been cleaning up her scenes?" His question drips derision, but there's something else there.

Fear maybe. Or recognition.

"Not intentionally. Just the ones that didn't have Wraith's MO.

" I tug at my hair, the pain grounding me as memories flash through my mind.

The Thompson scene, with its artfully arranged limbs.

The Richardson 'suicide' that smelled of jasmine.

And the CEO, in her crimson dress, posed like a dancer's final bow.

"Those witness statements about a woman with a dancer's grace?—"

Every single witness who could have identified her. Every single one I discredited, made seem unreliable. I told myself I was protecting an innocent woman. But some part of me knew. Some part of me has always known.

"You discredited them all?" Kiera's eyes gleam like polished obsidian in the harsh light. She moves toward me, each step deliberate, predatory. Her proximity makes my wound throb in time with my cock. "Made them sound unreliable, unstable?"

"They were describing you perfectly." It all hits like a punch to the gut, forcing the air from my lungs. Sweat rolls down my spine as years of obsession crystallize into perfect, twisted clarity. "Every single one of them. Although few saw you, and I..."

And I made sure their testimony would never hold up in court. Made sure no jury would believe them. I've been her unwitting accomplice for years.

My badge burns against my chest like a brand. Twenty-three years of service. Dozens of commendations. A spotless record. All of it meaningless now.

"My hero." The way she says it, half-mocking and half-sincere, sends heat coursing through my veins. Just like her half-committed, half-running scared. The same heat that burned through me when I studied her crime scenes. I just didn't know they were all hers.

Hero. I'm no hero. I'm a dirty cop who sold his soul for a woman I've never even kissed. A federal agent who destroyed evidence and obstructed justice for an obsession.

"You must have been laughing at me this whole time."

I meet her gaze, searching for confirmation of my humiliation. The confirmation that everything I've built, everything I've worked for, has been a lie.

"Never," she denies, her face utterly sincere.

"Never?" My voice comes out rough with disbelief. "All those times I interviewed you about Blade, about Wraith..."

Heat floods my face as memories assault me.

Nights spent alone in my apartment, crime scene photos spread across my desk, scotch burning my throat as I studied every detail of what I knew of her darkness.

My hand moving faster, harder as I imagined her technique.

There were so many more crime scenes to study.

I masturbated to her kills. Came all over crime scene photos while thinking about catching the killer—catching her. The irony would be funny if it weren't so fucking twisted.

"I was impressed." She moves closer, each step deliberate. "You're very persistent, Agent Wilder. You demanded my attention, in more ways than one."

Impressed. With my incompetence? My inability to see what was right in front of me? Or impressed with how easily I bent the rules for her without even realizing it?

Blade makes a sound of disgust. Metal scrapes leather as he shifts his weapon.

"This is touching, really, but we need to?—"

"Shut up," I snap, not taking my eyes off Kiera. My heart pounds against my ribs like a caged animal. "Every case I worked, every scene I processed..." The words taste like confession, like surrender. "That was all you?" I say, still in some fugue of disbelief.

She nods, a predator's grace in the simple movement. A killer's confidence in every line of her body.

"Most of them. The hits that caught your attention, anyway."

The hits I obsessed over. The kills that kept me awake at night, studying every detail, every angle. The murders that made me question everything I thought I knew about criminal behavior. Just like I obsessed over her.

"Jesus fucking Christ." I press my palms against my eyes until I see stars, but it doesn't erase the truth burning through my brain.

When I lower my hands, my world has shifted irrevocably.

The wound on my side throbs, a pulsing reminder of how much blood I've already spilled for her without knowing why.

"My entire career." I fix Kiera with an accusatory stare that does nothing to mask my arousal.

"Everything I've built. Do you have any idea what I've risked protecting you? "

And I'd do it again. God help me, knowing what she is, what she's done, I'd still choose her over the Bureau. Still choose her over anything and everything.

She steps closer until her jasmine scent fills my lungs.

"I saw you at the scene, you know. The way you looked at my work..."

The way I looked at her work. Like it was art. Like it was beautiful. Because it was. Because she made death into something transcendent, and I've been addicted to it—to her—since the first crime scene.

"I jerked off to your crime scene photos.

" The confession bursts from me, raw and honest. My voice echoes off the concrete walls, bouncing back like judgment.

"I studied every detail, every position, every elegant flourish.

Obsessing over catching Wraith, wanting to understand the darkness.

.. to get him out of the way." I swallow hard, tasting copper.

"But I was just instinctively obsessed with you. With your work. With your darkness."

Twenty-three years of service, and I threw it all away for a woman who kills for art. Who turns murder into poetry. And I don't regret a fucking second of it.

Blade moves forward, his stance aggressive. The light catches his face, throwing his fury into sharp relief as he makes a retching noise. "That's enough?—"

"No." Kiera's voice cuts through the charged air. "Let him finish."

I meet her gaze, letting her see everything: the shame, the desire, the dark fascination that's consumed me. The death of Agent Wilder and the birth of something far more dangerous.

"I should feel betrayed. Should feel used." My chest tightens with the weight of everything I'm about to throw away. "Instead..."

Instead, I feel alive for the first time in years. Like every case I've worked, every criminal I've caught, was just practice for this moment. For her.

"Instead?" She prompts, her eyes never leave mine. The air between us crackles with electricity, with possibility, with danger.

"Instead, I'm fucking turned on knowing it was you all along." The words hang in the air, heavy with truth and dark promise. "Every scene I studied, every kill I covered up, every piece of evidence I destroyed—it was all for you. And I want more. Need more of you."

This is what crossing the line feels like. Not a gradual slide into corruption, but a cliff dive into the abyss. And I'm not even trying to pull the ripcord.

The silence that follows is electric. Blade's tension radiates across the room like heat waves, but Kiera... Kiera's looking at me like she's seeing something new. Something fascinating. Something she wants to keep.

"Well," she says finally, a dangerous smile spreading across her face, "isn't that interesting?"

The wound in my side pulses, washes over me in waves of pain; reminding me of how much blood I've already shed for her. I'd gladly do it again and again. The realization hits me like pure adrenaline, but clarity floods my mind.

There's no going back. No returning to the Bureau, to my old life, to being Agent Wilder. That man died the moment she smiled at me. What's left is something darker, something that understands her art and wants to be part of it.

"You don't need another killer," I say, my voice steady despite the thundering of my heart. "You've got that covered. What you need is someone who can protect you. Someone who understands your art and can ensure you never get caught."

Someone who's already proven he'll destroy evidence, compromise investigations, and betray everything he once stood for. Someone who's been doing it for years without even realizing it.

Blade scoffs, but I catch the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.

"What exactly are you suggesting, Fed?" he spits out between clenched teeth, his eye twitching as usual.

Fed. Former Fed. That life is over.

I take a step toward Kiera, watching as her eyes narrow with interest. The air between us is charged, dangerous. Like the moment before lightning strikes.

The moment before everything changes forever. The moment I choose her darkness over my light. And God help me; it's not even a choice anymore. It never was.