Page 65 of Wraith (Deviant Assassin #1)

Wild

“ A ll I’m saying is, next time we need to coordinate our exit strategy better,” I tell Blade, as I shut the front door.

This is ridiculous. Why are we dancing around the important issue: sharing Kiera.

The words die in my throat as a crash comes from the master bathroom. We’re both sprinting through the bedroom, drawing our weapons simultaneously. Reznik kicks the door in, and we jostle for position to see inside. My thoughts stutter, unable to process the sight in the destroyed bathroom.

Two Kieras.

Identical except one is dressed in her favorite outfit and the other is completely naked, a discarded bath towel unable to soak up the deluge of water spraying from the broken shower head.

Same deadly grace in their stance. And the same fucking tiny scar above the right eyebrow I kissed just hours ago.

Both bleeding profusely, one with a bruise swelling over her right eye.

The room spins as her signature jasmine scent, mixed with blood and adrenaline, hits me from two different directions.

My training kicks in automatically, searching for tells, analyzing micro-expressions.

Seven years in the Behavioral Analysis Unit taught me to spot impersonation.

There is no such thing as a perfect imitation.

There’s always a tell, a way to separate the mirror images.

But there isn’t.

Nothing.

They move in perfect synchronization, both crossing their arms in that defensive gesture I’ve seen a thousand times. Both tilt their head exactly twenty-three degrees to the left—Kiera’s quirk I’ve memorized during years of surveillance.

“Wild.” They speak simultaneously, each with the same honey-smoke filled voice that’s haunted my dreams for two years. “You know I’m the real Kiera.”

My mouth becomes a desert. I have no hope of squeezing a word across. The temperature seems to drop twenty degrees, then skyrocket. All my senses going haywire at once. Beside me, Blade’s breathing has gone razor sharp.

“Remember that night at my place, Wild?” the one on the left purrs. “When you held a hand over my mouth and fucked me hard?”

“Remember how it ended?” the right one counters. “Once again, no big O for me.”

Jesus fucking Christ.

I force myself to focus, to apply my training. Body language analysis. Facial muscle movement patterns. Vocal stress indicators. Everything I’ve learned about human behavior tells me both women are genuine in their responses.

Impossible.

“That first night you followed me,” Left-Kiera says softly. “You thought I didn’t notice you in that black Charger.”

“But I always knew,” Right-Kiera finishes. “Just like I knew it was you, on your motorcycle chasing me through the alley downtown.”

Twins?

Ice slides down my spine. Those surveillance operations… Have I been profiling two different women? For years?

“Enough!” Blade’s voice cracks like a whip. At least he sounds as shaken as I feel. “One of you is lying.”

But which one? My professional certainty crumbles with each passing second. Everything I thought I knew about Kiera I’m suddenly questioning every intimate detail, every secret shared, every moment of vulnerability.

They both look at me with her alluring amber eyes. Eyes I know better than my own. Two pairs of them.

Impossible.

“Wild,” they whisper in perfect unison. “You know me.”

The worst part is… I’m no longer sure I do.

I force myself to breathe slowly, to think like the professional I’m supposed to be. Focus on the details. That’s what they taught us at Quantico.

“The ferret,” I say suddenly. “How did you come to have Boo?”

Both women smile that same dangerous curve of lips I’ve memorized. “Stole him,” they answer in harmony. Fuck.

“Quiz them,” Blade growls, “Something only the real Kiera would know.”

But what haven’t they already proven they both know? The intimate details they’re sharing aren’t just surface facts, they’re loaded with emotional context, delivered with perfect timing and inflection.

“The first time you let me touch you,” Left-Kiera murmurs, taking a step closer. “You were so angry at first…”

“But then you pushed me against the wall,” Right-Kiera continues, moving in a perfect mirror. “And whispered that you’d been watching me for so long…”

My chest tightens. The memory is vivid: the heat of her skin, the way she dominated but longed to yield in the same breath. Which one was it?

Blade makes a sound like he’s been punched. I risk a glance at him. His face is a mask of controlled fury. He parts his lips to speak.

“The night at the club,” one begins.

“When you tracked me through three states,” The other continues.

“The warehouse in Portland…”

“The chase through Pioneer Square…”

Memories race through my mind. Surveillance from the shadows, fiery showdowns in interrogation rooms, intimate moments shared.

With who? All of them with one of the two women staring at me.

My entire profile of Kiera, everything I thought I knew about her patterns and behaviors, crumbles under the weight of this impossible reality.

“Stop talking!” Blade’s voice cracks.

They both turn to him with identical expressions of concern. That look, a perfect blend of worry and determination, is exactly the look Kiera gave me when I was shot—the look that made me fall harder for her.

“Baby,” they breathe out, and this time there’s a slight difference in their timing. A fraction of a second. My heart leaps. Finally, a tell! But before I can process it, they’ve synced again.

The room seems to tilt on its axis. Every instinct I’ve honed over years of profiling is screaming. Loudly. An insistent voice I no longer trust.

How many times had I actually been interacting with… I can’t even finish the thought.

“Wild.” They advance, perfectly mirrored movements. “Look at me. Really look.”

I do. God help me, I do. And all I see is Kiera. Twice. Every nuance, every deadly beautiful detail.

“The tattoo,” I say hoarsely. “Show me your tattoo.”

They turn in sync, black ink that I’ve traced with my fingers, my lips, between their shoulder blades of right Kiera.

The symbol of her rebirth after killing her stepfather perfect.

It must be my Heathen. Kiera reaches back and lifts the tank over her head, revealing the same mark.

Even the slightly faded edge on the left wing, a detail I’d noted during surveillance, is precisely the same on both women.

“This is wrong,” I say. “Tattoo aging patterns are unique. The way ink settles into the skin, the subtle variations in fade patterns… it’s like a fingerprint.”

I learned that when it took fucking forever to match undercover backstory with ink.

I force myself to look closer, searching for any difference. Even the slightly uneven tan line from that day she wore the asymmetrical bikini. Officially, I was surveilling her, but I was just watching her swim.

Everything. Every. Damn. Detail.

“The appendectomy scar,” Blade suddenly says, his voice rough. “Lower right abdomen.”

“Don’t have one.” They’re both looking exasperated. Left Kiera turns, pissed off, and it takes right Kiera a fraction of a second to catch up. Or am I imagining it?

Not a single damn thing about this makes sense.