Page 7 of Wraith (Deviant Assassin #1)

Kiera

C andlelight flickers in the wall sconces, causing elemental light and shadow to dance upon the swath of silver silk fabric hanging from the rafters. A King-sized bed dominates the only bedroom in the small cabin in the middle of the Snoqualmie National Forest.

The ragged breaths of the sweat covered man lying on the bed drown out the sound of the silk whispering against his heaving chest. Anticipation fills the air, along with the cloying scents of arousal, and nicotine laden breath.

I offer us both a bit of mercy and activate the remote-controlled sound system. The opening beats of ‘Maneater’ by Grace Mitchell cover his embarrassing sounds of need as I discard the remote on the dresser.

Fucking pathetic. He can’t even see me, and I already own him.

I emerge from the shadowed corner, wrapped in an aura of confidence and strength.

I stifle a laugh as his jaw drops open. The silk fabric cascading from the ceiling calls to me.

In a fluid motion, I grasp it, my fingers curling around the silken strands as familiar to me as the material I danced with under Felix’s guidance.

But this man poses no competition, let alone a threat.

Hand over hand, I ascend, my body swaying in time to the beat of the song.

The silk fabric wraps around me like a lover, captivating Johannes’ attention as I climb higher and higher. I force his gaze upward, preventing him from seeing Boo pilfering the pockets of his discarded slacks. The gold of his money clip catching in the low light as he adds it to my backpack.

I pause at the pinnacle, suspended in the air like a goddess, allowing his anticipation to grow. But I’m dreadfully bored and give in to my urge to conclude matters in short order.

I release my grip and begin the descent, spinning and flipping through the air. Each movement deliberate, every twirl a testament to my skill and grace as an aerial dancer. I weave intricate patterns with my body; the fabric supporting me like the lover the man on the bed fantasizes about becoming.

His pupils dilate so wide, they engulf his watery blue irises as his captivated gaze follows my fluid movements while I defy gravity.

The music reaches its crescendo, and I execute my final, breathtaking maneuver, twirling and spinning without care before coming to a graceful stop hanging above him.

My chest heaves with exertion rather than the arousal he longs for, the tip of my nose barely touching his.

A smirk spreads across my face at the desire shining from his eyes.

If he only knew how short his time has become. Ignorance really is bliss.

He growls as he sits up, reaching for me, but I swing away from him and land on the bed between his legs. I feign playfulness and bite my lip, shaking my head at him in censure.

“Your turn,” I purr, nuzzling his sweaty neck to distract him while pulling a zip tie from the waist of my black lace panties.

He nods like a fucking enthusiastic puppy.

With quick movements, I unwrap the silk, leaving it dangling above him.

I move onto his lap, and press myself against his—flabby, gray- hair-covered—chest, to reach around him and press his hands together in a prayer position.

Then I wrap the tie around his wrists, pulling tight enough to bite into his flesh.

He stills, eyes widening in question. “Why the restraint?”

I offer him a genuine, sly smile to accompany my raised eyebrow.

“Hand control is one of the hardest parts of aerial dancing. It’s about helping you focus on your body movements, how you feel wrapped in silk.

” I fake a low, throaty laugh, then whisper my next words in his ear.

“You’ll thank me later.” I grasp the silk and wind it around his neck before tying it off, then wrapping the rest loosely around his torso, leaving it to dangle from his rotund stomach.

“Just relax and let the fabric do the work. I’ll raise you up and when you come back down, just roll with it. ”

He nods, and I reach over to the nightstand for my Polaroid. Looking at him askance, he winks his permission, and licks his thick bottom lip, then gives a smile revealing yellowed, smoked stained teeth.

Tired of playing the silly airhead, I gift him with a smirk and blow him a kiss as I shimmy off the bed—tossing the camera and the fresh picture on the bed—and move over to the rope attached to the fabric.

Wrapping a fist around it, I let my knees go slack, using my weight to complement my considerable strength, and yank.

He sails up into the rafters, his body swinging back and forth with the movement.

Too late, he realizes his dire predicament and thrashes desperately against the tightening material, its silken threads constricting like the sinister, unyielding web of a black widow.

“Zephyr wants you to know he’s sending me to visit your wife, Hilda, next.” I sing-song in a mocking tone.

I consider drawing this out, possibly enumerating his wrongdoings, but dismiss the idea. My role is to comply with directives, not voice my personal views.

My mark’s eyes narrow, as a bright red tint stains his face.

“Who the fuck are you? How do you know Zeph?” He grits out as I lean back against the wall.

The sinful strand of satin laced through my fingers that will soon stop his breath goes unnoticed as he makes a pathetically predictable move.

“Do you know who I am? How much money I could transfer into your bank account?” My expression turns icy, devoid of any emotion, except for the chill I let seep into my gaze.

Because really, I couldn’t care less. And naturally, his words echo those of countless others who have come before him.

This fool actually expects me to put his life above mine for what… a bit of cash?

My life has become an endless cliche of groveling, flabby, rich assholes. It’s tedious really.

What the asshole trussed up like a bedazzled Frank Heart, Jr. in Nine to Five fails to understand is, I’m already loaded and have zero desire to go on the run with every assassin in the Umber conglomerate salivating to be the one who took me down because I fucked my bosses over.

No thanks.

Especially since my terms of employment are soon to be completed with a few more jobs. At last, I’ll live a quiet life running the funeral home.

The music dies as the last song of my playlist ends; the sudden silence snaps me out of my contemplation.

During the last few minutes, Johannes’ screaming curses and whimpering pleas became nothing more than white noise.

I laugh out loud when he moves on to threaten my mother, then my sister, and finally my children.

A decent attempt at leverage, really, if any of them actually existed in my life.

My parents are dead. No crotch goblins—though any kids I had would be adorbs—and no siblings to worry about.

When silence greets his threats, he begs for mercy, as if he isn’t a piece of shit monster who deserves to be eradicated from this world.

Although, I’ll take out anyone I’m ordered to, some of which have included a piece of shit pedophile, and a boy next door type who volunteered at an animal shelter.

Even a nun who needed punishment for hiding her dragon dildo under her mattress—they were all the same to me.

One more tally on my scoresheet, one step closer to my freedom from Umber’s control.

Whatever it takes, I’ll get the job done to regain control of my life.

Tired of his pleas, I pick up the burner phone used to verify my kill, touch the red video record prompt, and prop it carefully on the nightstand to capture the action.

He deserves this moment to struggle, to imagine he may break free before I pull until the silk constricts like a vice and the distinctive snap of his neck breaking brings blissful silence.

I anchor the silk to the bed frame knob to keep bozo from flopping around like a bobble head.

I save the video and, using an encrypted message app, I send the proof of kill to my handler, attaching the video per Z’s order.

Me: Job complete. Final sunset at approximately twenty-three hundred hours.

I wipe the message history, remove the internal storage card, and stomp the shit out of the phone, crushing it into unrecoverable digital rubble.

Next, I release the knotted silk from the bedpost and lower Johannes to the bed.

Grabbing my Polaroid, I slide behind him and cuddle up to his still warm body.

“Smile for the camera, baby.”

I angle the camera toward us and snuggle closer to him. As I bite his neck playfully and gaze into the lens to snap the commemorative pic, I retch from the taste of his skin lingering on my lips. Swallowing down bile, I force a wide, macabre smile, which reveals dimples on each cheek.

Moving out from behind him, I pack away my camera, grateful to have distance from his clammy cooling skin oozing with the scent of nicotine and sweat. Grabbing a purple metallic pen out of my backpack, I pull the cap off with my teeth and sign the bottom of the polaroid.

Wraith

I position the snapshot of a once-smiling, vibrant Johannes beside his lifeless head for easier identification.

The transformation is striking: his eyes bulge, fat lips and thick earlobes bear a bluish tint.

My eyes trace the purple spots marring the skin around his bloodshot eyes.

Moving to the corner, I put on my discarded black jeans and t-shirt and make a clicking sound.

Right on cue, Boo scrambles up my pant leg and hides himself in my hair.

As I slide the picture of my latest kill into the inner pocket of my leather moto jacket, I find my eyes drawn to it. The walls seem to whisper echoes of the past.

‘Smile for the camera, baby. Daddy’s gonna make you famous.’

Shaking off the chills running down my spine, I stow the picture away and swing a leg over my Ducati Streetfighter.

When I rev the engine, Boo snuggles his furry head against my neck, triggering another memory.

The chills return, but I straighten my spine, more concerned about what would happen to Boo if I lost control of the bike and died.

What would he do without me? Tini and Felix would just get rid of him, and I’d have to fight my way back to the living to kill them both for ousting my sidekick. Come to think of it, I need to write up my will. Leave everything to Boo and appoint someone to take care of him.

Curate a full staff to make sure he lives in the lap of luxury.

Maybe I’ll go all in and leave him a mansion.

It’ll leave my trusted companion set for his furry ferret life, and as a bonus it’ll really piss off Felix.

More ammunition to fuck with him when he irritates me is always a good thing.

Maybe he’ll take the hint and knock it off.

Nah, not happening. We have too much fun screwing with one another, as it should be with BFFs. My mind calms after the long night when ‘Crazy’ by Adona blasts through my helmet as I come up with new ideas to taunt Fi.

Hmm, Chanel for ferrets, a new trend. I could have all the best designers come up with something for every occasion.

Ferret fashion runway shows, reality shows, pop up clothing shops.

Place Boo in charge of Felix’s paycheck, or better yet, make him the new COO of Blaque’s Funeral Home. The possibilities are endless.

I’ve made it back to Federal Way by the time I run out of ideas.

I stop by the 7-11 on the corner to pick up a month’s worth of well-deserved chocolate—what will probably only last a day or two—and try hard to not flip off the cashier when he makes a comment about my waistline and what excess sweets will do to it.

But I fail miserably. Eh, I did it with a smile.

When I reach the side of the building, a prickling sensation runs through me as the hairs on the back of my neck rise.

I move to look over my shoulder and catch a flash of a wicked hound as a pair of tattooed hands grab me, pressing me against the brick wall, the bag of candy slipping from my surprised fingers and dropping onto the ground.

What the hell is happening?

The feel of cold steel surrounds my wrists before I’m spun around by my shoulders, so fast everything blurs as Boo’s claws send pin pricks of pain into my flesh.

“Kiera Blaque, I’m special agent Wilder. You’re coming with me,” a deep, clipped voice demands as I scramble to get my bearings.

“The hell I am!”

Having zero tolerance for asshole’s putting their hands on me, Boo launches himself at the imposing man—his black slinky body a blur—where he bites the dickhead on the hand just as I register the FBI logo on the shirt stretched over his chest, a broad part of his ridiculously jacked body.

“Shit! What the fuck is that?” he screams, triggering a snide laugh from me.