Page 71 of Wraith (Deviant Assassin #1)
Kiera
R ain slicks the cobblestones, each a dark, fractured mirror.
My own reflection stares back up at me, fragmented and distorted.
Totally fitting. For the second time today, I’m faced with how my life, and my heart, have been blown to pieces.
My carefully constructed life is far more fragile than I ever imagined.
Every echoing footstep amplifies the tension in the oppressively thick, damp air.
Broadmoor’s manicured lawns stretch endlessly into the night, vast and unsettling—a perfect, manicured graveyard.
What unseen threats do the shadows hide?
My hand instinctively goes to the knife hidden beneath my jacket.
The familiar weight, the cold metal—usually a thrill, a sharp anticipation of the hunt—is now dulled by a gnawing unease.
A pulse throbs low in my belly, a knot of fear and desire twisting together.
It’s not the mission; those are always a welcome distraction.
It’s the questions clawing at me, the images flashing behind my eyelids: Blade.
Wild. The phantom brush of Blade’s calloused fingers against my inner thigh, the ghost of Wild’s breath hot on the nape of my neck.
Focus, Kiera. Jesus.
I scan the grounds, tension skitters over my nerves, making each rustle of leaves a whispered warning.
The distant hum of the city can’t penetrate the unnerving quiet of this place.
Two guards, uniforms dark and damp from the earlier downpour, patrol in sluggish, predictable patterns.
Their distraction is an invitation, one which I’ll use to my advantage.
I count security cameras that almost wave at me like old friends; six on this side alone.
Three years of watching Zephyr’s safe houses, three years of learning the predictable patterns of the rich and powerful.
They build their fortresses, convince themselves they’re secure, but they always forget the human element: the boredom, the complacency, the predictable routines and schedules.
It’s all an invitation, one I’m happy to accept.
This isn’t just another job, another mark.
This is personal. My heart’s doing this annoying flutter thing it usually reserves for Wild’s dimples or Blade.
Maybe somewhere in this fortress of old money and older secrets, Phoenix is playing house with my husband.
My Blade. The thought of her , of them …
makes my chest ache. Has he been called here often?
Does Sally consider this a home away from home?
Or has Blade been with his family, right under my nose all along?
I move like through the shadows like the murderous phantom I’ve trained to become.
The mansion’s old bones creak secrets into the darkness.
Secrets I’m here to unravel, starting with the redhead because of course, she’s got to be a redhead, Blade’s always had a weakness for them.
Who’s been playing house with my husband?
Where the fuck is Pheonix?
I find an open window, a carelessly overlooked vulnerability, and slip inside landing on silent feet.
Thick carpet swallows the sound of my cautious steps.
The scent of lemon polish and orchids chase away the smell of damp earth as I close the window, cutting off the cool wind.
The house is a silent giant, everything about the ambiance screams stature and power.
I ascend the winding staircase, each muffled step a calculated risk, a floorboard could betray me at any second.
Hallway up the stairs, I pause, my jaw going slack.
Photographs line the wall, frozen moments in time, each a window into Wild’s past, demand my full attention.
There’s the crazy-haired toddler with a grin too big for his chubby cheeks.
The next captures a carefree boy with a mischievous grin caught mid-laugh.
Finally, the serious young man with his golden hair falling just above piercing eyes, hints of the man I’ve fallen for in them.
Sharp pain constricts my chest as I look into a recent image.
He’s mine, too. Why the hell are the secrets of everyone I love held here?
Wild in a pressed suit, standing beside an older woman, his arm around her shoulders, that same infectious smile beaming.
Who is that woman to him?
I have so many more questions than I have fucking answers. It’s time to go find them. I turn to continue up the stairs, and there she is.
Phoenix.
She needs no introduction. She’s annoyingly perfect and completely relaxed in silk pajamas as if she owns the place while I’m dressed for war, for murder, for revenge. It makes an odd kind of sense, really. She’s gotten the easy life with Blade and I’ve been killing all these years.
The rage bubbling under my skin threatens to spill over as I imagine her hands on Blade.
Imagine their perfect little family with Sally…
She probably has Pheonix’s hair and Blades brooding eyes.
Their child will be a knockout. Thankfully, she isn’t at her mother’s side and won’t have to witness me sinking my knife into her heart and twisting it.
“You must be the wife,” she drawls, and the judgement and defensiveness in her tone sets my teeth on edge. “The one my idiot brother’s been pining over forever. He won’t listen to me and just move on. Then again, when does Blade ever listen?”
Wait. What? Brother?
She’s still speaking, but I’m stuck on brother.
She said brother, right? Am I hallucinating?
Before I’ve stopped the ringing in my ears from this bomb of information that’s impossible to comprehend, a small furry blur darts out from behind her. A tiny rat of a dog with big soulful eyes and a furiously wagging tail bounds over to her and circles around her feet.
Phoenix, Blades wife… no sister… I still haven’t decided if she’s fucking with me, shakes her head in exasperation.
“Sally, go back to bed.”
Sally? What the actual fuck? I’m definitely hallucinating. Blade doesn’t have a sister and he sure as fuck doesn’t have a dog.
Blade is in no way domestic. He is a free spirit, a shadow that likes to disappear easily. He hates pets. He barely tolerates Boo, for Christ’s sake.
If I can’t even imagine him with a dog, then maybe he doesn’t have a child either? Or a wife? Why the hell didn’t he say so? Rat bastard let me believe he had a whole other fucking family!
Sally’s tail wags like she’s found her new best friend. Or… he… when he lifts a leg and pisses on a nearby table leg.
“He’s… your brother?” I choke out. I bet Blade named the poor little guy.
“Sally, bad dog! Heel,” Phoenix commands, more interested in the dog than me.
The scent of piss wars with lemon polish as her lips twitch with poorly suppressed amusement, her sculpted brow lifting.
“Last I checked. You should see your face right now. Did you seriously think I was fucking my brother? That’s some Game of Thrones level drama you’ve got playing in that pretty head of yours. ”
I gape at her, at the dog, then back to her, struggling to catch up. The rage still simmers in my gut, but there’s also confusion, relief, and an unwelcome tenderness for Blade that’s returned.
“I…” A dozen ways to finish that sentence fight for priority. “I’ll fucking cut you, bitch,” my voice wavers at the end and heat suffuses my cheeks.
The most idiotic thing won, but I no longer know which way is up.
God, I’m a dumbass.
Phoenix just laughs, a rich, throaty sound that echoes through the hallway.
“Okay then. Well, Esther is expecting you.” She gestures down the hall, her amusement fading, replaced by something cooler, more calculating. “Follow me.”
Phoenix says as she flips a light switch, illuminating the hallway.
My pulse is a frantic drumbeat in my skull as I try to sort out the disconcerting cocktail of emotions the whole bitchy sister-not-lover bombshell when the room temperature drops about twenty degrees.
Not from the central air; from the sheer ice-cold presence now filling the doorway of the nearest bedroom.
This must be Esther.
The picture, the resemblance. Wild is her grandson.
The realization feels like a tightening cord around my chest, drawing me closer to the heart of this night.
Esther Wilder commands the space. She glides towards a high-backed velvet chair, the embodiment of power and grace.
A porcelain teacup and matching teapot rest on a small table beside her.
She sits with an almost regal composure, her gaze sharp and assessing, a faint smirk playing on her lips.
It’s the same smile in the photograph. The smile of a predator.
“Hello, Kiera,” she says, voice smooth, controlled, a silken cover over the strength of steel. “Good of you to join us. Cup of tea?”
I lift my chin, meeting her gaze with a steady look of my own.
“Hi, Esther. Boy, do I have a story for you.”
She releases a cool, melodic chuckle—a sound with no warmth, no humor—and gestures to the chair opposite her.
“My story is what matters. It’s much more interesting than what I already know. Sit down, Kiera. Get comfortable. We have much to cover tonight.”
I hesitate for a beat, then settle into a chair, my muscles coiled tight, ready to spring.
I’ll learn more if I play along.
Her smile is as thin as paper, but there’s a gleam of satisfaction in her eyes as she lets the silence spin out, only punctuated by the soft clinking of porcelain as Esther pours herself a cup of tea, and Pheonix settles on the couch, Sally curling up in her lap.
“Well, well,” she continues, voice dry as aged whiskey, “if it isn’t the little minx who turned a nun into modern art with a dragon dildo.” Her steel-gray eyes gleam with something that might be approval. Or bloodlust. I can’t read her. “That was you, wasn’t it, Wraith?”
My hand twitches toward the knife at my hip. Phoenix tenses. Sally, the traitor, just wags her tail harder.