Kiss of Death Boxset

by Lovell, LP

  “Yes.” I moan. “Break me, Nero,” I beg, hoping for his brand of destruction, seeking a punishment and a salvation that only his unbridled rage can mete out. He drives into me even harder and it hurts, but the pain blends with a deep-seated pleasure, pushing me to a place I’ve never felt before. My core clenches hard and everything explodes outwards, sending waves of pleasure shooting through every single muscle in my body. His name falls from my lips over and over like a curse, and he stiffens behind me, ramming into me on a roar. He pulls away from me and immediately collapses on his back on the bed. My hips buckle forward and I lie there on my front, desperately trying to catch my breath. That was…uncontrolled. I’ve spent my whole life craving control, and distance, striving to be rational at all times, and suddenly, he has me craving the opposite of all those things.

  I like walking that fine line, fucking him while knowing we could very well kill each other the second it’s over. Needing each other, wanting each other, knowing that we’re the last thing either of us should be running towards, or maybe I’m wrong. Maybe we’re exactly what each other needs. If I believe that though, then I accept that I really am unsalvageable, beyond redemption. I embrace Nero, my depraved reflection staring right back at me.

  I turn my head to the side, glancing at him. His chest rises and falls in deep swells and a thin sheen of sweat covers his skin. Blood is steadily seeping through the dressing at his shoulder. “You’re bleeding,” I whisper, brushing my fingers lightly over the sticky, wet dressing.

  His fingers wrap around my wrist and the grip is bruising. “It’s fine. The doctor will be here soon.”

  Shaking my head, I sit up, slowly peeling the dressing away from his skin. The neat bullet hole pumps blood steadily. Normally, it wouldn’t be an issue, but it’s been an hour since I shot him and now his heart rate is elevated. “I’ll be back,” I say, getting up and taking one of his shirts from his closet. I go downstairs and open my rifle case, plucking a single round from its spot nestled in the foam interior. Moving to the kitchen, I pick up the cleaning rod that I left there earlier.

  When I get back to the bedroom, he hasn’t moved. He lies there with his eyes closed, a red stain spreading across the duvet beneath him.

  “I need you to sit up. This is going to hurt.” His eyes open and he snorts as he sits up.

  “More than being shot?”

  “A lot more.” He glares at me, and I shrug. “Do you want to bleed out?”

  He blinks and it takes him a long second before his eyes open again. Placing the tip of the bullet between my teeth, I pop the lead off the casing. The wound is a through and through, and the only way to heal it quickly…well, it’s not pleasant but it’s worth it. I pull the dressing off his back and place the back of the casing against the bullet wound. Glancing at his face quickly, I take a deep breath and shove it inside. His eyes go wide and he grits his teeth, snarling.

  “What the fuck are you doing?”

  “Stop being a baby.” I press the cleaning rod into the open end of the casing and push, forcing the casing through the open wound. He growls and I’m pretty sure he’s going to hit me before I can get it all the way through. The bullet pops out the front of his shoulder and the bleeding quickens. Nero is swaying dangerously, his breaths becoming fast and hard.

  Blood steadily runs down his torso, flowing over his muscular stomach until it soaks into the seam of his boxers. Grabbing his jacket off the floor, I take his lighter from the pocket, flipping the top back. He frowns and eyes it through drooped eyelids. “What are you doing with that?” His words are slurring slightly now from blood loss and pain.

  “I’m sorry.” I’ve had this done to me and it’s the worst pain I’ve ever experienced. Coming from me, that’s saying a lot. I move the flame closer to him, holding it to the edge of the wound. A small spark catches and he roars like a wounded beast. Every single muscle in his body contracts and a vein at his temple throbs erratically before he collapses back against the pillows. He drifts on the verge of consciousness, his chest rising and falling rapidly. By pushing the bullet casing through the wound, it leaves a trail of gunpowder. Light it and it instantly cauterizes the wound, killing any infection and instantly stopping the bleeding. It will heal the wound a lot faster, but it hurts worse than the original bullet.

  Picking up his legs, I move them, positioning him on the bed. I pick up the small syringe of morphine that I had left beside the sewing kit earlier and slide it into the vein on the inside of his forearm. Within seconds his eyes close and he’s out for the count. I manage to manoeuvre his unconscious body enough to put dressings on both the entrance and exit wound. I hesitate at the edge of the bed, before telling myself I should sleep with him, to keep an eye on him. I lie down beside him, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing and allow it to lull me to sleep.

  The scene unfolds before me, exactly as it has so many times before. Nicholai stands beside me and thrusts the gun into my shaking hand. The tightness wraps itself around my chest, and the guilt and grief rush up around me until I’m drowning in their murky depths. I look at the far wall, to where Alex is chained; only this time, it’s not Alex. Nero stares back at me, his face perfect and unmarked, his hard, muscular torso bare and without a trace of the blood that usually features in this dream.

  Nicholai brushes that tendril of hair away from my face. “Become what you were meant to be, little dove.” His thumb trails over my jaw, and I close my eyes as a tear slips down my cheek. “Put a bullet in his head or put a bullet in your own,” he grates, his lips brushing the side of my face.

  I open my eyes and instead of seeing Alex begging me to shoot him, Nero demands that I do so. A small smile pulls at his lips and my arm moves of its own volition, lifting the gun as if I were nothing more than a puppet on a string. Panic starts to bubble up my throat and my breathing becomes frantic as I try desperately to lower the gun. I stare at Nero, tears tracking down my face as I realise what is about to happen.

  He stares back at me, a cocky smile plastered on his lips. “Do your worst, Morte.”

  My finger twitches over the trigger and the bang echoes around the room before his body slumps forward against the restraints.

  “Nero!” I scream and fall to my knees.

  Jolting awake, I gasp, I can’t breathe. My vision is blurred with tears and my entire body is shaking as I struggle for air. I hear Nero’s pained grunt and then his hand lands on my face before he falls back against the pillows, his breath hissing through his teeth. I swipe angrily at the treacherous tears as I slide out of the bed. All I can hear is Nicholai’s voice in my head; You are a weapon and weapons don’t weep.

  “Where are you going, Morte?” Every word he says is strained, and I know how much pain he must be in.

  “I’ll be back.” I take the opportunity to leave and go to the kitchen, grabbing the medical kit in it. There are various painkillers in there and a couple more bottles of morphine. Grabbing a syringe and needle, I head back to the room. The memory of the dream replays in my head like a bad horror film, and I’m shaken, not by the notion of having the dream, but of the fact that shooting him upset me so much. I can’t remember ever feeling such a sense of loss, not even when I killed Alex. I loved Alex, but in a way I always knew it would end badly. We grew up in hell and he was never strong enough to bear the atrocities there. He was too good, too kind, loved too hard and sacrificed too much. Nero, on the other hand, always seems so indestructible to me, so utterly implacable, like a cliff face standing against a hurricane. Nero isn’t Alex, Nero is more. And didn’t I always know that I was a danger to him, just as he was a danger to me? The dream hit too close, felt too real.

  Returning to the bedroom, I sit on the edge of the bed, turning the bedside lamp on. Nero groans and squints against the light as he turns his face towards me. He looks pale, the usual golden tan absent from his skin. He stares at me and I drop my eyes to the bottles in my hand, focusing on opening the syringe packet.

  He g
rips my chin with strong fingers and forces me to look at him. “Don’t hide from me, Morte.”

  “I’m not.”

  His eyes pinch and the corner of his lip kicks up in the hint of a smile. He releases me and his thumb swipes over the corner of my eye. “You’re fucking beautiful when you cry,” he says darkly. I squeeze my eyes shut and his thumb trails over my cheek before swiping over my bottom lip. “Tell me about your dream. You screamed my name. Did I hurt you?” I open my eyes and focus on his lips, because I don’t want to look in his eyes. “Tell me what could possibly make death cry,” he whispers, withdrawing his touch.

  “I shot you,” I admit. His lips press together and it makes me lift my gaze to find his cocked brow.

  “Yes, you did,” he says dryly, those dark eyes watching me closely.

  I shake my head. “I killed you.”

  “You’ve killed a lot of people.”

  “This…” My voice gets stuck in my throat and he tilts his head to the side, watching me through narrowed eyes. “This was different. I felt like …like a monster,” I rasp. I can’t tell him that the reason I felt so horrible is because pulling the trigger damn near tore me apart. I don’t want to care for him.

  “Because you are.” He smiles brilliantly, and it’s so rare that I find myself staring at how beautiful he looks. “Embrace the monster inside you or become consumed by it. That is the difference between brilliance and insanity, Morte.”

  He winces and crooks his finger at me. Wordlessly, I climb onto his lap, straddling his thighs. He smirks and I fist a handful of his hair, pulling him close. My lips press over his and all the noise in my head goes silent, because nothing outside of him exists for these few seconds. This connection I have to him, it makes me feel safe, he makes me feel safe, and that scares the shit out of me because people like us, we’re never safe. He’s dark and twisted but so am I, and I want to bask in his depravity. I want to be held by him and feel protected in the knowledge that he is that which others fear. Pressing my forehead to his, I close my eyes, breathing him in. We both know that whatever this is, it’s temporary, but for now, I want to experience something I’ve never had. Him. This. Us.

  * * *

  When I wake up in the morning, Nero is still out of it. I dosed him up on morphine before we fell asleep last night and his chest rises and falls evenly with heavy breaths. His arm is wrapped around my waist, pulling me tightly into his side. I brush my fingers over the warm, smooth skin of his torso, wanting to stay this close to his blistering heat, because he makes me feel as though I’ll never be cold again.

  I jump when my phone rings, buzzing against the bedside table like a pneumatic drill. Hurrying to disentangle myself from Nero’s hold, I quickly pick it up, glancing at the screen. Shit. Getting out of the bed, I leave the room, quietly closing the door behind me before I answer.

  “Nicholai.”

  “Ah, little dove.” He croons in Russian. “I have missed you.”

  “I’ve missed you, too.” It’s more a false of habit than anything, but I do have an affection for Nicholai, a bond of sorts, in as much capacity as I have.

  “I have a job for you. Very important, a personal favour for a friend. He requested you.” A thousand thoughts rush through my mind, but the main one is that I’ll have to leave, but of course, I will. I was always going to have to.

  “Where?”

  “Miami. Your flight is already booked from JFK this afternoon.” Shit, that’s fast. “It is an urgent job. You have a forty-eight hour deadline and then your target will leave the country.”

  “Okay. Do you have an in for me?” Most jobs, I have to do my own reconnaissance, but with only two days, the client usually lays out some form of set up and Sasha does the rest.

  “I have Sasha here for you.” There’s a moment of silence before Sasha’s voice comes over the line.

  “Your target is Diego Rosso,” he says. Diego Rosso is a Cuban weapons dealer with a nasty habit of selling weapons to pretty much anyone who wants to buy them. He’s actually number eighteen on the FBI’s most wanted list, due to his rather friendly relationship with terrorists in Syria and Iraq. His name has popped up several times over the last few years, and I’m familiar with his network.

  “I’ve looked at his credit card statements and it seems that whenever he’s in Miami he sends multiple transactions to an escort agency.” He’s all business. “I hacked the agency’s server and they have a booking tomorrow for one Mr Julian Torres, an alias of his.”

  “The girl he booked?”

  “I’m sending you her name and address now.”

  “Thanks.” I hang up and linger in the hallway, bracing my back against the wall and pressing the top of the phone against my chin as I think through everything I need to do to tie up here. There is no amount of tying that can make leaving okay though, because, for once in my life, the next kill has lost its appeal. My main concern is Anna. I’ve done Nero’s job, now he needs to do his. I’ll do this hit, but I will be back, and I will keep coming back for as long as it takes him to find her. Going downstairs, I pack up my shit. Guns, ammo, cash, the laptop. I can’t take it with me, but I’ll put it back in the storage locker. I then go back upstairs, taking each step slowly before I walk down the hallway. My hand hovers over the handle of his bedroom door, and I almost don’t want to go in. I could just leave a note and go, but that would be weak, and I don’t do weak.

  27

  Nero

  “Nero?” I blink my eyes open at the sound of Una’s voice. Her palm is pressed against my chest, and I glance down at it before following the length of her arm to her troubled expression. She’s fully dressed in her black combat pants and a long-sleeved black top. Her hair is loose around her shoulders, the waves cascading around her face.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  She swallows hard and looks up at me. “I held up my end of our deal. I want my sister,” she says coldly.

  I stare at her for a second, trying to see through her defensive bullshit. “And you’ll have her. She’s in Juarez with one of my contacts.”

  Her eyes widen. “You’ve had her this entire time?”

  “Since last week. It will take a few days to get her out of Mexico.” She scowls at me, and I push up off the mattress, fighting the urge to just fucking lie back down as the pain tears through the left-hand side of my body. She gets up and steps back, crossing her arms over her chest. I keep my left arm clutched to my body as I climb to my feet and head towards the bathroom, ignoring Una. Every step feels like someone is punching me in the shoulder and honestly, Una isn’t my favourite person right now.

  “I’ll be back in a few days then,” she says casually. I freeze and slowly pivot. She clocks the look on my face as I approach her and raises her chin, setting her jaw defiantly. I almost want to laugh at her challenge.

  “Back from where?” I fight to control my voice.

  “Miami. Nicholai called me in for a job.”

  I snort, flashing her a mocking smile. Fucking Nicholai. “So the master has clicked his fingers and off you run?”

  I watch her clench her fists and take a deep breath. Her loyalty to him is unflinching because she knows no better. Nicholai is all she knows. “I’m a hired killer, so yes, when someone needs killing, I go.”

  We stare at each other for a long moment, because I want to fucking stop her and she knows it, but I won’t, and we both know that, too. “Then go,” I say through clenched teeth.

  “Be careful,” she whispers, jerking her chin towards my shoulder.

  “Shouldn’t I be saying that to you?”

  She smirks and flicks her hair over her shoulder. “I’m the kiss of death.”

  Stepping forward, I wrap my free hand around the back of her neck, yanking her close and holding her just an inch away from my face. “No, Morte, you’re mine.” I lean in, brushing my lips across her cheek before I whisper in her ear. “Remember that.” I bite down on her jaw and then release her, stepping back. O
ur eyes lock, and the words that neither of us are prepared to say swirl between us, making the air thick with tension. I finally break the contact and turn away, walking into the bathroom.

  Closing the door, I brace my back against it, waiting for her to leave. The second I hear my bedroom door close, I pick up the nearest thing, a bottle of hand wash, and launch it at the mirror. The glass smashes, splintering and throwing my own broken reflection back at me. I grit my teeth as pain flashes through my shoulder. She’s both literally and metaphorically burned me from the inside out, because I fucking want her. She’ll be back, but a few days is too long. She has a hit, a client, and I know how Una gets to her clients. I imagine her kissing another guy, allowing him to touch her, wanting him to bury his face in her neck so that she can render him weak and thrust a knife in his back. I see it all so clearly and it’s driving me fucking insane. Una is fucking mine, and she can’t outrun that.

  * * *

  Una’s been gone for a total of six hours, and as much as I try to work, try not to think about her, I can’t. The more I think about her on a job the more aggravated I become. I know when she seduces a client it’s not real, but they don’t, they think they have a right to her for a few minutes, and even though she kills them for their troubles, it’s not enough.

  My phone rings, tearing me from my thoughts. The screen flashes showing a south American number. I pick it up.