Kill Me: Kiss of Death 1

by LP Lovell

  He straightens his arms, pressing his back into the seat. “I don’t know, but we trust no one until we have more to go on.”

  “You could still go back. I can run, and he’ll have to come after me. He supported you for capo, so to admit that you went against him would make him look weak. He then goes after the kiss of death, and it looks like he’s seeking retribution. No one would ever know you were involved.”

  He throws his head back and laughs. “Noble, Morte, but haven’t you worked it out yet?” He glances at me and cocks a brow. “I live for fucking war.”

  “What about Anna?” Nero and I may be willing to fight, but I didn’t go through all this to save her, just to drag her into a warzone.

  “She’ll be safe.” He says dismissively and it instantly makes me suspicious. There’s not a lot I can do about it right now though. If I don’t save myself, there will be no one to save her.

  I grip the edge of the toilet and throw up into it. This has to be a new low in my life, facing the disgusting toilet bowl of a rest stop bathroom.

  “Una!” Nero bangs on the door, rattling the metal lock.

  “Give me a second,” I say. This is the second day of this, and I feel like death. I don’t get ill, but I’ve been feeling rough since Miami. We’re just outside Washington though, so we should be in New York at some point tonight. I hear voices outside the bathroom, and it sounds like Nero is arguing with someone before it goes quiet.

  “Sweetheart, you need some help?” a heavily accented female voice asks.

  Great. I unlock the door and smile politely.

  “I’m fine. Thank you.” Her eyes trace over my face, and I’m aware that I look like shit. She’s a middle-aged woman with peroxide blonde hair and far too much makeup on. A name badge at her chest that reads; Wendy-Anne. She smiles kindly, and I see a flash of pity in her eyes.

  “How far along?” she asks.

  I frown at her. “Sorry, what?” She glances down at my stomach and I follow her gaze. What the hell is she looking at?

  “How long ya been throwing up, sweetie?” she asks with that southern twang.

  “Uh, a couple of days.” I frown. This is one of those situations where I kind of want to head-butt her, but the motion would probably make me throw up again.

  She presses her lips together in a thin line and glances over her shoulder. “You stay here. I’ll be back in a jiffy. I told that fella of yours to leave you be.” She winks and then steps out of the bathroom, closing the door behind her. I have no idea what she’s doing but my stomach turns over again and I dive for the toilet.

  When she comes back, I’m sitting on the bathroom floor waiting for the next round of vomiting. “Here ya go, lovey.” She hands me a box and I take it, frowning as I read the front.

  “A pregnancy test?” I raise my eyebrows. “I’m not pregnant. I’m sterile,” I tell her flatly, handing the box back to her. I’ve been sterile since I was fourteen, all of Nicholai’s elite are.

  “My sister, Eileen, she had them tubes tied. Then there she is, forty years old and knocked up.” She shakes her head, pushing the box back towards me. “Ain’t gonna hurt nothin’ to rule it out.” She turns and walks out of the room.

  “I’m not pregnant!” I call to her retreating back, but she ignores me and closes the door. I get up and lock it behind her, pressing my back to the door. I stare at the box for a moment, fucking terrified of it. I’m not pregnant. So this is fine, right? I open the box and a little white stick falls out. I have to read the instructions to know what the hell to do with it. I grew up with guys. Hell, I grew up learning how to kill people. This wasn’t something I ever even thought of, let alone knew about. Add in the fact that I had no female influence and no exposure to media, and this feels like the most ridiculous and alien thing in the world.

  I pee on the stick and two minutes has never felt so long. I leave the stick on the counter and pace the short circuit from the door to the sink and back again. I almost jump out of my skin when the door bangs loudly, making me jump. “Una, we need to fucking go,” Nero says, keeping his voice low.

  “Give me a minute,” I say quietly.

  This is stupid. I’m not pregnant. I pick up the stick, and the two red lines sit in that tiny little window. I read over the instructions three times. Two lines means positive.

  “Una!” I startle and drop the test, scrambling to pick it up and put it in the bin before I open the door. I hope my expression isn’t giving away what I’m feeling right now, because if it is, Nero will think someone has died.

  “Let’s go,” I say, walking straight past him and out the door. Wendy-Anne smiles at me from behind the till, and I manage a small smile back. This sinking, plummeting feeling has settled into my gut and it feels like I’m walking to my own funeral. This is impossible.

  I pull back the curtain an inch, looking out over the parking lot of the shitty motel. I don’t think anyone will be coming for us here, but I’m still edgy.

  Una has a pistol in pieces on the bed, cleaning it. She’s been doing it for the last hour, her eyebrows pulled together in a frown and her eyes lost and distant. I fucking know it’s Arnaldo who’s put a hit on her, just like I knew he would. But when I put this entire plan into motion, I never for a second thought that I would want her so badly. I want to fucking own Una body and soul. I want to stand beside her and make our enemies bleed. She’s no longer a tool; she’s the perfect ally, the perfect compliment to everything I am. How do you let that go when you know you’ll never find it again? Una is my own personal obsession, my weakness and my strength, because together, we’re unstoppable.

  Walking over to her, I remove the gun barrel that she’s been cleaning for the last ten minutes from her hand. I place a finger under her chin and force her to look at me. There’s a smudge of gun oil on her cheek, smeared over the porcelain skin. Wide indigo eyes meet mine.

  “You only clean your guns before you’re about to kill someone. Should I be worried?” I smirk.

  She huffs and falls back against the pillows. “It clears my mind.” She’s wearing one of my shirts again and it pulls up, showing just a flash of her underwear. The sight of her long, bare legs is enough to make my dick hard. She glances at me and her eyes shift to the dressing at my shoulder. “Come here, let me look at that.”

  I move closer to the bed and she crawls to me, getting to her knees so she can peel the dressing away. Her fingers are gentle but firm against my skin. The wound still hurts, because that’s what happens when someone shoots you and then sets you on fire. I’ve stopped taking the painkillers because they cloud my mind, and I need complete clarity. “This looks good,” she says under her breath.

  “No thanks to you,” I grumble.

  She scowls at me. “This would be much worse if I hadn’t used the gun powder.”

  I lift one eyebrow. “It would be much fucking better if you hadn’t shot me.”

  “You know, you’re really hung up on that.” Her lips quirk into a smile, and I wrap one hand around the back of her neck, pulling her close. Her eyes drop to my mouth and her lips part.

  “I figure you owe me.”

  She glares at me and I yank her against my body, slamming my lips over hers. She tastes of blood and death and everything I fucking want. I drag my free hand from her thigh all the way up her body and beneath her shirt until I’m brushing her breast. She gasps and I push my tongue past her lips, taking everything I want from her. Shoving her back on the bed, I crawl between her thighs. Her chest rises and falls erratically, her fingers threading through my hair as I kiss over her hip bone and shove the shirt further and further up her body until she sits up and pulls it over her head. She’s fucking beautiful, toned curves and pale skin, littered with scars, some faded to silver while others are still a rich purple. Her body is evidence of a hard and violent life, and each and every scar only makes me harder for her.

  She reaches for my pants and yanks at my belt until it comes undone, and then she grabs my throat
, digging her fingers in on either side of my Adam’s apple. I feel her nails break my skin, and I cough as her grip tightens. When I pull away from her, she manages to manoeuvre so that I land on my back on the mattress, and she lands on top of me, her thighs on either side of my body. The second she releases me, my hand is clamped around her throat.

  “You just love to fucking push me,” I growl.

  She closes her eyes and bites down on her bottom lip. “You know I like you angry.” I tighten my grip and a brilliant smile crosses her face. She shifts her weight and drags her nails down my chest in a burning trail. She looks so fucking perfect, innocence and seduction all wrapped up with a fucked up little bow on the top as if she were made for me. I readjust my hold from her throat to her jaw and palm her breast with the other hand, rolling her nipple between my fingers. Her body bows, sending her mane of white-blonde hair cascading down her back. Those full lips part on a soft moan, and I press my thumb inside her mouth. The little noises she makes and the stroke of her warm tongue have me feeling like I’m going to explode. Pushing away from the mattress, I bring us face-to-face, wrapping my arms around her until every naked inch of her is pressed against me. To the rest of the world, she’s the whisper of death on the wind, feared almost to the point of legend. And yet here she is, so beautifully vulnerable and trusting in my arms. She’s death but here, like this, she feels like all the parts of me I didn’t even know were missing, the parts I didn’t even fucking want.

  She rolls her hips and the lace of her underwear drags over my cock in a move nothing short of pure torture. I have no fucking patience when it comes to her, so I grab the crotch of her panties and yank, tearing it away. Her fingers dive into my hair, yanking, demanding. My fingers grip her hips, equally as demanding as I force her down on my waiting cock. Her head tilts back and her lips part as she slowly sinks inch by inch, her body trembling and her nails clawing at my shoulders. I swipe my tongue up the length of her exposed neck, tasting the saltiness of her skin before I bite the side of her throat. I groan into her shoulder when she finally takes me balls deep. Her pussy feels like the closest I’ll ever get to heaven. She rests her forehead against mine and I close my eyes, feeling her rapid breaths blow over my face. We stay like that for a second, her clinging to my shoulders while I wrap my arms tightly around her waist, holding her, imprisoning her. Her hips begin to roll lazily, and I bite back a groan. I’ve fucked Una a lot but every time feels more intense than the last. She’s like a slow burn scorching everything she touches, and fuck, if I don’t want her to incinerate me. Her body moves, shifting and gliding over my dick with every stroke. I trail my hands up her back, feeling the ancient bumps and welts of long worn scars. And when she comes, it’s like fucking art and music blended into one. Grabbing her jaw, I bite her bottom lip, swallowing her moans. Her pussy clamps down on me and I groan, my fingers digging into her face as I explode inside her and collapse back on the mattress.

  She pulls away from me too soon and lies on the bed beside me. I turn to face her but her expression is distant, detached. Something’s wrong with her, and I’d say it’s the threat of death, but as she said herself, someone always wants her dead. It’s more than that. I watch as she gets up and walks naked to the shitty en suite. The door closes behind her and the lock clicks into place.

  I press my back against the bathroom door and squeeze my eyes shut. This is too hard; being around him is too hard. I thought I could make it back to New York and then figure out a plan, but who am I kidding? There is no plan for this because this is the only eventuality I couldn’t possibly have predicted. I stare down at my flat stomach both horrified and mesmerized by the prospect. My head is telling me there is only one option here, that I need to go to a clinic and take care of it. But the heart I never had until a few weeks ago is hesitating, which is ridiculous. It’s funny that when something is never even a possibility, you never think about it. And then when it’s suddenly thrust in front of you, the reaction you might imagine yourself having never comes. I’m not so stupid as to think that I can have a baby. It’s ridiculous. But, I’ve never done anything good in my life and probably never will. I bring death and destruction wherever I go. I can’t stomach the thought of bringing death to something so innocent, something that defies all odds, and it makes me a hypocrite of the worst kind.

  A plan starts to form in my mind and it’s not ideal, but it’s the best I have right now.

  “Una,” Nero calls from the other side of the door.

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m going to grab some food.”

  “Okay.”

  Now, it needs to be now. Once I’m in New York it will be harder, Nero will be around and if he’s not then his men will be. As soon as I hear the motel room door slam, I move. I only have a small bag with me, with just enough clothes for a few days, some cash, a couple of burner phones and one gun. It’s enough. For now. I throw on some clothes and grab my stuff quickly. My hand is on the doorknob when I stop. I can’t just leave him like this. I can’t explain to him all the reasons why, but I can give him something.

  I take a scrap of paper, letterhead with the motel’s cheap looking logo. I hover with the pen over the paper for several moments. How do I say goodbye in a scribbled note? Nothing has changed and yet, everything has. He came for me, put his neck on the line, again, and now I’m leaving without so much as a word. Maybe I should just give him the truth. But then this is Nero. He’s not the guy that has babies; he’s the guy that puts a gun to their fucking heads when their parents won’t do what he wants. He doesn’t need to know this.

  Nero.

  I can’t stay with you. I know you would stand by me and fight the world if I asked you to, but this is my war and you shouldn’t be a casualty of it. Take your power, live your life. Please keep Anna safe. I’ll be back. I just have some things to take care of. Wait for me. Queen always protects king.

  Una.

  He’ll believe that, and he’ll let me run. I can’t pretend this isn’t happening, and I can’t just hope that Nero could deal with it. We aren’t those people with the white picket fence and the normal lives. We’re killers, depraved and motivated by the kinds of things that keep most people up at night. Everything is going to shit all at once. Time and space are what I need to figure it out without burdening him. This is on me, and it’s best that way. When you rely on other people it only weakens you, and I can’t afford weakness now.

  Dropping the note on the bed, I hoist the duffel bag over my shoulder, leaving that run-down motel room without a backwards glance. As soon as I’m on the main road, I stick my thumb out, and it doesn’t take long before a guy in a pickup truck pulls over.

  “Where ya goin’, sweetheart?” he says, tipping his cowboy hat back.

  “The airport, please.”

  I’m now officially on the run. Let the chase begin.

  Discover Una’s backstory in

  Pre-order it NOW.

  https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01LZXWXBA

  https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B01LZXWXBA

  Coming in January 2017

  Kiss of Death #2

  Sign up to the alert to let you know when the Kiss Me is live for pre-order HERE.

  Thank you for reading!

  Writing a book is never easy, but this one in particular felt more challenging. I love all my books, and all my characters, but I adore Una. I’m a huge advocate of strong women and I love broken characters. The more I wrote her, the more terrified I was of not doing her justice. I hope you loved her every bit as much as I do, and if you do, then I strongly advise you read Make Me, Kiss of Death 0.5. It’s Una’s backstory and it nearly broke me writing it!

  Seriously though, thank you. Without you, all of this would be pointless. So thank you for one-clicking. Thank you for reading my work, and thank you for being awesome.

  If you would be amazingly kind and leave a review, I would be so grateful. Leg humps would be owed.

  There are so many people to thank for helping me
with Kill Me, so here it goes.

  Heather Roberts, my publicist and part time fairy godmother. Girl, you are the shit. Thank you for everything that you do.

  Thank you to Megan Maksym of Wild Rose Editing for sorting out my British grammar.

  Big thanks to Cassy Roop for not only shooting and designing another kick ass cover, but for being an amazing friend.

  Thank you Casey Creswell for being my Nero. Those eyes! Swoon.

  Thanks to my lovely formatter, Leigh Stone, for making this book look so pretty and professional.

  Stevie…what can I say? I love you, whore.

  Huge thanks to Kerry Fletcher and Dawn Pearson for beta reading, and particularly to Kerry who had to deal with my mental breakdowns and phone calls at midnight!

  Mikey! Remind me never to write a book involving so many bloody guns ever again. You are my little guru, and I always have light-bulb plot moments when I’m talking to you. FYI though, fingering gun holes is still fucking weird. I worry about you.

  There are so many blogs and individuals who have helped me along the way and you are all hugely appreciated, but I have to acknowledge one in particular.

  Give Me Books and One-Click Addicts. I love you girls and I couldn’t do this without you. Mummy Kylie, organization queen and actual fucking goddess, thank you for your awesome PR and your ongoing support. You’re a star, and no one else can do what you do.

  There are so, so many people who have helped me, and you know who you are.

  I hope I haven’t missed anyone. Just know that anyone who has ever written a review, posted a teaser, or read any of my books...Thank you. Your ongoing support means the world.

  Sign up to LP Lovell and Stevie J. Cole’s newsletter and stay up to date: Join the Mailing List