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Title Page
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Dedication
MARKED
Other Books By Ella
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Copyright
MARKED
MM Erotica Romance
———————
Ella Primrose
Nicolas Darkwater has a hundred lives in his memory, back-stories, pain and regret and the names of people who never actually existed. But he can’t remember much of his own past, only fragments of a nightmare that replays itself over and over in his mind. He was trained to be merciless and unforgiving, an assassin, a spy, but when his path crosses with his new assignment, Theodore Morgan, he is exposed to long-held secrets and begins to second guess everything he knows. Deep under covers with Theodore Morgan, Nicolas struggles with the truth but he must fight against the lingering memories and use his years of training if he is going to finish the task he was assigned to complete; to kill Theodore Morgan.
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Dedicated to Jimmy, my little spy.
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Nicolas Darkwater is afraid. He doesn’t remember feeling quite so scared before, not like this. He had nightmares sometimes when he was a child, but he’s almost sixteen now—and this isn’t a nightmare, he realizes, pinching himself just to make sure. He presses himself further back into the wardrobe, trying not to breathe, to remain as silent as possible. He peeks through the gap in the door, but his bedroom is empty. If they know he’s in the house, they’ll find him though, won’t they? They won’t stop until they find him.
He covers his ears as the gunshots ring out, the screams, his father’s voice like he’s never heard it before, begging, pleading. And his mother is screaming ‘no, please don’t’ over and over again. Nicolas is shaking, trying to hold back the sobs as tears slip down his face. Worse is when there are two more shots, and the screaming finally stops.
He can’t hold back the gasping, agonizing sound that tears forth from his throat at that moment—and then they’re on him, dragging him out into the light. Nicolas closes his eyes, he doesn’t want to see, can’t bear to. He hopes they make it quick. But they don’t hurt him straight away; they want to take him somewhere, he realizes.
Nicolas is smart; he’s clever, he’s quick. All it takes is one moment, a car turning up the winding driveway unexpectedly as they’re dragging him towards the van. One moment of distraction, and he’s running, gunfire behind him, angry shouts. Nicolas runs and runs until searing pain rips through him. He falls to the ground, and everything is dark.
***
Nicolas wakes in a cold sweat, breathing heavily as he reaches for his gun. But it’s nothing—no threat, just the same nightmare replaying itself over and over again as it so often does. He places the gun back in the drawer at the side of the bed, wipes a hand across his face and waits for his heart to slow down.
He doesn’t think about his parents, but the fractured memories still creep forth from his subconscious at times, the dreams still come, that night replaying itself over and over. No matter how hard he tries to keep it all buried, no matter what his name is. He doesn’t remember it entirely, that night fifteen years ago, he doesn’t want to, but sometimes there are flashes. He remembers so very little of who he was, the memory of that night is all he has. Names elude him, even his own. Nicolas. It is all he has. No memory of his surname, his parents’ names, where he grew up. Each time the nightmare plays itself over in his mind he tries to tell himself to look for clues, but he never can, he can’t change it, can’t alter the outcome.
There are other faces, they swim through his mind sometimes, but they are fluid, slippery, he can’t get a hold of them. The truth lingers below the surface, and Nicolas isn’t sure he wants to dive that deep.
Today, he is Russian - at least that’s what is listed under ‘nationality’ in the passport he was handed yesterday in the briefing. A Russian diplomat, four years in the FSB, and now a private investor. He showers and dresses, smoothing the wrinkles from his impeccably tailored black Savile Row suit and glances at his reflection in the mirror, and adjusts his hair. He practices his Russian, just in case he needs it, enunciating the harsh syllables slowly, immaculately. He’s glad it’s just for one night; after a year and a half of deep cover gleaning information from the CIA, he isn’t ready to be someone else yet again. He has a hundred lives in his memory, back-stories, pain and regret and the names of people who never actually existed.
He can be anyone they want him to be; anyone except who he really is.
He has a great talent, that’s what Anders always tells him, he can seduce information out of anyone. No matter how intelligent these men think they are, all he has to do is smile, sway his hips, cock his eyebrow a little, and they’ll tell him anything he wants to know, anything to get inside him, to possess his body for a while. It is one of his many skills.
Nicolas pours himself a coffee and glances down at the file on the breakfast table - several photographs from different angles, the name, the vital statistics. A nobody, according to the file, a skilled thief and a little more than that. Small fry. Nicolas feels almost insulted that he’s been called in to do what will be such a simple job. Killing Theodore Morgan is going to be easy.
***
The Vienna State Opera is on the grandest scale, stunning. It's a full house for tonight's performance of Turandot. Nicolas adjusts his bow tie, flashing his most dazzling smile as he walks down the red carpet and hands his ticket to the girl at the door. "Enjoy the performance, Sir," she says, her eyes lingering on him as he walks away.
He makes himself scarce during the reception, keeping the conversation with fellow guests to a minimum, scoping out the building, the marble columns, and sweeping staircases, the best exits. He's been here before but under slightly different circumstances. Still, it should be easy enough. He glances at his watch; maybe he can even be back in Berlin before midnight.
The tenor is launching into Nessun Dorma, Nicolas looks out over the audience from the lighting booth, behind him the technician is lying unconscious. He looks through the viewfinder, focusing on the target. He's attractive, flawless dark skin, chocolate brown eyes, almost familiar. It almost seems a shame to extinguish the light from them.
His finger hovers over the trigger, but something is wrong, he senses. Something in the way that the man barely looks at the stage, the way he fidgets, looks at his watch and then around the auditorium as if he's nervous, as if he expects something. Nicolas is about to shoot when the target abruptly leaves his seat and rushes towards the red light of the exit sign.
Nicolas gets out of there, thinking about the layout of the theater, the stairways, and the exits. He heads towards the only exit he knows near that box, poised to shoot. When he sees a flash of dark hair, he knows he's in the right area. It takes him by surprise though, the elbow in the small of his back, the pressure of the punch. He bashes his head back, his skull crashing against that of the other man. They grapple together in the stairway, for dominance, for the right to survive.
Nicolas is skilled at his job; it isn't very often that he finds himself disarmed and in a headlock, but that's exactly what happens now. He closes his eyes and thinks for a second before jabbing his foot backward into the man's shin. It does the trick, the hold loosens just enough, and in a move that Nicolas is proud of he has reversed their positions and has the target pressed up against the wall, blade at his throat, drawing blood slightly. One swipe of the jugular and it will be done.
All it takes is one strained word to tear Nicolas’ re
solve apart, to cut through his persona. One word, one name. The look in the target's eyes when he whispers ‘Nicolas’ is chilling, the familiarity of it. It's enough to make Nicolas release his grip, take a step backward, become utterly vulnerable.
"Who are you?"
"Not here,” The target says, fingers wiping away the blood that's starting to trickle down the collar of his shirt. He turns and runs for the stairwell. Nicolas retrieves his gun from the floor, coming to his senses.
He has a clear shot.
He doesn't take it.
***
"How did he know my name?"
Anders glances at Martin from across the office and then back at Nicolas, frowning.
"It was unfortunate, I admit." He says.
"Unfortunate? Fucking unfortunate? You sent me in there unprepared, I was compromised, and that's unfortunate to you, Anders? Who is he? He's no common thief. British Intelligence?"
Anders sighs, rubbing a hand across his face and looking out at the busy expanse of Friedrichstrasse below. "He works for a private task force, an offshoot of MI6."
"And you didn't think to mention that?"
Anders straightens up, walks over to Nicolas, invading his personal space. "You know what? I decide what you need to know. Nothing more. Remember your place. I expected you to have no problem eliminating him. I overestimated you."
Nicolas’ blood boils at that. But he smiles calmly at his boss.
"I'm still alive, so you didn't overestimate me that much. Is there anything else I should know about him?"
"No, nothing else."
"Do I even get to see the real file?"
"I don't think that's necessary. Just be prepared. I have faith in you." Anders smiles, smoothes down the lapels of Nicolas’ suit.
"Do you think this is wise?" Martin asks, once Nicolas has left the room. "Who knows what Morgan could say."
"Darkwater will dispose of him. I taught him well, remember."
"And if he doesn't, if Darkwater finds out?"
"Then I'll destroy them both."
***
It is late when Nicolas gets back to his apartment on the banks of the Spree, on guard immediately; he slips his key in the lock only to find the door already open. Morgan is sitting on the couch, but he stands when he senses Nicolas enter the room. Nicolas is on him in seconds, shoving him against the wall, arm hard across his throat. He doesn’t struggle, letting Nicolas have the upper hand, which only serves to piss the German off more.
“You can do better than that.” Nicolas challenges, pinning his quarry back against the wall. “I’ve seen how you fight. Your training is written all over you. MI6? You probably have a license to kill, but you’re choosing not to use it. Are you here to try and take me in, or is there something else?”
Theodore looks him in the eye, and it’s almost painful, the knowing expression that Nicolas finds there. They stand there, watching each other closely until Nicolas looks away, satisfied for the moment that he isn’t under threat. He is always one step ahead, his mind always working overtime. It’s the only way he can live. He steps back, releasing his hold.
“I thought we could have a drink,” The Brit says, rubbing at his neck.
Nicolas sighs and walks over to the bureau in the corner of the room and decants a decent amount of whiskey into two tumblers, handing one to Theodore.
“You realize that if you hadn’t said my name, you would be dead by now?”
“You flatter yourself, man. You’re good but not that good. I could have finished you in that stairwell back at the Opera.”
“Then why didn’t you, if you think you could have?” It has irked Nicolas. Usually, he wouldn’t give this a second thought, but there’s something there, niggling at the back of his mind. He knows this man, he’s seen him before. It’s an irritation that won’t leave him alone. He has a mission to complete, but before it gets to that, he has questions that he needs answered.
Nicolas looks out at the river, runs his fingers through his hair, sighing. When he turns back, Theodore is staring at him, a look on his face that Nicolas can’t quite place. He reaches for the inside pocket of his suit, and Nicolas’ hand hovers over his firearm.
“Relax, I’m not here to kill you, Nicolas.”
The name again. It makes him shiver. The only person who ever calls him that is Anders, and even then, rarely. He is known by his codename among everyone else in Anders’ organization—Arrow.
That name belongs to someone else, someone who ceased to exist a long time ago, written out of history.
Morgan passes him a USB stick. “Read it. I'm going back to London. If you want to talk, I’m sure you can find me.” He touches his hand to Nicolas’ cheek before he turns and walks away. For the second time that evening, Nicolas lets Theodore live.
***
Nicolas demolishes the remainder of the bottle of Scotch in the hour that follows, looking through the files with a sense of dread. He has contacts; he can easily get this tested to find out if the images have been doctored. But at the back of his mind, he knows they are real. The agony burns; he should have known. Why didn't he know? Or maybe he did, perhaps this has been buried in the darkest recesses of his mind all along.
He grabs his cell phone, dialing Anders’ number, gritting his teeth. “I'm going to London,” he says, “to finish the job there.”
***
Morgan's apartment is in Knightsbridge, the top floor of a grand old villa that looks out onto Hyde Park. The ground is soft and damp at this time of year, the trees devoid of all their leaves. Nicolas picks up his pace as he walks through the park, glancing at the frozen expanse of the Serpentine with a shudder.
He looks around Theodore’s apartment carefully. The place looks barely lived in, a lack of furniture, some boxes that haven't yet been unpacked but judging by the dust gathered on them they have been there for quite some time. It's almost like being in his apartment in Berlin.
He rifles through the desk that sits in front of the window, but there's very little that gives a real picture of who Theodore Morgan is. The only hint of Theodore’s private life is a well thumbed through gay porn magazine under the bed.
Nicolas is flicking through it when he hears the door creak.
“Find what you were looking for?” Theodore asks.
“No. Although I didn’t really expect to. I see you like blondes though.” Nicolas says, closing the magazine and leaving it on the bed, following Theodore through to the lounge.
He looks different dressed in casual clothes, white ripped jeans and a black t-shirt, he looks ordinary, less deadly, although Nicolas knows that isn’t really true.
“You read the files?” Theodore asks.
“Yes. Do you expect me to believe they’re real?”
Theodore frowns, “If you didn’t think they were real, I’m sure I would have been dead the moment I walked through the door.”
Nicolas smiles, “you’re probably right,” he says.
“What I want to know,” Nicolas says, “is what you get out of giving me this information. You want me to take out Anders for you, is that it?”
“I want you to know the truth because you deserve to. This isn’t you; this isn’t who you really are.”
“What would you know about who I am?” Nicolas challenges, grabbing Theodore by his t-shirt, pulling him so close that his stubble almost grazes Theodore’s cheek.
“I know everything about you,” Theodore says, looking into Nicolas’ eyes. He takes a step back. “We were friends, once, remember? More than friends.”
“No. I don’t have friends.”
“But you did, once. We were best friends when we were kids. When you disappeared, everyone was convinced you were dead. I never believed it; I couldn’t. They never found your body, so I refused to believe it.” Theodore sits down on one of the boxes, drops his head to his hands for a moment before looking back up at Nicolas. “They declared you dead eventually. There’s a grave, just outside Nice. Your parents
are buried there, too. I used to go there sometimes, just in case you might show up.”
“Stop. Stop saying this” Nicolas says, voice strained. “Please,” he whispers, but the voice doesn’t sound like his own. “I don’t want to hear this.”
“You need to hear it, showing you the files wasn't enough. I decided that I was going to find out what happened to you. I was never going to give up. That’s why I joined the Service, to find the truth. I made my own investigation off the record, looked into your dad’s associates—he made a bad choice of friends, but he was good at hiding his tracks. It took me years to discover the link with Anders. Did you know they were business associates?”
Nicolas says nothing.
“I found out who you were a year ago.” Theodore continues. “The irony of it is that I’d been tracking Rogan’s organization for years without knowing you were part of it. You think he’s your savior, but he’s not. He arranged the hit on your parents; he took you, Nicolas. He took you, and he fucking tortured you, brainwashed you until you forgot who you were—loyal only to him, his own personal killing machine. All the things you did, all the lives you destroyed for him. The attack on the British Embassy in Qatar that was your first big job for him, wasn’t it? I lost friends in that building, good men.”
“My heart bleeds for you.”
Theodore ignores the jibe, “I know about Emma,” he goes on, “I know that you loved her, you were going to give up everything for her. She loved you too, Nicolas, I know it’s easier for you to think she didn’t, but I promise you she did.”
“She was a bitch, and she got what was coming to her.” Nicolas spits, his face a mask, his hands clenched into fists. He could kill Theodore now and walk away from here like he’s supposed to. He should finish the job. There has never been a job he’s left unfinished, never.
Theodore sighs and looks up at him. “What do you remember, Nicolas, about what happened after your parents were killed?”
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