The Hopeless (The Huntress #2)

by Dawn Robertson

  The Hopeless

  Book Two

  Dawn Robertson

  Kristen Hope Mazzola

  Contents

  Introduction

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Epilogue

  Did you enjoy what you just read?

  The Nameless Cover

  The Nameless

  All books by Dawn Robertson

  All books by Kristen Hope Mazzola

  About the Author

  About the Author

  Copyright

  THE HOPELESS

  Copyright © 2016 Dawn Robertson & Kristen Hope Mazzola

  Published by Dawn Robertson & Kristen Hope Mazzola

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it to the seller and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  Published: Dawn Robertson & Kristen Hope Mazzola 2016

  Cover Design: Kristen Hope Mazzola

  Cover Image:

  File ID: 85790702 © aradaphotography / Stock.Adobe.com

  Formatting by: Kristen Hope Mazzola

  Editing by:

  C. Marie: editingbycmarie@gmail.com

  Created with Vellum

  Introduction

  I am not a good person.

  In fact, I am the worst of the worst. I am a god. I give life and I taketh away. I can ruin someone at the drop of a hat and often do it for fun. Yet the world would never know. I smile for the cameras and live the privileged life. But with every vile existence comes the opportunity for redemption.

  She is my Redemption.

  I am the Huntress.

  Society doesn’t realize how deadly I truly am.

  Dawn and Kristen want to warn you: this is not for the faint of heart! But if gore, violence, and extreme sexual situation are your cup of tea, this is the read for you.

  The Hopeless is the second book in The Huntress Series. Therefore, it is recommended that you read The Huntress Book One before embarking on the rest of Ellie McGuire’s story in The Hopeless (The Huntress Book Two) and The Nameless (The Huntress Book Three).

  Prologue

  A New Life

  Ellie

  The cold sterile operating room was filled with excitement, bright lights, and that nasty hospital smell. The fast-paced whooshes of the baby’s heartbeat echoed through the room alongside the constant beep of the mother’s heart, which would soon come to an abrupt end. I lurked in the shadows, disguised as a nurse, surgical mask covering my face just like all the other attendees in the room. Latex gloves shielded my hands, and blue scrubs cloaked my body. I glanced over at the glass wall behind me; it acted like a mirror, showing just how awful this stupid getup was making my ass and thighs look.

  A nurse was talking Heather through the procedure, offering calming words of encouragement: “When you wake up there will be slight discomfort, but we will be able to manage your pain quite easily, Mrs. Forester.”

  I did the best I could to not smile at the subtle irony. Little did everyone else in this room know, this was not going to be a routine procedure after all.

  Heather lay alone on the operating table as the obstetrician quickly moved through the surgical procedure, the first one of the morning. Nothing could be more cliché than a scheduled C-section to preserve your twat. Everyone had brought their A game—it’s not every day you deliver the baby of a famous senator. In fact, Senator Reginald Forester was one of the biggest donors to the hospital the baby was being delivered in. Unfortunately, he couldn’t be at his wife’s side on this day, as an emergency session had taken him hundreds of miles away to Washington, D.C.—or so the story went.

  He didn't give a shit though; he’d known all along the baby wasn’t his, but not a soul in the operating room knew that. Only a select few were privy to the reality of the new bundle of joy’s origin. His little slut of a wife just couldn’t keep her panties on and her legs crossed. Shame on Heather for thinking she was safe after Remington Black met his maker. Of course, I’m not callous enough to murder a pregnant woman—give me a little bit of credit.

  Remy left a paper trail behind acknowledging the paternity shortly before his own demise—a turn of events that shocked all that were close enough to him to be in on this secret. Remington was a cold-hearted jackass, and the fact that he’d even acknowledged the child’s existence was completely out of character for the late defense attorney. That son of a bitch had already written the baby into his will for God’s sake. Remington’s last will and testament in turn landed in the hands of the senator immediately after Suzanne Black—Remington’s widow—discovered it. Almost half of his estate would go to the bastard child while Suzanne would get next to nothing. She wasn’t the only bitter one; the whole thing left a bad taste in my mouth.

  Suzanne had suffered enough abuse at Remington’s hands when he was here on Earth; she would be damned if she suffered long after his death, so she did what she had to do. Senator Forester had been very clear when he’d contacted Linc for this hit: clean, and make sure the baby would disappear. I shouldn’t have gotten involved—it was far too personal now—but leave it to me to take the job anyway, knowing full well it was going to have to be different from any other one I had done to date.

  Reginald knew from the beginning it wasn’t his baby because years earlier, after his first wife gave birth to their third child, he’d had a vasectomy. Of course, he didn’t share this information with his tart of a new wife, and she relentlessly begged for a baby; it was a small lie that would keep a hot piece of ass in his arms until he croaked. Years went by and nothing happened, infertility treatments and all—money just flushed down the damn toilet to cover a ridiculous lie. Then when she came home pregnant, he knew exactly what had happened, where she had been.

  When approached by Remington’s poor widow, he wasn’t surprised in the slightest. I almost think he didn’t care what she did, but it was the pregnancy he knew he couldn’t deal with. He had no desire for more children; he would be long in the grave before they would even graduate high school—how would that be fair to anyone involved?

  It wasn’t a surprise to me by any means. I knew exactly what Remington Black was capable of—I was the cold-hearted bitch who put him in the ground, after all. The plan was in place, and in about four minutes, Heather would go into a distress she would never come out of. The syringe of pure potassium in my pocket would do the trick. Linc would be back for the baby later on in the evening, according to the instructions from Senator Forester himself. The problem that continued to fall into my hands was…how the fuck do I get rid of the baby?

  It wasn’t like I could sell it on the black market. I had approached Officer Jennings an
d his lovely wife, but the time for them to become parents was far past; they were too old to be taking on the responsibilities of a newborn. In the back of my mind, I continued to feel mildly responsible for this baby. What if my actions led this child to have a life like I’d been subjected to in my early years? It would be exactly the thing I worked against in my daily life and through my charity.

  It would make me a hypocrite. I had become many unsavory things over the years, but a hypocrite was never one of them, and I was going to do everything in my power to not add that black stain to my resume.

  The cries of a baby filled the room and a tear pooled in the corner of my eye. I was going soft because of this stupid baby.

  “It’s a girl!” the doctor announced to the room as they lifted the crying infant over the blue paper partition into Heather’s line of vision. She smiled as her own tears began streaming down her pale cheeks.

  “Welcome to the world, baby girl,” she said while blinking her eyes rapidly.

  “Six pounds, three ounces, and quite the lungs,” the nurse next to me announced, smiling down at the new mother. I stood in wonder of everything I’d just witnessed. It’s not every day you see a new life brought into the world. I did the opposite—I stopped beating hearts—so what gave me the right to be involved in the birth of this little girl? I needed to make my move and leave before things became even more personal. I was already thrown off my game, and I actually thought about letting this woman leave the hospital with her new baby, though only briefly. What the fuck is wrong with me?

  Minutes passed and it was my time—now or never. Looking at all the staff working quickly, I made my move to the open IV in her arm and quickly injected the syringe in my pocket into the line. Capping the needle and sliding it back into my pocket, I grabbed a pile of used gauze and quickly cleaned up after the two doctors. Such a good nurse, right? Ha! They continued working and I slowly headed for the door. Monitors started ringing and the beat of her heart slowly became erratic. The doctors yelled, looking for the cause of the decline, searching for a bleed somewhere around where they were operating, but it was a far bigger problem, one they wouldn’t understand until she was gone.

  Chapter 1

  Nightmares

  Linc

  Ellie’s text comes flashing on my phone’s screen right when expected.

  It’s done.

  That’s all she needs to say and it is show time. I immediately snuff out my pipe, setting it on the side table next to my red leather arm chair in the sitting room off of the master bedroom in my oversized estate. The intoxicating aroma from the mixture of weed and Captain Black’s tobacco swirls in the air around me. The strong smell consumes most of my home, seeping into every last fiber, and I love it.

  I make my way into my large walk-in closet to get ready for my evening. Stripping out of my suit, I find a fresh long-sleeved black t-shirt with the price tag still dangling from the sleeve and matching sweatpants in the bottom drawer with a new pair of thick gloves, underwear, socks, and sneakers waiting for me. I have been through dozens of sets of this exact outfit after all the time I have spent working for the McGuires’ company, and it is far past just second nature; it is starting to become a part of me. Ellie and I are good about making sure to not mess around in the slightest, not leaving anything to chance, to say the least. Once this job is finished, I will gather Ellie’s clothes from her, combine them with mine and anything else that might have trace evidence on it, and all incriminating items will go up in flames in my master bedroom fireplace to keep me warm for the night.

  I grab the duffel bag from my hall closet and am out the door within minutes of receiving my boss’s message. I learned years ago to hurry up to a cleaning job so I can arrive before things start to stew and get a chance to reek to high heaven.

  Pulling into the Supreme Court judge’s large circular driveway is all too familiar, even though I have never been to this old colonial-style mansion before in my life. It isn’t anything new; they are always the same: over-the-top marble and wood sprawling everywhere with pretentious decor from floor to ceiling.

  Ellie left the front door unlocked for me when she departed only minutes before my arrival. I walk into the grand foyer, following the hallway to the kitchen and down the creaking stairs to the basement. My new sneakers squeak down the steps, annoying the ever-loving shit out of me. Once I am in the dark basement, I turn on my lantern flashlight, scoping out the large, unfinished space.

  The stench of death has already started to settle into the dank room, and I make my way over to the young judge’s corpse. The eeriest part for me is how white they always are, all their blood spilled out onto the floor, pooling around their lifeless body, a halo of crimson to send them off to hell where they belong. His wide-open, hollow eyes stare blankly at me. There is something serene about his appearance; it could be the glossed-over calm that consumes the still frame of a former man, or maybe it is the way there is no fear left on his face.

  I snap into action. There is no time to waste. I set the bag down at my feet and start to dig for the thick latex gloves and large plastic tarp I have folded at the bottom. Wrapping the body is always step one. After making sure it is secured with duct tape, I roll the dead judge into the corner so I can clean the blood stains from the concrete.

  It is a process I could do in my sleep. First, saturate the blood-stained area with cold water. I toss the empty water bottle back into the bag, grabbing the sodium peroxide powder to cover the drenched area with. The dust chokes me a little and I damn myself for not bringing a bandana with me this time. It’s always the little things that I forget and then kick myself for later. I throw a drenched towel over the powder and let it sit, eyeing my watch as the seconds slowly tick, and finally, I rinse the area again. Next, I get down on my hands and knees to scrub the crap out of the floor with a metal toilet brush-looking thing. I chuckle to myself at its bright pink handle as the stain starts to disappear. After using vinegar to finish up the job, I give the floor one last rinse, and half of my job is complete.

  I throw the body over my shoulder, thanking my lucky stairs the judge wasn’t a damn heifer like the last body I had to dispose of. I head out of the house, making sure the front door is locked. There is not going to be any sign that the judge was murdered in his own home. It is going to read in the papers the next morning that the poor young judge has gone missing; speculations of foul play won’t even be uttered. It is going to be rumored that the high-profile job was just too much so he fled the country, not leaving a trace of his whereabouts behind—at least that’s what I sent to my sources. The rumor mill in the socialite world is a cancer waiting to be fed. In the right hands, we can turn anything from fiction into cold, hard, indisputable fact.

  In the trunk of my car waits a large white cooler full of cement ready to be mixed. Tossing the body in, I start my drive to the docks where I will hop on my boat and finish out my night’s job.

  A thin, cool layer of sweat covers my body as I gasp for air, violently sitting up in my king-sized bed, my eyes flying wide open. The nightmares are starting to become a nightly ritual, a damned occupational hazard I am not very fond of in the slightest. I roll over to grab the dry herb vape from my nightstand and take a few long drags. Once my eyes start to feel heavy again, I turn on the TV to MSNBC to watch my favorite late night show. Lockup is probably not most people’s vision of the perfect bedtime story, but hearing the fucked-up accounts of the criminal’s crimes and horrible pasts always seems to comfort me back to sleep.

  I start to doze off right as a crazy-looking woman dives into the tale of her first murder, describing how she watched as the light was snuffed out of her victim’s eyes. She smiles the entire time as the interviewer asks her if she feels sorry for the lives she has taken.

  “On your knees,” I demand, and she listens. Lex knows exactly what to do. She kneels down, hands behind her back already, facing the wall in the corner of the room. I know her knees are screaming in pain from the woo
d flooring within minutes. I know she is begging to be the little switch she is, but silently. I know she craves to be blindfolding me and chaining me to the bed on the other side of my room. She craves the power I have taken from her, but in the best of ways. I love that she’s a dominant with submissive tendencies; it makes her submission that much more intoxicating and powerful.

  I am sitting in my red leather arm chair across the room with a roaring fire behind me. The soft lighting coming from the flames is all that illuminates the large space. I watch as her legs start to shake a bit, but she never wavers. Lex is a good little pet and I love to play with her when I am in town. Our arrangement is perfect. We don’t speak unless we’re setting up a session. It starts the same way every time, with one random late-night text sending it all into motion: I want to play with the beast. God, I love when I see it flash on my screen.

  I’m still in my three-piece charcoal suit and for the first time, it feels restrictive. I glance down at Lex’s black dress, heels, and lace underwear piled in the middle of the room between us. Her naked body is close to perfection—long tan legs, wide hips, round ass, perfect back arch, long dark brown hair, perky tits—exactly what I need after the long ass week I’ve had. Finding that little baby girl a new home wasn’t as easy as anticipated. I had to call in multiple favors and jump through countless hoops. The documentation that had to be forged was the biggest headache ever, but I managed to figure it out. It is going to be a few days before she is placed, and I had to set up a temporary nursery in the back wing of my house with a live-in nanny, but it was all finally taken care of and the plan was set in motion.