The Assassin

by P. J. Fox

“It’s not that upsetting,” he told her, hoping to reassure her. I’d tell you anything right now, if it meant taking that robe off. “A lot of us have the same piercing, and we’re none of us virgins.”

  She was chewing her lip again, looking even more worried.

  He’d said the wrong thing just now, that much was obvious. What he’d meant was, she should feel encouraged because he—and other men—had managed to have sex with lots of people without ripping any of them open or even, indeed, causing minor cuts and bruises.

  But he saw now that she took it as a comment on her own experience.

  “You’ve…been with lots of women,” she said.

  “Yes,” he agreed.

  She looked up. “Men?” she asked.

  He shrugged. Pleasure was pleasure, and he’d taken it where he could find it—although he did prefer women.

  “I don’t…know what I’m doing,” she faltered.

  “You don’t need to,” he told her. “We’re together, and that’s enough.”

  This time, he’d said the right thing.

  She slid his shirt off, kissing his chest as she did so. He shut his eyes briefly.

  Her fingers were small and deft on his belt buckle, and then his pants were on the floor. And then, her eyes on his, she untied her robe and let it fall to the floor. She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Her skin was like marble, a pure, translucent white that seemed somehow lit from within. She was perfectly formed, and even more perfectly proportioned. Her breasts were small, and also perfect. He was an educated man with a large vocabulary, but he couldn’t think of any word to describe any part of her except perfect.

  She stood up on her tiptoes again, kissing him, and he felt her press against him. Her skin was warm, inviting. She smelled vaguely like his cologne, and on her it was the most intoxicating scent on earth. He held her to him, one hand tangled in her hair and the other on her ass.

  God, her ass was perfect, too.

  “I’m frightened,” she whispered, her words barely audible.

  “Because I’m an assassin?”

  She shook her head slightly, the merest negation. “Because you’re a man.”

  And then his lips were on hers, and she wanted him, too.

  He couldn’t stand it any longer; he had to have her. Rational knowledge that she was the most desirable woman on earth had become primal, unreasoning desire. He was fast losing the ability to form rational thoughts at all, and he didn’t care; he had to have her.

  Sweeping her into his arms, he carried her toward the bed. It was a small room and he was there in two steps, lying her down on top of the cotton coverlet. She smiled up at him, and he was lost.

  He attacked her. There was no other word for it. He explored her with his hands, his mouth, unable to help himself and unable to care. But she, he realized dimly, was just as desperate.

  He tried to slow down, to gauge her reactions, but it was almost impossible. She seemed to be enjoying herself; her eyes were dark and her breathing was ragged. Sliding his hand between her legs, he discovered that she was very warm and very, very wet. He stroked her, playing with her, as her eyes rolled back in her head and she gasped. That was a good sign.

  She slid her hand down, and he felt her fingers close around his cock.

  Oh my God don’t come don’t come don’t come.

  Arching her pelvis, she guided him into her. The shy, frightened girl who’d been afraid to take his shirt off had been replaced by an animal, and it was the most amazing experience of his life.

  Wrapping her legs around his waist, she raked her fingernails down his back. He thought she’d probably drawn blood and God that turned him on. Her lips never left his as she strained against him. She was so small, he’d been worried he’d hurt her—he was not small, in any respect—but she felt made for him, inside and out. He thrust into her, losing himself in her.

  He didn’t know how long it went on but suddenly he knew he’d passed the point of no return and he had to come.

  He felt himself spasm again and again deep inside her warm, tight, receptive body and it was all he could do not to collapse on top of her. He’d probably crush her; at least he had enough presence of mind to remember that. Rolling sideways, he pulled her with him.

  She snuggled up against him, eyes closed.

  He stroked her arm, idly, as he recovered.

  “That was wonderful,” she said quietly.

  How wonderful, he wanted to ask, but couldn’t. That wasn’t suave.

  She looked up at him, suddenly worried.

  “Was it…?”

  Oh. “It was wonderful,” he assured her.

  “I didn’t know it could be like that,” she said shyly.

  Neither did I. He kissed her.

  Apparently encouraged, she flipped over so she was on her stomach, resting half on and half off him.

  Lying on his back, most of his tattoos weren’t visible but he was still a well-filled canvas. She traced a finger over the writing that ran across his chest, just under the collar bone. It was an ancient script, one that predated the adoption of the common tongue now spoken across the empire. She traced a finger back and forth across the flowing lines, her smile warm.

  “The death of what dies is the birth of what lives,” she translated effortlessly.

  He stared at her.

  “I told you I was educated,” she said in that high, deceptively childlike voice. Her tone held the faintest hint of reproach.

  “But…?” It wasn’t often that he was at a loss for words.

  “My father,” she explained, “is from Brontes, just like you. He came from a good family, or so he always claimed. A wealthy family. After leaving school, and taking his vows, he decided that his ministry was to the poorest of the poor. So he renounced his inheritance and came here, where, ultimately, he met my mother. They got married, and had me.”

  “And he taught you.”

  “Yes. I can read and write three languages.”

  “So can I.”

  She settled in against him. It was still warm, even at night, and they didn’t need the coverlet.

  “If you’re supposed to be a secret organization, why do you have tattoos?”

  He shrugged. That was for him to know and her not to know.

  She didn’t pursue it, which was good. He found, though, on reflection, that he hadn’t really been worried she would; he could relax around her.

  “I have a question for you,” he said after a minute.

  “Yes?” She seemed pleased.

  “Why did you follow me, up into the warehouse?”

  Her answer, like everything else about her, surprised him.

  “I’d been waiting for you,” she said. “Well, not you specifically,” she amended, “but someone like you. As soon as your friend showed up, here of all places, I knew he’d attract notice—and even if I hadn’t known already, which I did, incidentally, I would’ve learned from him.

  “He made it very clear that someone would come along.”

  “So you were protecting him?”

  Now it was her turn to shrug. “I suppose…more the idea of him. No one stands up for you, here; you have to stand up for yourself. It’s very lonely.” She sighed. “But I feel…differently about it now. About you.”

  He smiled to himself.

  It was strange but, as exhausted as he was, he couldn’t sleep. He didn’t want to sleep. She was too interesting, he wanted to listen to her—and a smaller, hidden part of him was worried that if he did fall asleep, she’d disappear. He’d thought, hoped, almost, that once he’d slept with her his obsession would abate somewhat but now it was worse than ever.

  They stayed up talking most of the night, and by the time he fell asleep he knew that he was in love with her.

  Chapte Six

  “Oh no!” She sat bolt upright in bed. “My parents!”

  I don’t want to talk about your parents right now. He wished he were still asleep. Or, in his better fantasies, she
woke him up with her lips around his cock, taking him all the way down that slender throat. None of his fantasies included wondering what her parents were thinking.

  It was late morning, judging by the angle of the sun, possibly noon, but it didn’t matter; he did his best work at night.

  “I have to get home!”

  Why can’t you be suckling my cock, like a good little girl.

  “At this point,” he offered, “it won’t make much difference to the overall program so you might as well take a shower. And then let me get you something to eat.” And not with Justi.

  She nodded slowly, thinking this over. He was sure that, in the end, it was the allure of hot running water that won her over. Not, sadly, his cock. Which was as hard as a rock.

  Watching her skip naked into the bathroom didn’t help.

  God, he needed to piss. This was like having a hangover without being drunk.

  He struggled upright, thinking dark thoughts about dead dogs and sour milk while he checked his weapons.

  Sufficiently un-aroused, he tried the bathroom door handle. Which, to his rather extreme relief, opened. It was a rather primitive bathroom, and small. The shower had an actual shower curtain, instead of a door. He’d never seen anything like it before, except in books.

  Aiming into the so-called toilet, he enjoyed blissful relief.

  Her shriek was so loud, and so unexpected that he jerked his hand up, going for a weapon he didn’t have, and almost sprayed himself in the face.

  “What?” he asked, flabbergasted.

  She peered around the shower curtain. “You can’t do that!”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Because it’s rude!”

  “Sweetheart,” he said reasonably, “it’s nothing you haven’t seen before.”

  And hopefully, nothing you won’t see again. Up close and personal. While you put it in your mouth, for instance.

  Sniffing to show what she thought of that, she disappeared back into the shower.

  He joined her a minute later, after finishing what he’d started.

  She blushed, but she didn’t seem surprised.

  She’d apparently already washed her hair. He washed his, and was reaching for the soap when she stepped toward him and started washing him, herself. She soaped his chest, his shoulders, and then made him turn around so she could wash his back. As she did so, she admired his tattoos. His back was covered with a huge green and gold and black dragon.

  “Do the colors have significance, or just the designs?”

  Yes, green and black are my house colors.

  “Both have significance,” he told her, leaving it at that.

  “It’s beautiful workmanship,” she commented.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re very beautiful,” she told him, her breath tickling his wet skin. “You’ve ruined me to all other men.”

  I’d better have.

  He turned, grabbing her. “No,” he told her with conviction, “you are.”

  And then his lips were on hers and she was eager, so eager, her smooth, slick skin pressed against his as the spray beat down on them. Bending slightly he lifted her up, his hand supporting her ass as she wrapped her legs around his waist. He really, really liked her legs around his waist.

  She wrapped her arms around him, too, her small, erect nipples teasing him as she shifted position slightly.

  He slammed her against the tiled wall of the shower, his hand cupping the back of her head, careful not to hurt her. She bit down on his lip, and tugged on it, and then her tongue was inside his mouth as her fingers dug into his hair. Lifting her slightly higher, he angled himself into her and groaned as he felt her envelop him. She squeezed him between her thighs, surprisingly strong even though she was so small—and she really did weigh almost nothing.

  Taking his hand away from the back of her head, leaving his other hand where it was to support her, he reached down and stroked her clit. She moaned, her breath hot in his ear. And then she bit him, shuddering, and then he was driving into her and then it was all over and he thought, in retrospect, that it had probably been the most amazing orgasm of his life.

  Turning off the water, he carried her into the bedroom and got back into bed.

  She lay against him, quiet, not wanting to move. He knew the feeling; he didn’t want to move, either. He wanted to lie here, with her, like this, forever. But he knew he couldn’t, and this—like this—couldn’t last much longer. They couldn’t continue on as they were.

  For one thing, as soon as he was done here, he had to go home.

  He propped himself up on his elbow, looking down at her.

  “There’s something we need to discuss.”

  She looked up, briefly, and then back down. She looked small and lost and more than anything he wanted to kiss her. But he couldn’t.

  Eventually, she nodded.

  “I have to leave. Soon. Tomorrow, or the next day.”

  She nodded again, a single silver tear forming in the corner of her eye.

  He took a deep breath, let it out.

  “Udit, I want you to come with me. Back to Brontes, as my consort. Marry me.”

  She just stared at him. Clearly, this was not what she’d been expecting.

  What the hell did she think, that he’d eat a dead rat for her and then just leave?

  She sat up and, pulling the coverlet around her, faced away from him. Toward the window, and the noxious river beyond.

  Suddenly, she didn’t want to be naked in front of him. That was a bad sign.

  He waited. She had to feel something for him; he knew she did.

  “I can’t marry you,” she said finally.

  “Because I kill people.” It wasn’t a question.

  She didn’t respond.

  “I’m not a bad man.”

  “Yes you are.”

  The tears were rolling freely down her cheeks, now.

  He pulled her to him, holding her, and she didn’t pull away. Instead she leaned against him, eyes closed, obviously miserable. And what could he tell her? He was what he was.

  “Then save me.”

  Twisting around, she looked up at him. Her eyes were wide, and very bright.

  “I want what you want,” he told her. “A home. Children. Love.”

  “I’m not sure you’re capable of love.”

  “Not like you are, no. But just because it’s small, doesn’t mean it’s not all that I have. And my heart, such as it is, is yours. I could be a good husband to you,” he urged. “I might never feel everything you want me to feel and yes, I do kill people, but I’ll take care of you, and protect you, and never let anyone hurt you if it’s within my power to prevent it.”

  She stared down at the coverlet.

  “I love you, Udit, and I think that, in time, you could come to love me, too.”

  He hadn’t even known her for three full days, yet, but it was true: he did love her.

  “But what about my parents?” she asked, stricken. “My sisters? Would I ever see them again?”

  “I have…means.”

  I have the means to buy this whole fucking planet.

  “We could visit, yes. I don’t work all the time, and my, ah, day job, as I believe you put it, takes me to some interesting places.” Because, you see, I’m the official envoy for my brother.

  The motherfucking emperor of the universe.

  “And,” he added, “if your family wished to…relocate, that would be possible. Or, for example, your sisters might wish to attend school.” With someone other than their deluded father. There were girls’ boarding schools on Brontes, where they could each have their own shower.

  It was unfair, bribing her like this, but if she married him out of a sense of duty to her sisters, she’d still be marrying him and that was all he cared about right now. The rest would come in time. He hoped. He could see her thinking it over, weighing what he’d just said.

  Finally, she sighed.

  He held his breath.
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  “I think…maybe,” she said. “But I need some time to think it over. Can I have until tomorrow?”

  Her eyes, on his, were worried.

  “You won’t…change your mind and leave?”

  “I don’t want to leave without you,” he said, somewhat shocked at the question. Was that it? Was she unsure of his commitment to her?

  “I promise, I won’t leave without seeing you first—no matter what.”

  He couldn’t; it would be all he could do not to hang around outside her door with the rabid dogs.

  She smiled tremulously. “Alright,” she said. “I…I want to get my father used to the idea.”

  Trust me, doll, he’ll never get used to the idea.

  She dressed quickly, watching with fascination as he strapped on all the various weapons he carried. If they were going to live in the same house, he’d have to teach her how to shoot. And he’d have to take her shopping, too; a woman like that shouldn’t be dressed in rags.

  “Do you own shoes?” he asked, suddenly.

  She shook her head. “No one here does.”

  Oh, God, for the love of—

  “I’ve always thought, though, that if I were to have a pair, I’d like a pair of little yellow silk slippers—butter yellow, not bright yellow—embroidered with red flowers.”

  He filed that away for future reference, and checked the cartridge in his gun.

  “You can’t miss what you’ve never had,” she said perceptively.

  He turned, regarding her. “Yes you can,” he said. “I missed you.”

  He walked her outside, into the sun-drenched street. The sewage-death-candy smell was particularly powerful today.

  “I’ll give you your day,” he said, “but first, let me buy you lunch.”

  She agreed—probably because she was hungry—and they found a stall that didn’t serve rat.

  He’d given his extra rats to the desk clerk, who’d been thrilled.

  They sat in the shade of a makeshift awning, on top of discarded rain barrels.

  “If this were where I live,” he said, gesturing up at the tarp, “this would be a tree.”

  “That sounds nice,” she said wistfully.

  “There don’t…appear to be trees in Dharavi,” he observed.

  “No,” she agreed.