An Assassin's Death

by A. K. Koonce

  Let’s say that a little louder for my overactive sex drive in the back.

  On assured steps, I walk up to him, my chin held high and he stands to match my stance. His height towers over me but it doesn’t distract my confidence.

  In my life, I’ve broken my arm twice, fractured my nose once, and dislocated my shoulder more times than I can count.

  Kioko, the woman who took care of me, died when I was fourteen. I was right back on the city streets again, fending for myself.

  Everyone in my life dies ...

  Apparently, Tylin didn’t do as much research on me as he thought.

  For if he had, he’d know that I was a fighter long before I was an assassin.

  Dark shorts hang from his hips. The rest of his hard body is exposed, revealing a jagged scar down one side of his ribs and just the tips of the angling black ink between his hips. My arms and shoulders are exposed and will help me with my grip. Leather pants cling to my curves and for once, I thank the tight material rather than curse it.

  Rory has the good sense to step back toward the stairs as he wipes the blood from his face. He’s attractive in an unconventionally dangerous way. There’s a scar beneath his brooding eyes and though he’s not fighting, there’s still tension in his every movement.

  The three men linger on the steps. Jameson has made himself comfortable, lounging on the bottom step as he watches us with interest. I note that his legs are spread wide in a blow me position. Mason leans against the wall, quietly watching.

  Tylin’s lips part with a hint of amusement and just before he speaks, I ball my fist and connect with the side of his pretty face.

  It lands with a satisfying and slick sound.

  I slip back from him as quickly as I came. My body snaps into a defensive position and I almost want to laugh at the astounded look on his face.

  “Armond came to me. Did you know that?” I taunt him with my words as I stalk around him like a vulture ready to eat. “He solicited me into the Lifeless League. When I was a teenager, I earned a name for myself in only one way in my life. I was a fighter. A very, very skilled fighter, Ty.”

  He shakes his head like he can’t imagine me earning money by fighting.

  “Seems to me that you’re just pretty good at landing a sucker punch.” His gaze rakes across my body, setting my nerves into a furious rage.

  Would it just completely crush him to give me a compliment? This guy’s not going to give me anything easily.

  “I’ll have you know—” That’s all of the epic argument that I have.

  Because then his body slams into mine. His arms wrap around my torso, forcing me to the floor. Just like I thought I wanted. I get to find out first hand—for the second time—what it’d feel like to be captive beneath dark, brooding Tylin.

  My back lands on the carpeted floor with a jarring thud. Every hard inch of him covers my body. He’s wrapped around me in a harness of strength and power. His skin is slick against mine and his features are set into a look of determination. He doesn’t dare harm me though. He doesn’t lift a hand against me. If anything, he seems to have tried to take the brunt of the fall as he holds my body against his.

  What a weird thing to do.

  My legs lock around his lean hips and his gaze flares to life. And just like that, primal instinct overpowers basic intelligence.

  Every time.

  At the last second, I slam my head into his. I shove off from the ground and push him until his back is against the floor. A nagging thought in my mind tells me it was all too easy. My brows crease for only a second before I lean over him, holding his hands in place against the carpet. They’re slack beneath mine, held just above his head. I like him like this; held beneath me. My body is nicely against his. Harsh breaths fan against my lips. We stare at each other, our gazes assessing on another for what feels like longer than a moment.

  Suddenly, with his hips positioned just beneath mine, my heartbeat is louder than the pounding music in the room.

  “You’re more than just a decent fighter,” he finally says.

  The simple statement makes me soar with happiness but my features remain impassive.

  “And?”

  His brow arches as his lips part with an astounded smirk. It’s the first time I’ve seen him fully smile and it gives me an odd feeling of happiness to see the sexy tilt of his lips.

  “And that’s all you’ll get from me, Huntress. You want affection, ask Mouse what he has left to spare.” He jerks his hands free from my light hold and shoves past me. His shoulder knocks against mine as he stands, pushing me to my ass in an instant.

  I sit there on the floor, out of breath and still feeling slightly defeated. I stare up at the four ex-assassins who refuse to cut me a break.

  This is what a team feels like, huh?

  How welcoming.

  Twelve

  Trust No One

  “Again.”

  The coldness in Rory’s voice only fuels the anger that’s churning inside of me. My chest heaves with each breath I draw and I narrow my eyes, refusing to give up.

  Getting to my feet, I throw a glare in Rory’s direction, angry at myself for the way my eyes drink in the sight of the arrogant bastard leaning against the wall. We’ve been at this for over an hour and not once has he left his comfortable perch to come and spar with me himself. Oh no. Jameson is the one currently knocking me on my ass. Of course, I’ve had my fair share of knocking him on his as well. My muscles shake, the ache only intensifying my need to hit something. Preferably the smug look off of Rory’s too-handsome face.

  Jameson gives me a cocky smirk, bringing his hands up, ready for another round.

  I dodge left just as he throws a punch, throwing my own jab at his jawline. He’s fast though, and easily blocks my hit. We circle each other, throwing punches, jabs, and kicks, both staying on our feet.

  My power tingles in my fingers. How easy it would be to use it and deflate Jameson's ego a little. God knows the world could use the break. If it gets any bigger, it’ll have his own goddamn gravitational pull.

  That’s the rule though. No powers. Which is great, because I’m not keen on getting a front row seat to his little electrical show. Not that I’d let him near me when he goes all electric.

  Even though my opponent has more muscle mass than I do, my lean, shorter stature makes me quick. I flit around him, letting him throw as many hits as he wants, until I see him starting to wear out. If this was our first round, he wouldn’t be even the slightest bit tired. But again… we’ve been at this a while.

  I let my eyes take in every move he makes, storing the information as I calculate exactly when to strike. I pick up my pace, making him follow me around the floor, and then there it is. He makes a high kick, aiming for my stomach, but I skirt around him, lining myself up. The second his foot reconnections with the floor, I drop to the ground, bracing my weight on my hands as I pivot and swing my leg into his calf, sweeping him to the floor. His ass hits the ground hard and I stand, finishing my fluid movement and brushing my hands off with a grin.

  “I think we’re done here.” I walk over to the wall and take a swig from the water bottle Mouse brought down earlier. Him and Tylin disappeared ages ago, doing whatever it is they call “work”.

  “Again.”

  I grit my teeth, ready to throw down with Rory. Seriously, what the hell is this guy’s problem?

  Spinning on my heel, I re-cap the bottle, dropping it to the floor—not caring where it rolls off to—and walk over to him, getting up in his face.

  “Really? You’ve already seen that I can hold my own with Jameson and Tylin. You really think you’re so much better than me? Why don’t you get over there and show me if you want to train me so badly. Prove yourself!”

  His green eyes flash, growing dark as he narrows them at me. From this close, I can see the way they crinkle in the corners, serious lines etch into the sides of his eyes. He’s a man who doesn’t smile much. Maybe ever. Light scars mar his
perfect features. A tame, scruffy shadow tints his square jawline, and I itch to reach up and run my palm over it to feel the way it abrades my skin, but I don’t dare.

  This man hates me, and despite his good looks, I try to remind myself how much of an asshole he is. Good looks do not make a good man.

  Then again, am I really looking for good? No. No I’m not.

  I reign in my libido nonetheless, never breaking eye contact with the beast of a man in front of me. I don’t let the way his t-shirt pulls across his chest distract me. Or the tattoos peeking from the sleeves that I long to study. I don’t let myself notice the alluring slant of his lips, currently pulling up on one side as he crosses his stupid, strong arms over his obviously chiseled chest. No. He’s not distracting at all.

  Head in the fucking game, Alexa. I scold myself mentally, keeping my expression schooled so he can’t see the traitorous thoughts running through my mind.

  His green eyes darken as he stares back at me, challenging, and I keep my eyes trained on his. The only movement I allow is letting them flick back and forth between his until finally he motions for me to head back to the center of the makeshift “ring” we have going on in the basement.

  Narrowing my eyes to slits, I cross my own arms and stay put. There’s no way he’s going to get me to cave first. I’m exhausted, but this is my moment to force him to accept me.

  With a growl, he shakes his head like I’m being an petulant child. Maybe I am, but it doesn’t stop the smirk from curving my lips as he bumps his shoulder into mine on the way past.

  I won. Now for round two.

  Spinning on my heel, I walk and place myself in front of him.

  “Stance.” His voice is grit and steel. The muscles of his arms flex as he closes his hands into fists. I watch as he swallows hard, the Adam's apple in his neck bobbing, the tendons straining. He looks like he’s in pain as he stands in front of me.

  “Rory.” Jameson’s tone is wary.

  “Don’t worry, big boy,” I taunt. “I can take care of myself.” I’m not sure which one I’m talking to—maybe both—but it’s Jameson who holds up his hands in surrender.

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Both of you.” Jameson shakes his head and moves to the outskirt of the room.

  I crack my neck and get into position, finding my balance and bringing my own fists up, ready to fight. Ready to own Rory’s very fine ass. It’s not like I haven’t noticed. Those taut cheeks practically call my name every time he saunters past. I’ve wanted to grab his ass more than once already and… I immediately hate where my thoughts are off to again.

  My own muscles coil as I prepare to strike. I just know I need to be the best I’ve ever been in this fight against Rory. There’s no way in hell I’ll let him put me on my ass. Not unless he follows me down.

  There’s proving myself to Tylin and then there’s proving myself to Rory. Tylin needs to see my value on his team. He needs to know I’m capable. With Rory, it’s deeper. I have to earn his trust and respect first. On some level—some very small, almost inconspicuous level—Tylin respects me as an assassin. Rory, on the other hand, has zero care for me as an assassin or as a human being.

  I can’t explain why I feel the need to earn my place on their so-called team. I mean, why does this feel so important? It shouldn’t. I’ve been a loner my entire life. I don’t need anyone. I don’t need them.

  Except I do. I need to know what’s going on. And they’re the key. It’s my life on the line now, and I’m pretty damn fond of living.

  Rory stands in front of me, unmoving. He’s a mountain of a man and impressive muscle lines every part of him. His eyes are glued on me. The weight of them is heavy and prickles against my skin. My body is aware of every inch of him.

  Without waiting another second, I jump into action, and throw a punch into his stomach. His very defined stomach. The contact hurts my hands. Fuck. What does he have, abs of fucking steel?

  I growl and throw a few kicks and jabs, each one landing on some part of his body as he stands still. The only sign that he’s even paying attention is the tic of his jaw.

  Rage pumps into my bloodstream.

  “I’m not weak and I’m not a leper. You can freakin’ touch me.” I grind my own teeth this time, working my jaw. Backing up and lifting my arms again to block my face. If anyone was going to take a cheap shot and go for the face, it’d probably be this guy. His contempt for me is thick in the air. I just don’t understand why. Sure, I was sent to kill him, but we’re all still breathing. So far.

  I mean, how long is he going to hold that little tidbit over my head? We’re all adults here. Get over it already.

  Without taking his eyes off of mine. He lifts his hands.

  “Finally.” I give him a taunting grin.

  Except he doesn’t put his hands up to block his face. Instead, he holds them, bent at the elbow, out from his body, palms to the ceiling. I feel the pull of energy before I realize that he’s cheating and using his power. It’s the one rule to our little fight club, and he’s breaking it.

  Asshole.

  But I don’t stop him, too eager to see what his power is. My heart sinks, just a little, at the thought that I won’t get to search his body for his mark myself.

  Spoilsport.

  Before I can drop my fighting pose, the pictures start rattling on the walls. Images of a happy family with smiling faces lined in thick black frames. Memories of days gone by. They crash to the ground, glass shattering. The floor rumbles below me and I look around, worried about the variable earthquake that’s happening around us.

  The couches that have been pushed to the side wall lift into the air, straight off the floor, as does the pool table. Each colored, and striped ball takes flight. The pool cues rattle in their holder, joining the cacophony of floating items that start swirling through the air around Rory and I. Waves of nearly invisible energy push from his big palms.

  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I yell over the din of stuff that’s whirl pooling around us. “Telekinesis?” My hair whips around my face, obstructing my view of the lethal weapon of a man that stands across from me.

  I cross my arms once more, arching an eyebrow. Luckily, I hold that pose before the pool cues gather around Rory, thin end aimed in my direction. He lets them fly.

  I try not to react as he lets them soar at me. I don’t even blink before they fly past my head, hitting the far wall with a resounding thud.

  He drops everything then, releasing his hold on the objects still aloft in the room.

  The couch crashes to the floor, falling on its back, the pool balls scatter and roll across the carpet. The pool table he sets down with more care. It’s impressive that he can control each item individually, but I don’t say that. I don’t say anything. My heart beats a million miles a minute in my chest, but I don’t let on to that either.

  “You cheated,” I say more calmly than I feel.

  Walking toward me, he doesn’t stop until he’s leaning over me. His hard chest brushes against mine, making my nipples stand at attention even through the layers between us, which are precious few. Three layers. That’s it. My bra, my shirt, and his. It’s three layers too many. Powerful energy swirl between us, sinking right into me in a pressing way that steals my breath away.

  “Lesson one. Trust no one.” My chin is tilted to the ceiling as I stare daggers into his face. He looks impressive and statuesque, and I hate that my body is drawn to his. I can even feel the energy that zings between us, the spark of it hardening my nipples even further in a tingle of pleasure and pain.

  “Not even your teammates?”

  He leans down, the scruff of his beard brushing against my cheek. A powerful shiver runs through my body. I blame it on the remnants of power radiating off of him that seem to absorb into my skin. “I’m not your teammate.” The way the air of his words tickles my ear causes my brain to short out, giving him enough time to back up and head for the stairs before I comprehend what he said.r />
  Jameson’s already heading up the stairs with Rory just behind him. I wish I had something to throw at his head.

  Without further provocation, my water bottle from earlier flies into the air and whizzes past me, heading for the staircase. More importantly, it’s aimed for Rory.

  My eyes widen as it flies straight into the side of his head with a satisfying crush of plastic.

  Power vibrates down my arms, the remainder gathering into my fingertips.

  How did I do that?

  He throws a deadly look in my direction as he scoops the decimated bottle off the ground.

  “Real mature.” He sneers over the railing.

  Trying to cover up my shaking hands, I prop them on my hips and arch an eyebrow at him. I don’t give him the pleasure of my response.

  “Clean this up.” The command bristles, but I don’t argue. Not that I plan on cleaning anything up, but I desperately need a minute to myself. This day has taken a twist for the unexpected, and I need the testosterone to leave so I can uncloud my thoughts and figure out what the hell just happened.

  The second the door shuts to the basement, I quickly turn in a circle to search the area for hidden cameras they may have installed.

  Finding nothing, I finally relax and blow out the breath I was holding. There’s one thing that Rory’s right about. I don’t trust anyone.

  Sometimes not even myself.

  Thirteen

  The Cock House

  “So this is going to be headquarters?” I make mindless chit chat as I walk through the house with Mouse. The tour he’s giving me is helping to keep my mind off of the water bottle incident from earlier. Truth is, I’m shaken over it, but I won’t show it. For all they know, I chucked the thing at him. That’s what I want them to think.

  “For now.” Mouse shrugs as we head down the curving staircase toward the front door. The house they’ve secured for their home base is beautiful. Large rooms, wooden doors, plush carpeting, fancy rugs. The whole nine yards, but none of them know how long they have until a neighbor or family member show up. This gig is nomadic.