He has no one to mourn him. A slashing death will not bring an outraged family forward.
I stride toward him. My heart beats a steady rhythm. I’ve done this a thousand times. Never… quite like this, I suppose. I arch a brow at his length and try my best to focus on absolutely anything else about him.
Target One, Tylin Valderban, is approximately seven inches taller than I am. Corded muscle tone. Dark hair and darker eyes. A dominant stance is all I found him in today when I shadowed him. From our short time together, I learned nothing personal. Not one hint of his private life. No friends, no hobbies, no pleasures.
Until now.
I guess this could be considered a hobby. He’s certainly treating it like an in-depth pastime.
My head tilts to the side, giving his rolling wrist one more long look before I raise my knife. Three more steps bring me behind him, his tall frame shadows me and I lean into him, careful not to touch. Just as I’m hovering above him, poised and ready to slice through the vessel along the side of his throat, something in him shifts.
He stills beneath my ominous actions.
It all happens too quickly.
One minute the guy’s jerking off and the next he’s throwing me to the ground. His body dominates mine, and a rush of air escapes my lungs as he slams my back into the floor. Pain shakes through my chest, but I push it aside. Big palms grip my wrist, holding down my blade as he looks into my eyes.
“Did Armond send you?” His lip curls with a sneering smile. It’s a look of menacing anger and smooth beauty. He didn’t smile once today, but this eerie hint of happiness doesn’t seem pleasant at all.
The use of my leader’s name sends a prickle of fear crawling down my spine.
His dark eyes glint against the warm lighting. Of all the things I should do in this dangerous moment, looking down to make sure his dick’s tucked away is not one of them.
But I can’t help it.
It’s carefully hidden away within his jeans. It seems he had enough time to find his modesty.
Not that I haven’t already burned every inch into my memory.
My knee comes up—hard—at the same time as my head slams against his. I attack him from all angles in less than a second. It’s what I’ve been trained to do. A rumbling groan shakes through him, and I have the upper hand once again.
The pain doesn’t surface in my mind. Adrenaline takes over, pumping through my veins with strength and determination.
Using my slight weight, I roll his big body, shifting until I’m above him. My blade is quick, slashing through the air in one fluid movement.
When it’s skimming over the scruff of his five o’clock shadow, it halts. My actions freeze as I press the blade over his throat. It’s shoved there, right where it needs to be. It would take the smallest of movements to take his life.
But the tattoo inked along the side of his throat gives me pause.
The sharp arching angles are familiar. The mark is one of promised comradery. It symbolizes loyalty and life.
It’s a symbol I was given years ago by Armond himself.
This man is marred with the Mark of the Hunter.
Just like I am.
Two
Rookie Mistakes
His eyes narrow,taking me in as the muscles in my arm clench tighter, waiting for my brain to send the signal to slash his damn neck using the knife in my hand. Except my brain is frozen, as is the rest of me.
My eyes are glued to the tattoo. I know better than to pause in the middle of an assassination.
To do so means death, and not for my mark.
Yet here I am, straddling my intended target and staring at his inked skin. I’d like to say that his life is still in my hands, but I know better. Tylin outweighs me, and while I’m lethal in my own right, the rolling muscle he’s covered in tell the story of his strength—as does the mark he’s wearing.
