I reach over into the duffel bag and pull out my gloves and two slim knives. The perfect ones to slide into someone’s neck and retract without anyone being the wiser. They’ll be dead in seconds, unable to make a sound. I probably won’t use them, not when I have my favorite dagger with me.
But it’s always good to have options.
I stare up at theRhythm Showroom. Dance studio or not, I will be taking this fucker out tonight. Then I can finally head back home.
Even though, home right now is annoyingly…schmoopy. Too much love in the air. Makes me unreasonably grumpy.
I should dig a hole and crawl into it. Build myself a windowless bunker beneath the ground. It would make me happier than what I have to witness each day.
Drives me fucking crazy.
I step out of the car, holding my jacket closed against the cool wind nipping at my exposed skin. I pull my hat low over my head and stalk forward, moving through the double doors of the studio and striding through the lobby. No one questions my sudden appearance or who I am or why I’m here.
In the corner, there are two guys sitting on the floor with earbuds in their ears. Heads bob in time to music while their eyes are glued to the phones in their hands.
Stupid kids these days.
No sense of adventure.
It’s what will make this one so easy. The target is only twenty-four. A young guy who won’t know what’s happening to him. Probably won’t even notice that death is coming for him. What must it feel like to die?
I don’t know, but I’ve imagined it. Seen it more times than I care to count, too.
Often at my own hand.
Behind another set of doors, I hear the music; a slow, sensual beat.
My hips start to move, but I stop them as I slide into the dimly lit auditorium. The only lights are on the stage, the rest of the seats shrouded in darkness.
I’m a ghost against the back wall, my gloved hands grabbing on to the knife strapped to my thigh and tucking it into my pocket. My gaze naturally finds the stage, the eight men and women on it writhing in time with the beat. They’re obviously rehearsing for some kind of upcoming performance, and I can see just from a few seconds ofwatching that they are really fucking good. If only I’d been allowed to dance earlier in life, I could have been on stage with them.
But Father wouldn’t allow it.
It was too gay for him.
Too bad it didn’t matter.
I’m gay as fuck.
Suddenly, the lights shift to something warmer, and the crowd onstage parts. A dancer appears, his leggings tight like a second skin. He steps out from the ether, dragging his feet in a slow, deliberate glide, his hips rolling with a confidence I wish I possessed. His hands trail up his bare chest, unhurried, as if he knows I’m watching.
And I am. My eyes are riveted on him, the way he moves, the lines of his body. His hair is a dark chestnut, his cheeks a pretty pink.
He’s beautiful. A work of art come to life.
But then I see it. The tattoo on his hip. The sheet music twisting up his side. The identifying mark Matthias found on his records.
Fucking hell.
He’s Rowan. The one I’ve been sent to kill.
The one I can’t look away from.
I shouldn’t be watching him now, but I can’t stop as his body writhes on stage. He’s a miracle. A talent rarely seen.
It’s a fucking shame I have to kill him.
Especially with a body like that.
