I watch the rest of the rehearsal, pressed into the shadows, my eyes unable to unstick from Rowan Mitchell. I tell myself it’s because I can’t attack him while he’s onstage.
But really, it’s because I can’t look away.
Rowan undulates with a grace I can only dream of. The stage is a mere suggestion beneath his feet, like he’s returning to it because he wants to, not because gravity demands it.
It’s sad he’s chosen the wrong fucking path in life. The path that’s put him firmly in The Firm’s sights.
There’s no going back for him. Not now. Tickets are likely being sold for this performance right now. A performance that’ll go ahead without its star.
If it goes ahead at all. Even to my untrained eye, I can see that Rowan is leagues above the rest of them.
I doubt any of them can fill his shoes.
When the scene they’re rehearsing ends, they break character, each of the dancers breathing heavily as they clap and pat each other on the back. They look elated, and they should be. They did a great fucking job.
Rowan, in particular, is shining bright. He makes a point of speaking to each person, a broad smile on his face.
I can feel the heat of his sunshine all the way back here in the shadows.
With no reason to linger, I silently head backstage. Crouching down behind some stacked boxes, I wait for the perfect moment. With any luck, Rowan will end up alone back here, and I can make my move then.
I hear the approaching chatter and immediately pick out his voice. I don’t know why I’m so confident that it’s him. Just that I am. There’s only one among them who can have a voice so melodic it’s almost angelic.
My chest aches at the thought of being the one to take him from the world. That I’ll be the last person he sees before he dies.
It doesn’t usually bother me, especially when they’re guilty of the shit that Rowan has done.
So why is it bothering me now?
Probably because you have more blood on your hands than most of St. Dismas combined.
That’s true, but this is my job. I only kill those who deserve it.
There’s no evidence to suggest that Adam Willis deserved to die.
But Rowan killed him anyway.
I focus on the torn cardboard box I’m crouched down behind as everyone laughs. Happy, ignorant that all their lives will change soon.
They’re currently getting dressed, and my eyes swivel to the mirror propped up against the opposite wall. From here, I can make out Rowan pulling off those tight pants he was wearing. What’s revealed are lean legs and a bulge right between.
My dick is uncomfortably hard now.
I should recuse myself from this job, have one of my brothers do it, but I don’t move from my spot. Don’t bother to send a text or make a call to get out of this. No, I just crouch down lower, mostly to stay out of view, but also so I can see his ass when he pulls on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt.
And it’s a nice ass. One in a jockstrap. One, in another life, I’d spread and push into.
But instead, I’ll be pushing the knife into his jugular and holding him while he bleeds out.
At least I can make it mostly painless.
“Marcy, did your mom like the oat bars?” Rowan asks.
“She loved them.” A pretty brunette smiles at him, patting his shoulder as he passes. “You didn’t need to make them for her, but thank you.”
Rowan smiles. “She’s been sick; it’s the least I can do.”
“That’s Rowan, our resident mother hen,” one of the other men says teasingly. “Why don’t we get your oat bars?”
