All Mireille, or Merina as she had dubbed herself today, had to do when she’d met him at the bar was bat her eyelashes and ask what he did for work. A few probing questions—to which she already knew the answers since she’d been tracking him for weeks—and he’d all but admitted he had the scepter. Couldn’t help bragging about how much he was going to earn as soon as he delivered it.
She’d gifted him a little gasp, running her fingers through his cornsilk hair and saying how much it turned her on that he was defying the Empire by trafficking illegal relics.
The idiot had dragged her out of the bar and brought her to this crumpled shack in the Southlake district on the outskirts of Kheimos. Three hours of drunken, unsatisfying fucking later—an attempt to allay his suspicions and wear him out so she could perform her search and sneak away without the mess of killing him—and her assignment was nearly complete.
Thank the High Gods for stupid, easily manipulated males. They made these jobs so much easier.
She shrugged on her jacket, patting the pocket over her left breast where she kept her standard-issue Typhon steel dagger, then unzipped her bag.
A sleep-worn voice rasped from the bedroom doorway. “Merina? Why are you dressed?”
Fuck, Mireille thought, her shoulders dipping.
Her wolf licked her chops, delighted.Looks like we’re going to have to make a mess after all.
The Deathstalker wore a confused smile and a sheet around his waist. “Come back to bed.”
Mireille angled herself in front of her bag and the unwrapped scepter. “I can’t. I’ve got plans tonight that I can’t cancel.” She grabbed his face, forcing him to look at her and not the bounty behind her. “I’d love to see you again, though. Maybe tomorrow?”
Her wolf chuckled.He’ll be dead by then.
“Mmmm.” He leaned down, his mouth inches from hers. “So eager to see us again? We must not have worn you out enough this afternoon.”
Mireille had to stop herself from rolling her eyes. Hehadworn her out, and not in a good way. He’d been a sloppy, greedy lover, only interested in his own needs. She’d faked every single climax, and the cretin about to kiss her hadn’t even noticed. Not that she cared; she never sought pleasure with her marks.
He crashed his mouth down onto hers with too much force, too much tongue and teeth, and she fought the urge to retch.
She pushed him back into the bedroom, releasing soft whimpers that only served to make him kiss her harder. She unlatched her lips, and he crawled up the bed. Straddling his waist, she shivered with disgust as he dragged his hands up her thighs, pushing his cold fingers up under her shirt.
“You wanna go again?” he asked. “We’ll be fast.”
Sweetheart, you’ve been fast every single time,her wolf crooned and Mireille nearly snorted.
He cocked his head, reaching for her hair. “Hey, what happened to your?—”
She whipped out her dagger and pointed the tip at his heart.
His eyebrows crashed together as his fangs popped down. “What is this?”
He tensed, poised to strike, and she pushed the dagger down further. “Don’t even think about it.”
He snarled, then turned his head, nearly slicing her wrist with a venom-filled fang.
She called upon the strength of her wolf, putting her full weight upon the dagger and plunging it into his heart. A bubble of green blood burst from his mouth as his limp limbs fell to the bed.
Typhon steel to the heart was one of the quickest, most effective ways to deliver True Death to a Fae.
Mireille crawled off the Deathstalker’s body then covered it with a sheet and wiped the blood off her hands and dagger. She slipped the weapon into her jacket as she returned to the kitchenette, then rewrapped the scepter and placed it in her bag. She wouldn’t have time to deliver it to Imperial Affairs tonight; she’d barely have time to make it to the theater.
She glanced back into the bedroom. Patches of bright green blood seeped through the sheet and tiny rivulets snaked across the stripped mattress, dripping onto the floor.
Let me out, her wolf whined.I can clean up your tracks. And I haven’t had a proper snack in days.
We don’t have time for that, Mireille snarled back.
You’re no fun.
Mireille rushed through the shack, massaging her cheeks—Sweet Amatu, all those fucking smiles she’d given the male over the past few hours made them ache.
