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But it was her. She’s the one who sent my father to the grave.
Taking a life is never easy, even when death is deserved. Throughout the years, I’ve learned that in order to get the job done, I have to detach any and all emotions from what I’m doing. Force myself to move automatically. Instinctually. With her, it can be no different.
From a hidden sheath on the underside of the coffee table, I pull the six-inch blade. Holding it firmly in my fist, I slowly stalk past the bedroom to the bath. Thick swirls of steam waft from the shower and surround me in the delicate scent of her soap.
I can easily see her through the glass door. She’s facing away from me, scrubbing her arms with the pink poof she purchased at the drugstore the other night. Water drips from her fiery curls and streams over her silken skin. Skin I caressed and licked. Worshiped.
For the first time since my first kill, I hesitate. Then she turns and her bright-blue eyes light up and she smiles. She smiles because she can’t see the blade hidden just slightly from her view. The blade meant to shut those blue eyes forever.
“I wasn’t sure if you were going to join me.” She reaches for the bar on the glass door.
Suddenly, it feels like my hand is made of stone, heavy and immobile. Every part of my being that I’ve worked hard to compartmentalize is now warring against each other. And each one of those parts—duty, loyalty, and honor—are all threatened by a single emotion I never made a box for, because I didn’t know the danger it posed.
The realization of what that is has me stepping back.
“I have to go out for a bit,” I say. “A work thing.”
Her brows pinch together. “It’s nine. What kind of work thing would you do at this hour?”
“A client came into town unexpectedly. He wants to meet me for drinks.”
Disappointment fills her expression as she shuts the water off. “Will you be gone long?”
“I’m not sure.” I tuck the knife into the back of my pants and grab a towel from the rack. When she comes out of the shower, she lifts her arms and I wrap it around her.
“I’ll wait up for you.”
“Don’t,” I say. “Go to bed.”Close your eyes and make this easier.
“Okay.” She presses herself against me and snakes her hands around my neck, drawing me down for a kiss. “Will you bring me a treat?”
“Anything.” The word comes out choked, shoved through my throat, made tight by the unnamed emotion.
“Chocolate cake.”
On my way out, I snatch her phone off the side table and leave her smiling, happily oblivious to the short time she has left. Because when I return, she will be sleeping. Only then will I be able to do what I vowed. When she will feel nothing and drift away with that ever-present smile on her sweet face. What I’d expect any of my men to do when Gianni blood is spilled.
I will kill Emily.
18
EMILY
“Noah?” I call out instinctively after waking and finding his side of the bed empty. Looking around the room, I listen intently for any sign of his presence.
When he doesn’t respond, I get out of bed and peek into the bathroom. He’s not there either.
On the counter is one of his discarded white T-shirts. I lift it to my nose and inhale his clean, masculine scent. God, I love the way that man smells. Even at his sweatiest, he smells good to me. Intoxicating. Sexy as hell.
I remember watching a show once, where they did a study on what attracts certain people to each other. It all lead back to pheromones. Because, in the end, it’s all about chemistry. Which two humans are most likely to procreate successfully.
If there’s truth to any of that, I think Noah and I are a perfect chemical match. Made to attract each other. To mate.
Slipping the shirt over my naked skin, feeling him surround me, I leave the room.
“Noah?” I say again as I go from the living room to the kitchen.
On the counter, I find a note.Didn’t want to wake you. Had an important call this morning. See you in a while.
