by Adam Johnson
Rogue Assassin
A Watchtower Fantasy Collection
Rogue Assassin is a production of Glitch Media, LLC. 2021
Table of Contents
Pact with the pack: By AJ Mullican
Witching the Wolf: By Becky Murray
Annihilation: By Kat Parrish
Glass and Sass: By Laura Greenwood and Arizona Tape
Awakened: By Amber Garr
PACT WITH THE PACK
Bargains Struck Book 1
AJ Mullican
Chapter 1
If I can’t have you, Cherry, no one can.
Pretty standard ex-boyfriend threat, and if not for the switchblade that narrowly missed my jugular a week ago, I might not be worried. Eric did have the switchblade, however, and, though the cops confiscated it when they arrested him, now that he’s out on bail it would be no problem for him to find another one.
The venom and possessiveness in his voice replay in my head as I see the words repeated on my phone screen. I changed my number the day after Eric tried to kill me, but despite reassurances from everyone I know that they wouldn’t give him the new one, he got hold of it from somewhere. Now, not even an hour after the district attorney called to warn me that Eric slipped his ankle monitor and disappeared, he’s texting me threats.
I’ve gotta get out of town.
Fear grips me tight as I shove my arms in my red leather bike jacket and jam the cherry-red helmet on my head. I rev up my motorcycle, and the tires squeal as I peel out of the parking lot outside my apartment.
I can’t stay here anymore; Eric will be coming for me.
With no family except my grandma, Ethel, I speed through the heavy downtown North Carolina traffic on my way to her cabin in the woods, just outside of Nowhere. My auburn braid bounces in the wind, threatening to work its way free of the hair tie holding my curls in place.
Traffic thins the farther I get from town, and by the time I arc the bike onto Old Country Road at the edge of the woods, the streets lie empty behind me. I allow my shoulders to relax, and I give in to the purr of the engine and the gentle bumping of the less-maintained concrete as the bike speeds through the path between the dense trees. Hazy moonlight slips through the foliage, creating a strobe-like effect on my visor.
Granny Ethel lives on a dirt road that veers from the pavement at a sharp angle, and I skid on some loose rocks when I take the turn. The motorcycle wobbles, but I regain control and slow the bike down to avoid a wreck in the middle of nowhere.
If I didn’t have a psycho ex-boyfriend out to kill me, I’d be better able to appreciate the beauty of the forest around me. Light streams down through the breaks in the trees to pool in patches on the ground that remind me of a Pollack panting, illuminating the greens and browns and greys of nature.
One particular set of greys lying on a fallen oak at the side of the road strikes me so much that I stop the bike and idle in awe.
Not twenty yards away lies the biggest, most beautiful wolf I’ve ever seen. The engine of the bike does nothing to scare it away; if anything, the cock of its head and perked-up ears indicate a level of curiosity.
I know better than to dismount and approach the majestic beast, but something draws me to it all the same, trapping me in its gaze. Its crystal-blue eyes bore into me through the helmet, as though it can see straight through the tinted visor into my soul. Its snout bobs, sniffing the air, and its tail thumps the tree in a wag that, were it a neighborhood dog, might entice me to go try to pet it.
Then I remember the scar on my neck, stitches freshly out this morning and still bright red just a week after Eric’s attack, and I decide I quite like my neck in one piece. I start the bike back down the road to Granny Ethel’s with a wave in the direction of the wolf.
Twenty minutes later I pull into the gravel drive outside Granny’s cottage, and my blood runs cold at the sight of Eric’s car parked there.
Worse yet, the door to the cabin sits ajar, and I don’t see Eric anywhere outside.
The bushes to either side of the drive rustle in the night wind, but otherwise I detect no movement outside the cabin. Granny Ethel’s car sits in its usual spot by the house, and in the bike’s headlights I see slashed tires on the old Caddy.
Shit.
The last thing I want to do is go into that cabin. Eric’s most likely inside, waiting to finish what he started a week ago, but if Granny Ethel’s car is here, then she is, too. I can’t leave her alone in there with him. I cut the bike’s engine, put down the kickstand, and swing my leg over the back to dismount.
Unlike Eric, I don’t own any knives. I don’t have a gun. I have nothing to defend myself with.
Neither does Granny, though, and that’s what matters now.
Despite the decreased visibility, I keep the helmet on. Something about that extra layer combined with the thickness of the leather motorcycle jacket provides a small comfort, like I’m wearing armor.
I creep to the door, my heeled boots crunching in the gravel. Even with the helmet muffling everything, it echoes like gunshots in the night. In a distant, rational part of my mind, I wonder why I try to be stealthy. The motorcycle announced my arrival.
Eric already knows I’m here.
The stairs up to the porch creak with even my sleight weight, and each step makes me cringe. So loud. Why does Granny’s porch have to be so loud?
Her front door hinges aren’t much better. They squeal as I nudge the door further open. Light streams through the open door, but the front room lies vacant. Well, vacant save for a broken glass, some upturned furniture, and a smeared blood trail that leads into the back bedroom.
Granny…
My instincts scream at me to run, to get the fuck out of there before Eric comes out of the bedroom to kill me, but I don’t know if Granny Ethel is still alive. If there’s even the slightest chance, I can’t leave her.
I sidestep the blood and pick up the biggest shard of glass from the floor. It might not be much, but it’s better than the nothing I had before. At least my gloves keep me from slicing my own damn hand on the thing. I clench it tight to stop the trembling and creep down the short hallway, cursing the heavy moto boots I have on. Clomp. Clomp. Clomp. Terrible for sneaking on hardwood floors.
The blood trail goes under the door, which Eric left cracked, and through the slit between the door and the jamb I see more blood pooled next to the bed. I still can’t see Granny Ethel, though.
I take a deep breath, stand off to the side of the doorway, and kick the door open with the toe of my boot.
A nightmare greets me on the other side. Eric stands over Granny Ethel’s body, which has a jagged gash in her throat so deep it makes me gag at the sight. The knife in Eric’s hand drips my grandma’s blood, and its serrated blade measures almost the length of my forearm.
Suddenly, the shard of glass in my hand doesn’t seem any better than nothing.
I scream and try to back up, to run, but Eric moves too fast. Before I know it, he’s got my arm in a vicelike grip, causing me to drop the glass shard, and for the second time in a week he holds a blade to my throat.
“Hey, Cherry.” Even through the helmet, Eric reeks of liquor, which doesn’t surprise me; he was drunk for most of our relationship. He leans into me until his body presses me against the wall. “I missed you, baby. Why don’t you take that stupid helmet off so I can look into your beautiful green eyes?”
Take off my armor? No way. I’d shake my head, but fear paralyzes me.
He holds the knife tighter against my neck. The leather jacket’s protecting me so far, but the teeth on the blade can saw through it in no time, I’m sure, and I have no avenue of escape right now.
“Take. It. Off.” Eric�
��s voice comes out in a growl, and I know it’s not a matter of if he kills me tonight, but how long he’ll take to do it.
Shit.
I move slow so as not to further provoke him, and his hand moves from my arm to my shoulder so I can get the helmet off. Wisps of curly hair tickle my face as they fall free of the helmet. I meet Eric’s bloodshot eyes, and the malice in them as he smiles at me sends a chill down my spine.
“There you are.” He moves to cup my cheek with his free hand, but the touch has no affection to it. “You know you’re mine, right, Cherry? I was your first, Cherry. No one else can have what I have with you. That creates a bond, Cherry. You might think you can cheat with however many men you want, but you’ll always be mine.”
I should know better than to get snarky, but the way he keeps repeating my name pisses me off. “It wasn’t cheating, Eric. We broke up.”
The hand on my cheek slides down to grip my throat, and the blade moves to hover over my heart. “We. Have. A. Bond.” He pokes my jacket with the tip of the knife. “Right here. You can’t break up with the kind of bond we have, Cherry.”
My heart pounds underneath the tip of Eric’s blade, and he holds my neck so tight I feel my pulse in my throat. It’s getting harder to breathe, and stars twinkle in the edges of my vision.
“I’m going to remind you of our bond tonight, Cherry. I’m going to make sure you never forget who you belong to. Who you belong with. I was your first, Cherry, and I’ll be your last. I am your forever.”
I want to be brave. I want to fight back, but it takes all I have not to piss myself. He’s got me pinned and choked, and I can’t move except to tremble from head to toe. Hot tears stream down my cheeks.
“Please, Eric.” I struggle to get the words out past the hand tightening on my throat. “Please don’t do this. Let’s just call the cops right now. You can turn yourself in, and maybe if you let me go, they’ll go easy on you in court. Two murder charges are worse than one. Maybe, if you don’t hurt me again—”
He squeezes, and I gag. “Shut the fuck up, Cherry. You lost the right to plead for mercy when you slept around on me. You fucked other men, Cherry. I can’t just forgive that.”
He’s insane. Eric’s lost his fucking mind, and I’m going to die because he can’t separate fantasy from reality.
Eric’s lips spread in a wide grin as he slides the tip of the knife down the front of my jacket to my stomach. “This is going to hurt me more than it hurts you, Cherry, but it’s necessary. I can’t let you go on being tainted by other men. I’ll fix you tonight, Cherry. I’ll purify you, so you’re all mine again, and once we’re reunited you’ll see. You’ll see that I’m the one you’re supposed to be with.” The blade slides under the leather and under my tank top to press against the soft flesh of my belly. The sting on my skin brings back memories of a week ago, when his switchblade opened a thick line on my throat.
I can’t help it; I cry out despite his chokehold.
My eyes widen at the feral growls that follow.
They don’t come from Eric.
Chapter 2
Eric’s gaze swivels towards the sound first, and when his pupils dilate and his grip on my neck loosens a fraction, I allow myself a glance as well.
The wolf from the side of the road stands in my grandma’s hallway, teeth bared and hackles raised.
He’s not alone.
Four more wolves crowd into the small cabin, all poised for attack.
If this wasn’t a life-or-death situation, I might have taken the time to marvel at their grace and beauty despite their enormous size. I’ve seen wolves at the zoo, but these—these are beasts. Imagine an English Mastiff on steroids, only in the shape of a wolf. Any one of these wolves on their own easily outweighs Eric, and Eric’s not a small man.
Eric whips the knife from under my shirt, cutting deep on his way out, and the cabin explodes in a blur of fur, fangs, and blood.
The first wolf lunges at Eric, which frees me to clutch my bleeding stomach and scurry into the bedroom. I want to slam the door shut, but the fight spills into the doorway behind me, and I realize I’ve just escaped one trap to encase myself in another. The bedroom window is too small for me to climb through, and the wolf’s massive body fills my only exit. Even if I could get past it, the other wolves stand guard in the hallway, ready to catch Eric if he manages to run.
A sharp yelp pierces the air as Eric gets a lucky shot in on the wolf in front. He withdraws his knife, and a spray of dark blood splatters the bedroom wall. The wolf’s not down for the count yet, though, and his jaws clamp down on Eric’s neck.
Part of me finds a poetic justice in the carnage that ensues.
Part of me wants to puke as Eric’s throat is ripped to shreds right in front of me.
Eric’s body spasms for a few seconds before falling deathly still. A few spurts of blood still pump as his heart beats its last.
The bleeding wolf steps over Eric’s corpse and stalks towards me. I’ve backed myself as far into the corner as I can, but I don’t know why I’m even trying to get away. If Eric, at nearly twice my weight and armed with a knife, got mowed down by this beast in no time, I don’t stand a chance.
I freeze as the wolf reaches me and extends his blood-soaked snout. Like he did in the woods earlier, he sniffs the air around me. He huffs and noses my stomach.
This is it. I’m going to die. He smells my blood, senses a weakness, and I’m about to be lunch. Eaten by wolves at my grandma’s house in the woods—I’d laugh at the irony, if I thought I had time left to laugh.
Rather than eating me, though, the wolf whines and pushes my shirt and hands out of the way with his nose to lick my cut. He nuzzles my stomach and presses his uninjured shoulder against my hip. He throws his head back and howls, and the wolves in the hallway answer with howls of their own. A buzzing sensation surges through me, and I think maybe I’ve lost more blood than I realize.
I unzip my jacket and lift the hem of my soaked top to inspect the damage caused by Eric’s blade. The six-inch-long cut oozes thick blood, so much so that I can’t see how bad it is. I can’t see anything in the opening that I can identify as an organ. It’s still deep as fuck, though, deep enough that he could have nicked something vital, and I’m still going to die if I don’t get to a hospital soon. I reach with a shaky hand to my back pocket and try to pull out my phone, but my glove is too slick with blood for me to grip the smooth surface of the device.
This last failure, this last little thing preventing me from getting help, breaks me. I sink into the corner and pull my knees to my chest as sobs wrack my body. My abdomen really fucking hurts when I cry, but I guess since I’ll be dead soon it doesn’t matter.
Something about near-death makes me brave, because I decide I want to spend my last moments on Earth snuggling the two-hundred-plus pound wolf beside me. I wrap my arms around his neck and sniffle into his soft fur, careful to avoid the gash in his shoulder.
I don’t hear the police and paramedics arrive, but I open my eyes to four strange men standing in the room with me and the wolf.
I must be in shock; all four men look naked to my blurry, tear-filled eyes.
The closest and largest of the men crouches a couple feet away from the wolf’s haunches and extends a hand. He’s six-three, easy, and made of solid muscle. I don’t see a single ounce of excess fat on his body at all. Sandy blonde hair falls into his dark blue eyes, making him look young, and if my blood-starved brain gauges right, I’d say he’s in about his mid-twenties.
The other three men have a similar appearance, but each is still distinct enough to tell apart. The sexy tats they’re sporting help me tell the difference, too. Six-Three squatting on the other side of the wolf, for instance, has what looks like a full traditional Maori sleeve on his left arm that extends onto his chest. Six-Two behind him has a flaming skull in the center of his chest and longer hair, Six-One has, ironically, a wolf on his shoulder, and Five-Ten in the
back has some gorgeous watercolor floral work wrapped around his tight, muscular thigh.
Six-Three somehow manages to look at the wolf without really looking him in the eye. It’s weird, almost like he’s deferring to the animal. “Holden, we know she’s hurt. Let us take her back home with us, so we can tend to both of you.”
It takes a bit of coaxing, and Six-Three impresses me with his patience and calm in the presence of this wild animal, but to my surprise the wolf’s body relaxes, and he backs out of the corner, giving the man room to get to me.
If I wasn’t dying, I’d be really turned on right about now. Four smoking-hot naked men want to take me home with them? I can get with that. Not that “home” is where I need to be. I need to be in an ambulance, but Six-Three scoops me into his muscular arms and carries me out of the house to Eric’s car.
“Hey! Matt! Grab the dead guy’s keys, would ya?”
Five-Ten turns on his heels and trots back inside to get Eric’s keys, and I ogle the view of his tight body receding into the house without shame. The flower tattoos curve up his hip onto his back. Nice.
I mean, I’m dying anyway. Who cares if I’m staring and drooling at my hallucinations?
Six-Three lays me across the back seat as soon as Five-Ten has the car unlocked, and he asks for my motorcycle keys. I give them to him with a shaking hand, and he tosses them to Five-Ten—er, Matt.
“Here. You can take her bike back to the house, I’ll drive Red and Holden in the asshole’s car, and Rick and Billy can run home.”
Six-Two and Six-One—Rick and Billy, I guess—nod and disappear from my view.
Then Holden gets in the car.
I’d forgotten who Holden was already.
My body stiffens when the wolf crawls onto the back floorboard next to my seat. He rests his snout on my stomach and whines again, and I wish my hallucinations weren’t naked. At least one of them needs to be armed with a tranquilizer gun to deal with this huge beast.
