by Amity Cross
X shifted beside me, his hand clasping around my knee. “You disarm me.”
I raised my eyebrows, my gaze lifting to his. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
“It’s pretty much everything,” he retorted.
“Everything…” I trailed off.
“Love in a fucking shitstorm of chaos.” He rubbed his eyes in frustration.
I shifted from my position on the armchair and slid next to him on the sofa. “I always thought you said that to make Allaire piss his pants.” Allaire, the man we tortured in our quest to find Sykes.
X stared at me, his expression full of fire. “No.”
“I thought…” I shrugged. I’d thought he was just using our association to get to our target. There was no doubting that we had something together, but love? I loved him and now he was saying he loved me in return?
“I can’t say it,” he murmured. “I can’t if I don’t know what it means.”
“You blew up a building for me,” I said with a shit-eating grin, remembering that night in Paris when he turned Lafayette’s posh wine bar into matchsticks.
X’s expression began to soften, a ghost of a smile pulling at his lips. “It might not be…normal…but it's the only way I can understand it.”
I smiled. It was enough for me.
He leaned forward, pressed his lips to my forehead and turned back to the bullets on the table, resuming his work. He nudged me with his elbow, signaling he wanted me to pick up the pliers and try again. I may have gotten my revenge, but my training was far from over. We’d never spoken about it, but once we’d arrived back at the cottage we’d just picked up where we left off. It seemed like the thing to do since we weren’t doing anything else.
The whole thing felt like a distraction.
While I constantly thought about what was next, X didn’t seem to think about anything but me. Not that I was complaining, the sex had become less violent between us, things were calm and he seemed to have a handle on his dreams. We now slept together in the same bed and woke up entwined with each other. It was everything a girl could want…or so it should be.
There was a cloud hanging over my thoughts day in, day out. A stormy blackness shaped like a skull with a dirty great big crown on its head. Didn’t X want to know about his past? Didn’t he want revenge? The notion was unfathomable to me. It had been the one thing I wanted most in the world besides X.
I watched him prepare another bullet casing, not sure how to broach the subject. I’d sat on it for the three weeks we’d been hiding out here since coming back from France. How did you ask a hitman about his secrets? You didn’t.
X glanced at me, perceptive as always. “I can see that look on your face, Mercy. What do you want to know?”
“When…” I wasn’t sure how to phrase it.
“When what?”
“Do you want to go after Royal Blood? Find out—”
He raised a hand, effectively cutting me off.
“I don’t want to know,” he declared.
My jaw dropped open in surprise. “Never?”
He shook his head. “What if…”
“What if what?”
“What if it changes me? I feel like…” He drew in a sharp breath and I reached over and grasped his hand, caressing his knuckles with my thumb. “I feel like I’m finally static.”
I understood what he meant. After so much chaos, he was finally finding his footing in his own mind.
“I can’t go back to that. I almost killed you twice.” He jerked his hand away. “What if I do it again?”
“You won’t,” I said, pressing closer. “We’ve been sleeping together okay…your dreams are fading, right?”
“I still see them,” he argued. “Their faces…” I reached up and cupped his strong jaw in my hand. “Sykes almost killed us both. He almost took you from me.” He shook his head, knocking my hand away. “A man like me with something to lose? That’s a bad position to be in.”
“What about a man with nothing to fight for?” I argued.
“I can fight for you,” he said simply.
“I’m more than capable of fighting for myself.”
X’s expression darkened alarmingly. Shit, that was the wrong thing to say.
“It doesn’t matter who I was,” he said sharply. “Only now matters. Only this.”
He picked up the pliers and resumed his work. Methodical, regimented…stiff. He would always prefer grasping onto something tangible in the here and now when things got too hard emotionally. He’d always fall back on his training. Too bad that training had been under torture.
Therein lay the problem. Pain defined him.
I wasn’t sure I could handle that.
“X…”
He glanced at me, not bothering to mask his annoyance. I thought about the first moment I laid eyes on him. The epic asshole who had walked into The Gambler’s Inn and called me a bitch. The man who showed himself to me as he unraveled. The lone wolf who placed his unfaltering trust in his mark. I saw the fire in him then, and I could see it in him now. That was the man I fell in love with. The man he was now. I didn’t like it, but if it was what he truly wanted…
Not knowing how to voice all that, I leaned forward and pressed my lips to his, and let my body convey it for me.
He dropped the pliers once more and fisted his hand into my hair, my choppy crop that he’d cut haphazardly in the bathroom. It was growing out some and he wound his fingers through it, holding me firmly to his lips.
X kissed me hard, his tongue sliding against mine. It was never a little with him—it was always a lot or nothing at all.
“Leave it,” he murmured against my mouth. “I’ve made up my mind.”
“Okay,” I replied, kissing him again. “I trust you.”
He moaned softly and pressed me back onto the sofa, covering me with his body, the bullets forgotten.
A lot or nothing at all. I wasn’t complaining.
Chapter 2
X
A name.
A face.
Cross them out.
X marks the spot.
The rock was hard in my hand as I scratched the sharpened tip along the wall, scratching mark after mark on the hard surface. It was so dark, so cold. I scratched another line, this time in the opposite direction to the one before. Left, then right. Left, then right. I huddled against the wall, desperate to complete my work. Left, then right.
Who was I? I made another mark. I didn’t know anything but this darkness. Left, then right.
The door began to open, letting in a stream of bright, white light, and I raised my hand to cover my sensitive eyes.
A dark figure stepped inside my world and I realized it was a man. The man who’d guided me to this place. The man who’d hurt me, chained me, flayed me, burned me. The man who’d taken everything. I didn’t feel anything.
The man glanced at the sharpened rock in my hand, then at the wall where I’d carved marks onto the surface. Crosses, everywhere there was a blank space, were crosses. In my blindness, I hadn’t realized what I was doing, I just raised my hand and my subconscious took over. Left, then right.
“Xavier,” the man said, his voice loud after so much silence.
I stilled, the rock slipping from my fingers and clattering to the floor. Was that my name?
“Xavier,” the man said again and this time I stared up at him, blinking furiously as my eyes adjusted to the light.
“It’s time to begin,” the man continued.
“Begin what?” I asked, but my voice came out in a ragged whisper. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d spoken, or the last time I‘d screamed in pain, it was so long ago.
By some miracle, the man had heard me and smiled. “Your training.”
My ears still rang with the sound of the gunshot that was my final test. The man in the hood.
He was on his knees in my world and The Watchman had bade me to shoot him. So I shot him.
After that, I was t
aken from that place, washed, pampered and fed, given clothes and my name made official. Xavier Blood was born.
The Watchman held up a black leather jacket, offering it to me with a rare smile.
“This is for you,” he said. A possession. Something that was mine. Mine.
My fingers curled around the jacket and I held it close. Mine.
I took note of the emblem emblazoned on the back. A skull with a crown was situated there with the words of the MC, Royal Blood Motorcycle Club. Royal Blood…
The Watchman smiled at me, clapping his hand on my shoulder. “You’re going to be a part of them,” he said. “A brother.”
A brother. Xavier Blood. Royal Blood. I was trained to be their brother.
I sat in the back of a car, driving through the city streets, my gaze taking in everything that passed by, my training working overtime as I finally saw the world. Street names, distances between blocks, the route we took from the building that I’d emerged from, the neighborhood in which it was situated, the faces of people who walked the streets at night, the facade of the pub that the car pulled up in front of.
The Gambler’s Inn was dark, the hour late, the sign above the door swinging slightly in the breeze. A skull with a crown slipping off its head. Royal Blood…
The pub was empty as we entered. Inside, the carpet had lost its pile a long time ago and held a slight stickiness against my boots. A long mahogany bar with gold beer taps stretched along the right hand side, bottles of liquor lining the mirrored wall directly behind. The rest of the room held nothing of much value. There was pool table at the back, tables and chairs, and an old nineteen-sixties style jukebox with a sign hung on it that read ‘out of order’. The place stunk like stale beer and cigarette smoke.
The Watchman led me through to the back and pushed open a door labeled ‘office’. I followed without question.
“You’re late,” a man declared as we entered the tiny space. A sofa sat against one wall, a bank of filing cabinets opposite and a cheap looking desk sat at the other end. The man who’d spoken was rising to his feet, pushing away from the cheap chipboard that served as his workspace…and his over-full ashtray. I wrinkled my nose in distaste. Those things would fucking kill him.
“We’re right on time,” The Watchman replied, before turning to me. “This is Xavier. He’s your new assassin.”
I stared at the man as he gauged me with his gaze, appraising his strengths and weaknesses. He stunk of cigarette smoke and had an arrogance about him that I found distasteful.
“This is Weiss,” The Watchman said. “He’ll be your handler.”
Handler. I narrowed my eyes.
“I’m better than I look,” Weiss drawled. Reaching into his coat pocket, he pulled out a packet of cigarettes and flipped open the top. He held out the packet to me. “Want one?”
“Those things will fucking kill you,” I replied, my expression never moving.
Weiss began to laugh and lit up a new cigarette. “I like this one already.”
“When do we begin?” I asked, practically foaming at the mouth to taste blood again.
“This isn’t the end, Xavier,” The Watchman said. “There’s one last trial before your work begins.”
I raised my eyebrow. “And that is?”
Weiss turned to the desk, picked up an orange envelope and handed it to me. “The details of your marks are inside,” he said, the cigarette in his mouth bobbing up and down. “You have forty-eight hours to return here to me with confirmation that the hit has been completed.”
I cocked my head to the side. “Then?”
“Then,” The Watchman said, “you’re one of us.”
That was all I’d ever wanted. To be one of them. To leave that room and become what I was meant to be. Assassin. Hitman. Ghost. Monster.
“Who are they?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Weiss replied. “All that you need to know is that Greggor wants them dead.”
Greggor wanted them dead. Loyalty was not asking questions. Loyalty was unfaltering trust.
I opened the envelope. “Understood.”
I moved through the house silently, my boots sinking into the plush carpet. Paintings hung on the wall at regular intervals—landscapes, portraits…investments. My gaze fixed on a sliver of warm light leaking out from underneath the door ahead. Further down the hall, a staircase trailed upwards into darkness.
The gun was heavy in my hand, weighed down by the silencer on the end. This felt natural, normal. I was eager to do what I was ordered, just like I’d felt when I’d shot the man in the hood.
The mark had been easy to locate. They had a known address and lax security. There was a man in a sleek, black car staking out the house a few doors down, which didn’t bother me in the slightest. They were being watched, or protected, but it felt like the man was there more for the marks peace of mind rather than actual security. A smoke screen of bureaucracy. Either way it didn’t matter, the man didn’t see me enter the house.
My marks were one man, late-fifties in age, and one woman, obviously his wife. Whatever they’d done, I didn’t give a shit. Greggor wanted them dead and I wanted to belong.
The house was cold as I moved silently down the hallway, my fingers tightening around the gun. The leather of my gloves creaked slightly, my breathing even, my heartbeat solid. As I approached the doorway with the light, the sound of a male voice filtered through from the other side.
“Do they have any leads?” the man asked, his voice strained. He was in pain, emotional turmoil. It didn’t matter to me.
“I want to come back in and head up the search,” the man went on. “I know I’ve been… I don’t give a damn about protocol. I want to find the men responsible for my son’s death.” There was a pause and I began to turn the door handle, feeling the mechanism moving. “For all we know he’s still alive. There has been no word for over a year. My hope may be misguided, but I have faith in him. He is excellent at his job. If anyone could survive capture this long, it’s him.”
The door began to open, my gaze fixing on the room in front of me. It was a study, elegant and masculine in design, and the man who was speaking was behind a desk, his back facing me. His shoulders were tense, his hand gripped tightly around the mobile phone he was holding. He wore a dark suit, his graying hair swept back. It didn’t matter who he was, only that he fit the description. I had his photograph in my pocket and that meant he was to be eliminated.
“This isn’t over, Parker,” he snapped. “I will be seeing you at the branch in the morning. I expect full disclosure on this matter…and I want to see my son’s body.” He lowered his hand and pressed a button on the phone before dropping it into the breast pocket of his suit jacket.
I slipped into the room and raised the gun, the end slightly heavy due to the silencer screwed onto it. It was too late for him.
Abruptly, the man’s head raised, and his gaze met mine in the reflection in the window. He spun, his body coming to face mine. “Oh my god.”
I cocked my head to the side, barely registering his shock. I didn’t know why he was so surprised. Maybe it had everything to do with the gun in my hand. I pulled the trigger, and the bullet left the barrel with hardly a sound. He clutched his chest, blood seeping through his crisp, white shirt and soaking his dark suit even darker. His eyes began to glaze in disbelief and he fell heavily to his knees.
“What have they done to you?” he gasped as I stepped forward to finish the job.
I fired another shot, this time embedding a bullet in his head. He slumped to the floor, blood beginning to pool thick and fast onto the carpet.
There was a thump overhead and I cast my gaze toward the ceiling. My second mark was upstairs.
Glancing at the man, I confirmed he was dead without having to check his pulse. He didn’t move, and his eyes were empty. Quick, efficient, but one bullet too many. One should’ve been enough.
I left the door open as I left the room and strode toward the stairs. Glanci
ng upward, I ascended, the gun raised as I trod softly. The woman would be easier.
The hallway above was dark, all the doors closed to keep the heat from the inbuilt radiators inside. I went for the light. The sound of the woman moving around as she no doubt readied herself for bed, was muffled through the wood. I’d be on my way out in one minute. Maybe less.
I opened the door in one swift movement and stepped into a bedroom. There was no time to take stock of my surroundings because the woman turned, her eyes registering me with the same shock as the man had. She matched the photograph. Blonde hair, blue eyes, a full, friendly face. It was her.
She held up her hands, her eyes full of terror as I leveled the gun at her head. “No… Please, no!”
I pulled the trigger.
This time, one shot was all it took.
Better.
I slammed open the door to Weiss’ office in The Gambler’s Inn and strode across the room.
He sat up in his chair, obviously surprised that I’d returned so soon.
“You’re early,” he drawled, looking me up and down.
I dumped the photographs on the desk. Weiss reached over and slid them across the table toward him.
“A bit dramatic?” he asked, raising his eyebrows at the marks I’d scratched over the faces.
X marks the spot.
I breathed deeply, flexing my fingers. “It’s done. Doesn’t matter how.”
Weiss leaned back in his chair and picked up his mobile phone, pressing his thumb against the screen. I waited.
“He’s back,” he said to whoever was on the other end, without as much as a hello. “Visual confirmation?” He glanced at me, and I stared back impassively. “Understood.” He hung up the call, tossing the phone on the desktop.
Weiss rose, straightening his jacket. “Congratulations, X,” he declared, holding his hand out.
I stared at it then back at him. X? Was that meant to be some kind of nickname?
“Shake my hand, asshole,” he said with a chuckle when I didn’t move.
