The Huntress
Book One
Dawn Robertson
Kristen Hope Mazzola
Contents
Introduction
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Epilogue
Did you enjoy what you just read?
The Hopeless Cover
The Hopeless
The Nameless Cover
The Nameless
Acknowledgments
All books by Dawn Robertson
All books by Kristen Hope Mazzola
About the Author
About the Author
THE HUNTRESS
Copyright © 2016 Dawn Robertson & Kristen Hope Mazzola
Published by Dawn Robertson & Kristen Hope Mazzola
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it to the seller and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.
Published: Dawn Robertson & Kristen Hope Mazzola 2016
Cover Design: Kristen Hope Mazzola
Cover Image:
File ID: 81145506 © ambrozinio / Stock.Adobe.com
Formatting by: Kristen Hope Mazzola
Editing by:
C. Marie: [email protected]
Created with Vellum
Introduction
I am not a good person.
In fact, I am the worst of the worst. I was dragged down into the gutter and have thrived in this seedy underbelly where I was recreated. Reborn as Eleanor McGuire, socialite and professional hitwoman. The filthiest, dirtiest, high profile pieces of garbage, I end them.
I am the huntress.
Corrupt men are my prey.
Dawn and Kristen want to warn you: this is not for the faint of heart! But if gore, violence, and extreme sexual situation are your cup of tea, this is the read for you.
Surprise!
Be sure to check out the other two books in The Huntress Series. Their covers, blurbs, and release dates are revealed at the end of this book!
Prologue
Ecstasy in a Hit
Ellie
The blood trickles down his lifeless face, pooling on the cement basement floor at my feet. Wrinkles deep around the corners of his eyes, he looks much older than the mere thirty-three years he has been on this Earth. Living a life of lies will do that to a person—age you, taint your soul, and most of all, physically take a severe toll on your body. I catch myself watching with morbid curiosity for a few seconds as the whites of his eyes begin turning a subtle hue of crimson. I grab the dark rag from my bag that lies next to me on the floor. The blood dripping from the tip of my knife sends shivers up my arms—the satisfaction of a job well done. I make quick work of wiping off the blade that has become more important to me than most would ever be able to understand, my love affair with the dagger that is always at my side. Impressed by my very own handiwork once again, I put my knife into its leather sheath and turn to walk toward the old rickety wooden staircase of the Victorian Massachusetts home, never looking back.
I never do. It started a long time ago when the only person I learned to love in my lifetime exited stage left real damn quick, never once looking back.
I figured only the strongest people could muster up the will to never look back, but after a while I learned it didn’t take a brave soul, but rather the kind of person who has a heart of black, no feelings, just completely and undeniably emotionally void—my own perfect shade of fucked up.
Reaching the top of the stairs, I slowly turn the knob of the basement door and let myself into the sprawling modern-style kitchen. Admiring the tiled backsplash and its bright detailing, I think about adding something similar into my own penthouse between my work-related trips all over the world.
Out the back door I walk, never looking back.
I slip into the warm leather interior of my black Audi as the engine roars to life, and then I slowly back out of the driveway and slip into the full moon-lit night.
On my way back into Boston from the ’burbs, I grab a bottle of wine from the liquor store just down the street from my building and plan for a relaxing evening—Coldplay on the iHome and bubbles in my bath while I light a joint, drink a glass of wine, and masturbate to the thought of the life I just took only moments ago.
An incoming call from Master Joseph flashes across my display screen as the Bluetooth in my car connects to my iPhone.
“Hello?” I practically sing into the receiver.
“Ellie my love, always a pleasure.” Joseph’s deep voice booms throughout my entire car.
“What can I help you with tonight?” I’m short and to the point with him; either he has work I don’t want to take or he wants to get laid, neither of which I am in the mood for this evening. My plans have already been made; it’s almost like a routine I have after each big job—and yes, I consider the youngest sitting judge on the Supreme Court a big job.
“I was hoping you would escort me to a couples party this weekend in Seattle,” the Master sweet talks me. He knows how absolutely captivating I find those high-end swingers parties.
“It’s like you always know exactly what I need,” I flirt back. His proposal is precisely what the doctor ordered for the coming weekend: out of dodge, far away from home, and extremely entertaining.
“Splendid! I will send a car for you Friday morning…say around ten?”
“Perfect. See you at Logan,” I say before pressing the end button on my steering wheel.
I let out a sigh as I turn into the parking garage for my building, climbing the levels until pulling onto the eighth floor and right into my parking spot.
Opening the door, my white designer pumps click against the parking lot floor as I make my way to the doorway that connects the garage to my building. It’s a walk I can make on autopilot with little to no effort. My existence is pretty fuckin’ predictable these days: work, home, sex, work, home, mindless hookup, work some more…blah!
I pass by Mr. Taylor, the old man that lives down the hall. He made millions with some tech IPO when the boom started, and his wife comes and goes while traveling all across the world with their spoiled ass kids. He seems to enjoy a quiet life for the most part, but late at night I sometimes find him walking the hall, desperate to find someone to share a conversation with. I guess sometimes the silence can be deafening.
I go through the motions of my evening at home, popping open the bottle of wine in my kitchen and grabbing a glass before taking the entire bottle with me to my resting place for the night. I throw my purse onto my bed and begin to run the bath water. If the temperature of my baths could be described in a single word, it would be lava. The hotter the better. It burns so damn good.
Picking up a bottle of bu
bbles, I over-pour while playing with the remote for the television mounted to the wall over my spacious marble tub. Yes, I am a woman that has a television in her bathroom. Yes, I am also aware that is a dude thing to do. Do I give a rat’s ass? Not so much.
Stripping my black gym pants and the matching top I wore for the job tonight, I pull out a clear plastic bag from under the sink and drop both pieces in. Tomorrow morning Linc will be here to pick it up and it will be the last anyone ever sees of the blood-tainted tracksuit. It’s routine, just like every other movement this evening will be.
I fill my glass almost to the brim with a lovely, crisp pino and dip my toe into the scalding hot water.
“Mmmm, just how I like it,” I say to myself. Conversation with the people in my mind is second nature, and truth be told, some of my best advisors reside right inside my head.
I giggle as I sink into the bubbles while flipping through the channels, coming to a stop on CNN. I watch the news for the day; I like to stay up to date with current events because most of what takes place in politics and in the world of celebrities affects my job.
After the droning news of the recent presidential election bores me, I flip the input and log on to my Apple TV so I can dive into my deviant porn stash. What will it be today? Bondage? Orgy? Gang bang? Face fucking? Pegging? The possibilities are endless, but I figure I did enough demeaning of men today by killing that poor judge. A man named after a Kennedy. A man raised to be the next president, purebred and as Ivy league as any white Christian male could be. He was nothing more than a pawn in a larger game run by a larger person. The government isn’t run by the president or even the fools elected to office. There is a higher power, a natural order the elite keep on an even keel, and I can tell you it is something most Americans will never get a glimpse of.
I settle on some daddy-stepdaughter bullshit.
I watch the cheesy beginning storyline and try to give it the benefit of the doubt. Poor little bitch got caught flirting with her stepfather’s friend. Little did she know they would tag-team her like the little dirty whore she was. As the men take turns licking her pussy and shoving their dicks down her throat, I slip my hand down and begin to slowly spread my legs, my nipples hardening while my fingers begin to pinch and tease my clit.
“How do you like that cock you little slut?”
I let out a moan and reply to his words.
“Mmmm, I love it, Daddy.”
The stepdaddy stops licking her pussy and palms his large cock—the typical porn cock: ten inches and thicker than average. I could go for a good hard dick like that right about now.
“How does my cock feel in that tight little pussy?”
His words push me to part my lips and slide a single finger into myself. The waves of pleasure flood my body. It’s been days since I’ve worked myself up this much. I dip my finger in and out quickly, inserting a second finger while my thumb works over my clit. The minutes pass by quickly while I am lost in my own ecstasy.
Chapter 1
My Past: Who Am I?
Ellie
My constant confusion as to my real identity is a continual battle. Who am I exactly? I mean, today I am Ellie McGuire, socialite by day and deviant by night, but where did I get my start? If I’m being honest, I don’t really know. I have bits and pieces of a childhood that was tormented with misery by my biological mother. That came to a halt one night toward the end of October. I only remember the month because in the days leading up to the police incident, I had been begging to be Strawberry Shortcake for Halloween. It was my favorite holiday of the entire year. I could dress up and be anyone else in the entire world, didn’t have to be poor little Stella Weaver that everyone made fun of. Dirty hand-me-down clothes and free lunch—no. I could be mother fucking Strawberry Shortcake, a cartoon badass.
The lights flashed behind us, red and blue strobing for miles behind us. My heart raced in my chest as my mother swerved to the side of the road, slowing the car while hitting pothole after pothole. I braced my hands around the seatbelt of the car, praying it would end soon. As the Ford Pinto finally came to a stop, an empty bottle of vodka rolled into the back seat, hitting my dangling feet. This was nothing new to me considering my mother had been a raging alcoholic all my life. I’d known nothing but her horrid example of how little the laws actually mean.
“Everything is okay, honey. If the police officers start shooting at Mommy, just duck down on the floor, okay?” Her words scared me even more, but I nodded in agreement as a man appeared at the window of the car.
She cranked the window down, pushed her tits together, and smiled bright, exposing the lipstick smeared all over her teeth.
“Is something wrong officer?”
“Ma’am, please step out of the vehicle.”
“What’s the problem?” my mother asked again, this time losing the sweet tone she had greeted the young cop with.
“Please step out of the vehicle. I’m not going to ask again.” His tone was stern, and it made my nerves spike as memories of Dean flashed through the darkness of my squinted eyes. I blinked a few times and watched my mother step out of the car. The voices became muffled and their conversation more private as he walked her to the rear of the police car.
Thinking of my mother's earlier words, I unbuckled my seatbelt and climbed down onto the floor. Tears streamed down my face as I tried not to sob.
“What is your name?” I heard his voice as the driver’s side door opened again.
I looked up at him but I could not speak. I opened my mouth and prayed the word would come out, but I couldn’t do it. I cried harder and held my teddy bear closer to my chest.
“Unit 17 here. I’m going to need child services. We have a kid on scene.” I heard him speak into his radio as his arms wrapped around my frail little body, lifting me from the car as I squeezed my bear and prayed this man wouldn’t hurt me.
“It’s okay. We are here to help you. Everything is going to be okay.”
I saw a tear escape from his eye while he carried me to the new squad car parked in front of my mother’s red piece of shit.
“It’s over now, sweetheart. Everything is going to be all right now.”
I had no idea that day would be the final time my mother would be a constant in my life. I was a child and had no idea what I had been raised around most of my life was not the way shit went. My mother always drank, and still does to this day—not that I have anything to do with her, but on occasion I have Linc check in on her. My dad would be completely devastated if he knew I had any kind of ties to her. It took years of therapy to turn me into a functioning human being after everything she put me through.
The drugs, the abuse, the men, the dirty conditions we lived in—it wasn’t a life any child should ever have to see, but to me it was normal. It wasn’t until that day when that police officer, Kyle Jennings saved my life that I learned what kind of home a little girl should live in.
Kyle and his wife Emma couldn’t have children of their own. After a number of miscarriages, they decided on adoption, but the list for a brand new baby was just too long. Because Kyle had been involved in my case, he and his wife weren’t allowed to adopt me like they originally tried to. I think my life would have turned out a bit different had Emma had a part in raising me. Instead, a friend of his from high school took me in and raised me. The two made extremely unlikely friends. Theo was someone the laws just didn’t apply to, while Kyle swore to serve and protect, which often I thought was another big fuckin’ sham.
Theo McGuire was the epitome of a playboy, a millionaire with more money than he ever knew what to do with. He worked hard, and we got along. I was quiet just like him. It worked, and sometimes I would get to see a glimpse of him no one ever saw. There was a soft side behind all the money and women. He was a broken soul. I think that is why we just…clicked.
I had the best of everything, from clothes to caretakers. He would frequently travel for work but I stayed put with Tara, my live-in caretaker. She
brought me to therapy appointments, school, whatever lesson of the week the shrink thought would be good for me. She was a mother without the title, sweet and caring, the kind of person you would say has sunshine beaming right out of her asshole. Even with all that, it was too late for me; the damage was done far too early in my life. Her smile was infectious, which was helpful to me at times. Depression is a son of a bitch and there have been so many times a simple smile from her kept me from taking too many of my sleeping pills or just jumping off the balcony of our high rise. I could credit that woman with saving my life.
Tara was everything I always wanted in a mother. Her short blonde bob with thick straight bangs accented her face in the most angelic manner. She just always looked happy, never a sour puss on her face, never anything negative to say. She was the queen of happiness. I loved her, more than I loved the woman who gave birth to me—but then again, that wasn’t much of an accomplishment. Over the years, the blonde became gray and the crow’s feet around her eyes began to grow. On my 18th birthday, she was diagnosed with cancer. Nothing short of a miracle would have saved her. Through her death, Tara taught me something I’d never known about myself: I could love. I was capable of loving another person…only with her, it was just too late.
Social services let my mother continue to have monitored contact with me: supervised visitation once a month if I chose to visit with her. I didn’t want to, but in the back of my mind I felt like I had to. I don’t know whether I wanted to keep track of her and what she was doing, or if I felt like I had some kind of loyalty to her because she gave birth to me. Around my 16th birthday, I stopped seeing her. She had gotten pregnant with a new baby and said she was finally going to get her life together. It was almost pathetic watching a forty-something addict try to be mother of the year. At the end of the day, she did me a favor.
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