Threads That Bind Us (Syndicate of Fate Book 1)

Prologue

Six Months Ago

Fresh blood coats her arm, staining the sleeve of her shirt. Copper hair is braided against her head, framing round, flushed cheeks on pale skin. I can’t see her eyes in the shadow of this disgusting alley, and that’s a damned shame, because she’s a vision.

She’s breathing hard, still holding the bloody switchblade in a shaking grip. The man she stabbed has his hands pressed to his abdomen, blood seeping through his fingers. He’s tall, unkempt, and a belligerent regular at the strip club we’re behind. I recognize him from the number of times the bouncers have had to escort him out when he gets too handsy with the dancers.

Seems like that won’t be an issue anymore.

The woman—I wish I knew her name—watches as her victim slumps against the alley wall, tension stringing her body tight. He sneers fucking bitch loud enough for even me to hear, but she doesn’t seem to react. She just observes him as he bleeds out on the ground, long enough that the puddle of blood beneath him grows stagnant.

I’ve watched dozens of people kill with more expertise and skill than what she displayed, but seeing her press that blade into this pile of filth, watching her twist the knife, was one of the most erotic things I’ve ever experienced. Troubling, though maybe not surprising, considering my line of work. The jerk of her muscles thrumming with adrenaline and what must be fear, the twitch in her jaw when she thrust up into his abdomen. It was like watching a savant touch the keys of the piano for the first time.

It’s clear she’s a novice at this. There are places she could have stabbed him that would have prolonged his agony, or hastened his death, whatever her goal was. But she’s clearly a natural. And there’s something I can’t explain that draws me to her.

She caught my eye in the strip club. Her outfit was out of place for a patron, too conservative to be here for fun. She scoped out the club until she spotted her target—the guy currently laying facedown on the ground. At first I thought she was pissed at her boyfriend or something, which isn’t an uncommon occurrence at this establishment. Instead, she squared her shoulders and sat within this guy’s line of sight.

It didn’t take more than a half hour for him to lead her by the hand toward this alley. I should have stayed in the club and waited for my contact, but something pulled me toward her, and I never ignore my intuition.

I’m thankful I didn’t, because missing out on this would be the disappointment of a lifetime. I keep watching as she gently pushes his body with the toe of her tennis shoe, and he slumps further into the ground. She hesitates, glancing toward the door to the strip club and down the alley where I’m lurking in the shadows. Finally, she squats down in front of him, and with the most controlled fury I’ve ever heard, says, “I wish I could fucking kill you twice.”

It’s like her voice activates some sort of current beneath my skin. A riptide of lust crashes through me at the sound of her anger. My blood hums in my veins, and I have the irrational desire to be on the receiving end of her rage.

I’m transfixed, carnal desire leaving my cock hard and my chest tight as I watch her shift her victim until she can find purchase at his shoulders and drag him clumsily toward the dumpster at the other end of the alley.

For a split second, I think about making myself known, telling her that garbage pickup happens in less than two hours, and she’s not giving herself enough of a head start. That there are security cameras in the club that are going to show her leaving with him. But I imagine my presence would only terrify her.

She tucks his body as far behind the dumpster as she can, covering what’s exposed with dirty cardboard boxes. After surveying her work, she glances down at herself. She’s managed to keep her jeans fairly clean—a miracle, to be honest—but her t-shirt is covered in blood. I tense as she lifts it over her head. Christo. I try my very best not to stare at the soft slope of her pale shoulders, at the way her thin tank top conforms to her curves, at the place where it rides up at her waist.

I must let out some small sound, because she whips around and looks directly toward me. I still can’t see her expression clearly, but her shoulders are tense, her head turning from side to side, searching for the source of the noise.

I hold my breath, waiting for her to calm, to convince herself she imagined the sound. Eventually she does, balling up the shirt and aiming toward the trash. At the last second she thinks better of it, grabbing her switchblade off the ground, wrapping it in the shirt, and tucking it into her bag that she’d tossed on the ground.

She sends one last glance back at the dumpster and then starts toward the mouth of the alley. I press myself farther into the enclave I’m hiding in, holding my breath again. As she passes, I get a momentary closer look. She’s tall, with gentle curves and long limbs. Freckles like stars dance along her shoulders and crawl up her neck under the harsh light of the streetlamp. She’s turned away from me, and I’ve got half a mind to make a sound again just so I can see her eyes. But in the next second, she’s down the street and disappearing into the night.

It takes me a moment to process the way I reacted to her, so ensnared by something I’ve seen hundreds of times before. It almost pains me to admit I’ll likely never see her again. I need to brush off this experience and go find Lexi inside the club, but my eyes keep flickering to the other end of the alley. To the place where I’m certain I watched her become a killer.

It’s irrational, but before I know it, I’m calling Zane, telling him to coordinate with Renee and be at my location for a cleanup in twenty minutes. I find a rotting two by four and jam it under the doorknob of the back entrance to the club to avoid interruptions.

I know better than to touch anything before Renee arrives to do what she does best, but the curiosity is too strong. I yank my sleeve over my hand and shift the boxes.

His body is rolled onto its side, his face pressed into the rancid ground. I reach into his back pocket and slip out his wallet. Bryan Crankshaft. Height listed as a few inches taller than he actually is. Address in Anacostia. He’s got a Metrocard, cigarette papers, two expired condoms, and a credit card that doesn’t have his name on it, but instead says McKenzie Willard.

Renee shows up first, blocking the mouth of the alley with her car and practically skipping to my side. She’s got her platinum blonde hair in dutch braids, and she’s decked in a skintight black outfit with platform combat boots. She looks like a video game character, and would take such an observation as a compliment.

“Kind of messy for you, boss,” she says, her voice high and lyrical as always. She squats next to the body, poking it with a manicured nail. “Out to the farm?”

I nod, and she stands up, dusting her hands off and glancing over her shoulder as Zane arrives. While Renee prepares her materials, Zane finds his place next to me. He stares at Bryan’s body for a few moments before clearing his throat.

“That’s not your work.” He doesn’t pose it as a question, and it doesn’t require a response. Zane’s been my driver and right hand for nearly four years, and he’s seen my handiwork up close and personal too many times to count.

As Renee rolls Bryan’s body onto a tarp, something catches my eye.

Tucked under the wheel of the dumpster is a watch. Its face is small and slightly cracked, and the clasp is broken. The band is black leather, impressed with a snakeskin pattern, and even though it’s dark, I can tell it’s soaked through with blood. It could be anyone’s. It could have been here for weeks before tonight. But despite the blood, it seems fairly clean, and for some inexplicable reason, I reach down and snag it.

It’s pretty. Vintage. Delicate in design but sturdy in structure. I slip it into my pocket, rubbing my thumb over the pattern in the leather.

Zane and I leave Renee to her work, and as he drives us out of the Navy Yard, I stare out into the starless night, thinking about fate and copper hair.