Chapter 2
Anton
The karaoke machine finally goes silent.
I’ve been standing in the doorway long enough to watch this drunk woman scream-sing and confess too much. Now she’s passed out on the couch.
I lock the door behind me. Deadbolt. Chain. Always. Doesn’t matter where I am—Moscow, Prague, L.A., or this overpriced apartment in Vegas that smells like wet pavement and bad choices.
The place is too warm now. The air thick with wine, perfume, and something sweet underneath it all. The smell of a woman. Not one I invited.
She’s spread out on the couch like a fucking offering.
She’s not supposed to be here. I know that much. The tenant—Jasper Saint James—is halfway around the world, balls-deep in a Milanese turtleneck named Stefano. He leased this apartment out short-term. Discreetly. Through a contact who owes favors. To me.
I always know everything about where I’m staying—exits, neighbors, blind spots, who has keys.
And yet here she is.
Drunk. Barely dressed. Dead asleep.
I’m in Vegas tracking Viktor Kozlov, a mid-level accountant who thought skimming two million from the Bratva’s casino operations would go unnoticed. The Pakhan wants him breathing long enough to tell us where the money went, then breathing no longer. Simple work. Clean work.
This woman is neither simple nor clean.
She’s still sprawled across the couch, one leg kicked over a pillow.
Just an oversized hoodie hiked up high on her hips and a pair of white panties hugging her ass—trimmed in neon pink, riding high enough that I see the curve of her lower cheeks peeking out.
Her thighs are thick, full, the kind of legs that squeeze, not pose.
The kind of legs a man grips when he’s trying not to lose it.
My cock twitches once.
She’s exactly the kind of woman I’d fuck.
Curvy. Soft. Built to be bent over a couch and ruined until she forgets anyone who ever touched her before me.
That hoodie’s thin, cheap, probably slept in, stretched across her chest like it’s one tug from tearing.
No bra. Her nipples are hard, dark outlines pressing through the worn cotton like they’re begging for attention.
Her thighs are full. Her belly isn’t flat.
She’s real. Solid. A body made to be handled. Taken. Not teased.
I should drag her out. Right now. Deal with the mess.
But instead, I look.
Longer than I should.
Then I pull out my phone. Snap a photo. Just one. Face clear. Body visible. A habit. In case someone ever asks who she was. In case she’s not some drunk idiot, but bait. If she was sent, I want proof before her story changes. And they always change.
I move closer now, slowly, crouching just enough to see her face better.
But she’s not a trap. I’d bet my knife on it.
Chestnut hair, loose and tangled. A small nose. Rounded cheeks. Mouth soft and pouty even in sleep. There’s a green face mask cracked and peeling off her skin, making her look like some kind of drunk swamp creature.
Her lips move slightly. She mumbles something unintelligible, and the hoodie shifts higher, giving me a better view of those white panties stretched across her hip.
This woman, who claimed her life was boring, is currently the most interesting thing that’s happened to me in months.
The smart play is to wake her up. Get her out. Go back to work.
But there’s something about the way she’s lying there—completely vulnerable, completely unaware that she’s in the same room as a man who kills for a living—that stops me.
She shifts in her sleep, and the hoodie rides up even further. I can see the soft curve of her waist now, the way her skin looks pale and warm in the dim light. Her breathing is slow, steady. Peaceful.
Then she starts snoring. Soft at first, then louder. Like a drunk kitten with sinus problems.
When was the last time I saw someone sleep like that? Without fear. Without checking exits or sleeping with one eye open.
Never.
I reach out without thinking, fingers almost touching that soft skin at her waist—
She groans softly in her sleep and shifts, rolling toward the edge.
Suka. The smart thing would be to let her fall again. Wake her up. Drag her outside and let her figure out her own mess.
Instead, I move.
I scoop her up before she can hit the floor. She’s completely limp in my arms; dead weight, but the warm, breathing kind. One hundred and thirty-eight pounds, I estimate automatically. I’ve carried enough bodies to know weight by feel, but this is different.
Dead bodies are awkward. All angles and resistance, fighting gravity and rigor mortis. Cold. Stiff.
She’s soft everywhere a woman should be soft.
Her head lolls against my shoulder, hair spilling over my arm like silk.
Her thighs are full and heavy against my forearm, her breasts pressed against my chest through that ridiculous hoodie.
Warm. Alive. Built how I like my women, with curves that fill a man’s hands and hips made for gripping.
She murmurs something unintelligible against my neck, her breath warm on my skin, and my cock responds involuntarily.
Fucking hell.
I carry her toward the bedroom, noting how perfectly she fits in my arms. Not too small, not trying to be something she’s not. Just… right. The kind of woman built to be held down and thoroughly fucked until she forgets her own name.
I push open the bedroom door with my shoulder. The room is sparse, just a bed, a dresser, blackout curtains. Functional. Temporary.
I lean over to set her down on the mattress, bringing my face close to hers as I lower her onto the bed. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating from her skin. Close enough to smell wine and something floral on her breath.
Her eyes flutter open.
Hazel eyes, unfocused and glassy, but staring right into mine. A slow, drunk smile spreads across her lips.
“Hi,” she whispers, and lets out a small giggle that’s pure alcohol and mischief.
Her lips are inches away, curved into a sloppy, drunken grin.
A small giggle bubbles out of her, light and reckless, and before I can react, before I can pull back, her hand slides up, fingers tangling in my hair.
Her other hand lands on my shoulder, tugging with surprising strength.
She pulls me down, and her lips crash into mine.
Soft. Warm. Desperate.
A kiss that tastes like cheap merlot and delusion.
And that fucking face mask—green and flaking—peels in uneven patches across her cheek like she lost a battle with a moss-covered loofah.
One chunk is clinging to her jaw like it still has hope.
Another’s stuck to her eyebrow like war paint.
The top half of her face is chaos, the bottom is pure sin.
It’s like kissing a spa day that went feral.
Christ.
She moans into my mouth, and my restraint breaks for half a second. Just one. I let it happen.
I freeze. Eyes wide open, every muscle in my body turning to stone.
Her hand slides from my hair down to my chest, fingers pressing against my shirt like she’s trying to memorize the feel of me. She pulls me closer, trying to deepen the kiss, but I stay rigid as a fucking statue.
She pulls back, her head tilting in a full 360-degree wobble, like a bobblehead on a dashboard.
Her eyes search mine, wide and longing, but unfocused, like she’s trying to pin down a dream.
She sways, one hand flailing for balance, and nearly topples off the bed before catching herself with a hiccupped laugh.
Drunk as hell. Her legs kick out in a goofy, exaggerated scissor motion, like she’s trying to dance lying down, and she giggles again, louder this time.
“You’re so… fucking hot,” she slurs.
This has to be some kind of record.
I’ve been called hot more times in the past hour than in my entire miserable existence. By one woman. With wine breath.
Her hand—small, warm, and definitely not where it should be—slides down my chest. Bold. Unapologetic. Until her fingers press against the front of my jeans.
I stop breathing.
But I don’t move.
I should. I should shut this down, push her hand away, remind myself she’s drunk and I’m not a fucking monster.
Instead, I stand there and let it happen.
Her palm molds to the outline of my cock, and I’m hard. Harder than I’ve been in years. Maybe ever. It’s humiliating. Infuriating. Alarming.
Me—The Reaper—the cold bastard they send to clean up blood-soaked messes, brought to full fucking attention by a half-naked drunk girl in cracked green face paint and novelty panties.
Her touch is uncoordinated but eager, rubbing me through the denim with the confidence of someone who doesn’t give a single fuck about consequences.
“Oh…” she purrs, her laugh turning into something wicked. “You… are soooOoOoo hard…”
A grunt punches out of me, rough and involuntary.
Suka.
Her tongue flicks out, slow and obscene, and her eyes catch mine; glassy, mischievous, absolutely hammered. She’s a walking disaster. Tangled hair, hoodie sliding off one shoulder, wine fumes rolling off her like cheap perfume. A woman-shaped trainwreck.
And she’s glowing.
I should move. I should stop this. My hands remain at my sides, knuckles white with restraint, but I don’t pull away. I let her keep touching me. Let her stroke me like I’m her favorite toy.
I’ve never been called hot. Not once.
Efficient? Yes. Deadly? Always. A ghost. A shadow. The Reaper.
I don’t make threats. I deliver endings.
But this one—this drunk, ridiculous woman—is looking at me like I’m her personal fantasy in flesh and dark denim. Her hand’s on my cock, and my blood is roaring, hot and unsteady, in my ears.
And that fucking face mask?
Mostly gone now. What’s left is smeared in flaking green patches across her forehead. A streak trails across her cheek like war paint. She looks like a sexy Shrek that got attacked by a bottle of Pinot Noir and zero dignity.
I should be laughing. I almost do.
But instead, I just stare.
She suddenly giggles, unhinged and delighted, like she’s just discovered gravity.
“This… this must be what a wet dream’s sposed to be like,” she announces proudly, eyes still locked on my fly.
Then she leans in, mouth grazing my jaw. “I’d never say this shit to anyone. Never.”
It’s a confession. A raw, drunk truth that somehow lands harder than it should.
She laughs again—this breathy, fucked-out sound—and licks her lips like she’s considering where else to put that mouth.
My control frays.
Her scent, her heat, her shamelessness; it’s too much. And I know exactly how this ends if I don’t stop her.
I should stop this. I will stop this. Any second now.
Fuck.
I want to shove her back on the bed, rip that hoodie off, and bury myself in her.
I want to grip those full hips, spread her thighs wide, and fuck her so hard she screams my name.
Until she’s sobbing with pleasure. I want to feel her nails rake my back, her legs wrapped around me, her pussy clenching tight as I drive into her, brutal and relentless, until we’re both wrecked.
My cock throbs under her touch, and for the first time in my adult life, I’m not in control of my own body.
This is wrong. She’s drunk. Unconscious two minutes ago.
I’m a killer standing over a bed with an innocent woman who has no idea what kind of monster she’s touching.
But her hand keeps moving. And I keep letting it happen.
“Stop.”
The word shreds out of me; harsh, splintered, a command meant for both of us. But it sounds more like a plea. Like I’m begging myself to remember who I am and what this is.
She blinks up at me, dazed, lips parted. Confused.
I should be balls deep in this woman. Fucked her mouth, her cunt, bent her over, and made her forget every man who didn’t know what to do with all those curves. She’s perfect. Soft. Built for sin. And she touched me like she was ready.
But I’m not a fucking animal.
Not tonight.
I rip myself away, step back hard enough that her hand slips off me like I burned her. Maybe I did. Maybe I’m poison and she doesn’t know it yet.
Already regretting it. Already missing her touch.
My jeans feel like a vise, my cock aching from the pressure, from the restraint. Every cell in my body is screaming to go back. To take. To ruin.
Instead, I turn my back on her and walk out.
I close the door behind me.