Chapter Two. Eshe
CHAPTER TWO
Eshe
God, he’s beautiful.
It’s unfair, really.
I drag the tip of my blade across the broad plane of his brow. Down the proud, arrogant bridge of his nose and across each narrow patrician nostril.
Slumber doesn’t soften the hard, wide curves of his mouth. As lush as those lips appear, my knife doesn’t even dent the dense flesh. The sharpness of his cheekbones rivals the blade’s edge I currently trace over that almost-savage bone structure.
The thick fringe of his lashes grazes his golden skin, but I don’t need to see his eyes to perfectly envision the color that resembles a sky heavy with clouds on the verge of a destructive thunderstorm.
How am I in the know?
Some might call it stalking.
I call it reconnaissance. Preparation.
Because from the moment I laid eyes on this man two years ago, he was mine. He just didn’t know it.
Fucking shame I have to kill him.
Scowling, I lift the knife from his face and start skinning the apple I grabbed for a snack right after chaining him to the bed. Pisses me off that he’s put us in this position.
His fault though.
He came here to kill me first, after all.
Several things I can’t let slide:
Dumbass mu’fuckas. Nothing will unalive you faster than a mu’fucka whose titty or dick size is bigger than their IQ.
Messy mu’fuckas. If someone is messy and mouthy as fuck with their shit, they have no problem being the same with mine.
And disloyal mu’fuckas. Loyalty is like blood in our world—we need it to breathe, to survive.
Fear doesn’t last long. Not when there’s always someone else out there who’s bigger, harder, more ruthless.
More willing to slit the throat of their own mother to gain power, to get richer, to rule. Money can buy power.
But it can’t purchase loyalty, faithfulness.
That’s why it’s more precious. Why it’s rarer.
Then there’s the final thing I can’t let slide:
Someone trying to kill me.
It would fall under dumbass mu’fuckas, but there’s nothing foolish about the Huntsman.
He’s everything careful, exacting, and lethal.
He’s the bogeyman whispered about in fearful, trembling undertones even as eyes slide from side to side, nervous, as if a shadow, darker than the others, will creep from among its brethren.
Yet here he is. Chained to my bed for committing the ultimate sin against me.
And I have to kill him.
He’s lucky he doesn’t have any parents, sisters or brothers, nieces or nephews for me to hunt after I’m done with him.
Never leave family alive after you put a person down; I’ve learned that lesson the hard way.
They’re like roaches—they never die and always come back, hiding in nooks and crannies, just under your feet, waiting to jump out when you least expect it.
But I don’t need to worry about that with him.
The Huntsman is a bastard, and not just in personality but by birth.
No parents. He had one sister. Miriam. He lost her when she was four and he was just nine, in one of Boston’s not-so-finest foster homes.
And at the age of ten, he murdered the man responsible for his little sister’s death …
beat the back of his skull in with a baseball bat. His first kill.
Like I said, I know everything about him.
He’s my calling. My ministry.
My obsession.
And because he’s my obsession, I make it a habit of tracking his movements.
No, literally. I placed a tracker on his car.
Nothing says caring like not respecting boundaries.
Still …
Anger flashes inside me, and I swallow a hiss from the quick but searing burn.
A part of me hates him for this relentless, hungry fixation.
The only thing I’ve obsessed over as much as him is revenge for my mother.
Yet that same part wishes I were a fervent atheist instead of a devout disciple to the religion of him.
The Huntsman may be my would-be assassin, but Malachi Bowden is my weakness.
And anyone who wishes to not just survive but fucking thrive in our world knows that when a weakness is discovered, you cut that bitch out and cauterize the site so nothing grows in its place.
A small, nearly imperceptible sound snags my attention.
My gaze narrows on his face, which remains at rest. Nothing about it has changed. But I know what I heard.
A soft hitch in breath. A switch in rhythm. A nearly infinitesimal higher rise of his chest.
The Huntsman is awake.
Despite his imminent murder, a delight blooms deep within me, spreading until its warmth radiates through my chest and belly and pulses between my thighs.
Oh yeah.
I don’t even try and pretend that the anticipation of him—of all that visceral power and strength and fucking malice—doesn’t make me wet. That I’m straddling it, controlling it, has me downright soaked.
“Wakey, wakey,” I softly taunt, skinning the apple until one long, seamless rind plops to his abdomen.
“I know you’re not asleep.” I cleanly slice a piece of apple off and bite into the crisp fruit.
The sweet and tart flavor fills my mouth, and I hum.
Then set the juice-dampened tip of the blade just under his chin.
“Or maybe the great Huntsman prefers to die with his eyes closed. Can’t face death head-on?
Blood makes you squea—oh. There you are,” I purr, as the dense fringe of his lashes lifts and his gray-blue gaze crashes into mine.
“What’s that saying about pride? I’d say you’re headed for a fall, but you’re already kind of ass planted on my bed. Lucky me.”
No one in their right mind would goad this man, even with him chained to their bed.
But then again, I’ve been accused of many things in my twenty-five years—blackmail, armed robbery, bribery, assault, murder—but no one’s ever leveled sane at me.
“That’s much better. You have such pretty eyes,” I murmur, tracing the knife’s point up over his chin, the corner of that lewdly carnal mouth, the blunt thrust of his cheekbone, to settle just under the rim of his lashes. And press hard enough to dent the tender, softer skin.
He doesn’t even flinch.
And that steely, crystallized stare doesn’t waver from my face.
But it promises all kinds of things. Mostly pain. And screams. Mine.
A shiver ripples down my spine. Not one of fear though.
Pleasure. Delicious, dirty pleasure.
“Mmm,” I hum, shifting low on his stomach and nearly hissing at the frisson of lust that pops and spider-webs over and through me like the cracks across a shattered windshield.
“I’d love to let you try it,” I whisper.
No, he didn’t vocalize a thing, but we both know what he relayed, nonetheless.
And it thrills me. “I know I’d enjoy it. I think you would, too.”
I lean back, straightening, and resume eating my apple. After cutting off another slice, I pop it into my mouth and chew, contemplating him. His gaze flicks to the fruit, then back up to stare into my eyes.
“But back to the matter at hand. Which is my assassination attempt.” I tsk-tsk.
Cut another slice. Chew. “I don’t need to ask who sent you.
Although there’s a plethora of people who’d love to kill me”—why, yes, that might be a hint of pride that slides through my voice—“only one person would be foolish enough to try it. Or…” I cock my head. “Solicit it. Abena.”
He doesn’t react. Not one muscle twitches. He just continues to stare at me, unblinking.
I smile.
“Still not talking?” I shrug. Cut. Chew. “Like I said, I don’t need confirmation. Abena is a coldhearted bitch and a sociopath, and those are her good qualities. It’s that nasty penchant for murdering her family members that pisses me off.”
Do I have proof my aunt was behind my mother’s murder nine years ago?
No. Do I need it to kill her for it? Again, nah.
This isn’t a courtroom, and fuck preponderance of evidence.
All I need is to hold on to the image of my mother bleeding out on that street.
Or of her body laid out in that glass coffin, looking asleep instead of dead as we filed pass her, saying our last goodbyes.
That’s my fucking evidence.
I’ma molly whop that bitch before I put a hot one right between her eyes. Unlike how she did with my mother, she’s going to see it coming from me.
A wave of anger ripples through me as I deliberately slice off the meat of the apple and crunch it between my teeth, letting a drop of the juice dribble down my chin.
And I do nothing to stop it from dripping to my chest, framed by my black tank top.
The Huntsman’s gaze dips to that drop, briefly lingering before rising back to my eyes.
Anyone else would’ve missed that quick glance.
But not me. Nothing about the Huntsman escapes me.
“It’s not the who, Huntsman. It’s the what I need from you.
What did she pay you? What were her instructions?
Did she want you to assassinate me or bring me back to her?
What were her plans, if she had any? And what proof did she request?
Abena is nothing if not dramatic.” I sigh.
“An ear here. A finger there. Even an eye once. What memorabilia did she demand you bring back to her?”
Cold silence.
Irritation should snap through me like fire. I even wait for it. Pause for that initial crackle of emotion and the hot spread of it.
But no. There’s no annoyance.
Just delight. Pure, unadulterated delight.
And anticipation.
Without breaking eye contact, I sink my teeth into the apple, biting out a huge chunk. Chewing, I toss the rest of the half-eaten fruit aside and ignore the soft thud of it hitting the floor.