Darkest Obsession (Hell’s Flames #1)

Chapter 1

VICTORIA

Ishould start killing more people.

Or at least one with functional neurons. The fucker I’m sitting next to is so brainless, it takes the thrill out of it.

I mean, he should have some, considering he’s responsible for stealing billions from multiple companies in Europe.

But somehow, he still doesn’t notice I’ve been holding a gun to his ribs for fifteen minutes, ever since I joined him for a drink at the bar.

Well, he probably thinks he “seduced me”, like I’m not the one who orchestrated his presence.

God, killing people as stupid as he is doesn’t help my current state.

The lounge buzzes around us, laughter forced through liquor, making it almost impossible to focus on one discussion.

A bachelor party group hovers over their drinks, discussing which club in the area has the most potential whores.

Another group wonders how the local hockey team lost, again, on their own ice. Same, dude. Same.

A woman in red sits next to us on a vinyl stool, tapping her heel on the sticky floor, trying not to look impatient.

It’s not working, since she’s eyeing the door every two seconds.

The bartender serves her a glass of red wine, continuing a second later to wipe down the bar, stained with condensation rings and old cigarette burns.

The entire room is designed around the idea of trying—but miserably failing—to look expensive.

Too many people and too much useless noise.

“I have all the right connections, you know?” My target’s voice disrupts my train of thought. Right, he’s still alive.

“I’m not sure I understand,” I reply, with the most delicate smile I can fake.

Pretending I’m interested in him and his sickening personality is easy. It’s not like he can conceptualize that his coffee-stained teeth and his body odor might not charm a woman, not to mention the way he somehow manages to spit on me every time he speaks.

Luckily, I only need to keep this charade going for a few more minutes until Alex gives me the green light to take the target to the kill zone. Just a few more minutes, and I’ll feel alive again.

“It’s too complicated. Don’t waste your pretty brain on it,” he says, and I have to physically bite my tongue to not tell him what this pretty brain can actually do. Like unalive him this very minute and still walk away free or paralyze him with a butter knife and a toothpick.

But in his mind, I’m probably nothing more than a pathetic woman. That’s the problem with men like him. We could have a conversation about quantum mechanics, but it wouldn’t matter. As long as I have a tight dress on my body and makeup on my face, I’m automatically just another stupid slut.

Unfortunately for him, I don’t fuck for money. I kill for it.

“The room’s ready,” Alex calls through the earpiece. Fucking finally.

This is the moment I’ve been waiting for. Time to add another number to my list. All that’s left to do is take him to the room upstairs.

I brush my fingers over his thigh. I let my hand rest on his leg a second too long before I ask the question I know he’s been waiting for.

“Why don’t we take this somewhere more…private?” I whisper, looking him straight in the eyes. Come on, little shit. Take the bait.

On cue, a devilish grin on his face appears, and the hand that was on the table until now suddenly grabs my ass as we walk together through the bar that is getting way too crowded.

The proximity of the other people gives him another reason to glue his body to mine, his terrible odor sticking to my skin.

As soon as we get into the elevator and the door closes, his lips are on my skin, on my face, filling the small space with horrible suction sounds. His hands demand more, and I barely manage to push him away enough to breathe for a second.

“There are cameras here.”

This doesn’t seem to be enough to stop him. Not surprising—he probably gets a boner thinking someone is watching. He moves his hands even more vehemently, touching, pinching, and grabbing. “Let them watch us.” And his filthy lips are back on my skin. I’ll vomit any second now.

For him, no is not no unless handcuffs and police accompany the answer. I should have known, considering the three ongoing sexual assault cases. Fucker; I’m doing all women a favor by killing him.

“Please,” I say, pinning my eyes to the floor, but not before I take a quick look in the mirror on the other side to make sure everything is still in place.

The silky black dress drapes smoothly over my body. My perfectly styled hair hides the earpiece that connects me to the team, and makeup covers the bruises I got during the last mission.

The correct facial expressions and my appearance are as much of a tool as the weapons hidden beneath my clothes. Faintly smiling, I act like I’m excited to be here but a little lost, almost like I’m ashamed of myself. I’m playing the role of a fragile girl just for him.

I look like a fantasy, sure, but it’s just camouflage. Let him stare at the curve of my hips and forget the steel in my hands.

If only he knew what was actually going on.

He doesn’t need to know Alex, my handler, turned the cameras off, just like he doesn’t need to know he’ll die in less than five minutes. Five minutes—that’s all I need to wait.

The problem is not the killing part. That is easy.

I’ve done it dozens of times, and now, it’s nothing more than muscle memory.

What I can hardly keep under control tonight is this desire that stabs me in my ribs, begging me to end a life.

The need to feel something, something that can pull me out of this numb state my mind has been continuously spiraling into lately.

As the doors open, the sound signals our arrival on the thirty-third floor, revealing a floor-to-ceiling window in the hallway that overlooks the city.

Once we get into the room, I walk toward the only other door.

“I’ll go to the bathroom to freshen up. Why don’t you relax and wait for me in bed?” The lie rolls off my tongue, but I need him to stay the fuck away while I grab my toys.

Once inside, I lay the arsenal the team left for me on the sink, picking up the handcuffs.

I step back to the room, finding him already naked, lying on the bed. Definitely should start killing more women. Not to mention, he even looks proud of his micro penis.

Although the sight is grotesque to say the least, the excitement in my eyes must be visible. I’m about to kill a fucker—pretty much the best part of my day.

“Look what I have for you, little on—”

“Raise your hands,” I interrupt, playing with the handcuffs in my hand.

I don’t need to say it twice. One second later, his hands are in the air, waiting to be tied. I should have known he had the sub gene in him.

This process of tying him to the frame of the bed itself takes about five seconds, but it feels like an eternity. Each passing second gets me closer to satisfying my craving, but I still need to follow the fucking plan, which drives me crazy.

Once he’s secured, I finally breathe properly. No reason to play this stupid seduction game anymore.

I grab the blade and the gun from the bathroom—chances are I might just use them both—and a piece of tape. People have this bad habit of being very talkative right before dying.

As soon as he sees the new items, his expression changes, panic settling in.

“What…what is that?”

“Don’t tell me you’re—” I try to say, but he isn’t having it.

“You pathetic bitch. Do you have any idea who you’re dealing with? Let me leave!” The target shakes his hands, like he’d obviously be able to break down the metal bed frame.

God, I really hate being interrupted. I mean, I will not, and I am very much aware of who he is, but I’m not about to engage in his useless chitchat.

He opens his mouth again—maybe to question me, maybe to beg—but I cut him off before he wastes any more of my time. His mouth gets covered, and only muttered sounds escape through the tape.

This image of him—helpless, utterly lost—is why I’m doing this.

Can he see death looking him straight in the eyes? No, I don’t think he’s there yet. He sees an inconvenience. An irritation. A woman in a dress with a weapon she isn’t supposed to know how to use.

What stings his ego the most is not the fear or the sudden realization he’s in danger, nor is it the anger that he didn’t prevent it from happening. The only thing he hears is the bruised little voice in the back of his skull, whispering that this isn’t how it’s supposed to go.

Men like him don’t die at the hands of girls like me. Not while he’s about to fuck a woman half his age, and for sure not while she’s the one killing him.

“Shhh, I don’t enjoy being interrupted,” I say, brushing my finger over the tape to make sure it’s secured. “As I was saying, before I was rudely interrupted, you can’t really be surprised. You fucked up, darling.”

Tracing with my fingers along his neck, I imagine all the ways I could stab him while keeping him alive.

Maybe hang him? Seeing his body swinging from left to right like a pendulum is my idea of fun.

Or maybe I could skin him while calling his mother and—Victoria!

Fuck, my demons are on a creative rampage tonight.

This list of ideas runs way longer, but torture is unfortunately not part of the contract. But my self-control is cracking, and the desire is too much.

I need it. I need it now. I need his blood. I need to kill him.

“Well.” I lean down so I can look him straight in the eyes, putting the blade to his jugular. “This was fun. See you in hell.”

I shove it into his neck, twisting it slowly, all while watching the blood stream in a beautiful cascade, a stark line of red drenching the sheets under him as his eyes become lifeless.

Watching his body crumple, choking sounds filling the air as he’s trying to breathe through the blood that fills his throat, calms my own demons for a second. God, I love seeing people die.

I’ve indeed been paid to kill this pathetic fraudster, but I would have done it for free if I’d known how enjoyable seeing him dying would be. He makes such a fun victim to watch.

“Thirty-eight,” I whisper. His new name. And with that, I leave the room.

From two to thirty-eight, it’s all just a counting problem. The only equation I’ve ever cared to solve.

Ten precise seconds later, Alex buzzes in again, and my irritation is spiking to new levels.

The fact that he was spying through the cameras—again—doesn’t help the feeling.

I told him a million times that he should wait for my signal, but he takes pleasure in seeing people getting killed almost as much as I do.

Alex has been in my life longer than most people have managed to stay alive around me. Paid help, sure, but loyal. And as much as I like to give him shit, solely because of his shitty personality, he is the best in the field.

We started working together three years ago, right around the time I stopped pretending I wanted to be part of “normal” society.

He handles the logistics and gets the contracts, so I can focus on what I really want to do—end lives.

He doesn’t bother me outside of work, and I don’t ask why he’s involved in this business.

I know nothing about his personal life or his motives, and I prefer it that way.

“Did you see the way he convulsed?! That was too easy.” His voice is drenched in that smug tone he thinks makes him sound funny.

I keep walking, not even trying to pretend I’m entertaining this stupid conversation.

The shot of adrenaline I felt not even a minute ago is washing out, and my body is coming down from the high.

A cold, familiar truth hits me with the force of a truck.

One at a time is not enough anymore. You want to feel something, feel more, and you’ll only feel that if you kill them all. And that is the problem.

“Glad to see you are a fan of my work,” I deadpan, and I hope he can hear my eyes rolling through the call.

He laughs, as if this is funny, and we’re having a normal conversation. But we are not. He is here for the brief, and I can’t wait to get done with it so I can stop pretending I’m okay.

He could never comprehend that I’m in a fucked-up situation where I cannot prolong the high of the kill anymore, and the need for it is a constant, insatiable thought.

While I have no problem “working” more, I can’t rely on this forever, or soon enough, I will end up slicing my own throat for the sake of feeling something.

“I’m heading home. I can walk from here,” I add after the quick brief is done. “Clean-up is your department. Try not to fuck it up this time.”

“When did I—” He starts to talk, but I take out the earpiece before he says something else that makes me wish I had an actual reason to shoot him.