Chapter Eight. The Huntsman #4
Turning back to her, I, of course, find her gaze on me. Whenever I’m in her vicinity, Eshe’s always studying me as if I’m this specimen that either amuses or fascinates her. Like a toy she delights in playing with before she tears it apart limb by limb.
I resist reaching down and adjusting my dick in my black joggers.
“You realize that bomb was meant for you, right? Not a message for your aunt or the Mwua—”
“Abena.”
I frown. “What? Isn’t that what I said?”
“No, you called her my aunt. Don’t refer to that bitch that way. She ceased being family the day she had my mother gunned down in the street like a dog.”
I nod. Okay, yeah. I get that.
“You were the target of that bomb.” When she doesn’t speak again, I cross the room and pick up the chair, turn it around, and drop into it.
Leaning forward, I prop my elbows on my thighs, linking my fingers together between my spread legs.
“Seems I’m not the only person after you anymore.
I took out another assassin tonight who was there for you.
Another contract has been put out on your life.
And I have no doubt Abena is behind it.”
“Not that I’m questioning your reasoning or your information, but why do you say that?”
“Because of the reward. Three million—two less than she paid me. But the promise that whoever kills you can take your place as olori sweetens the deal. The power and earnings that brings in more than makes up for that two million.”
Fury floods her features, and I catch myself edging closer as her eyes crystallize into golden shards.
“That’s not how we work. She can’t hold up a family position—a fucking hereditary or earned position—like a bargaining chip for personal and political gain.”
“She know that? Because my source isn’t wrong.”
My source might be a teenager, but Jamari is one of the most brilliant hackers I’ve ever encountered. This shit here is child’s play, and he wouldn’t give me bogus information.
“There would be a fucking rebellion. I can’t imagine any true Mwuaji accepting an outsider—someone outside our family—in the position of olori. She’s not even promoting a soldier but a fucking mercenary who’s not blood? What in the actual fuck?”
Her chest rises and falls under my T-shirt, the only sign of her rage. Any other person would be ranting, maybe throwing the nearest object, pacing the room. But her fury’s so frigid, the lick of it’s giving me frostbite.
I didn’t think she could possibly get sexier, but she did. She is.
The murder, the hate in her eyes … it calls to every damaged, broken thing in me. And not to heal. Not to comfort.
To mate.
To join her jagged pieces with mine.
Her harsh chuckle echoes in the room.
“I don’t know why I’m surprised, but fuck if I’m not.
Blood before belief. That bald-headed bitch had her own sister killed for power and sent you after me, so why am I shocked that she would sell out our traditions, our beliefs, our family?
” She shakes her head on another of those rough laughs, her gaze going hooded.
“This you? I’ll admit, it would be the most elaborate assassination attempt I’ve ever heard of.
Blow a spot up, then save me to get my guard lowered just enough to kill me.
Have I judged you wrong all this time and missed an unseen ambitious streak? ”
“You’re upset, so I’ma let that slide. But anyone else would have my bullet decorating the back of their head for that insult.” I straighten, leaning against the back of the chair.
She defiantly stares at me for several long moments before dipping her chin. Her form of acknowledging my words and an apology.
“I’m a killer, not a king,” I tack on for no reason whatsoever. I don’t owe her an explanation.
“I believe you.”
I shouldn’t give a fuck that her acceptance matters. But it does.
“That shit last night wasn’t me, but if you do pray to a god or goddess, you might want to start getting some time in with him or her. Because one of the people who picked up the contract—and the one responsible for the bomb—was Poison.”
“Poison?” Eshe balls up her face. “Huh.”
“What the fuck does ‘huh’ mean?”
She frowns, her gaze going unfocused for a few moments. With a small shake of her head, she looks at me. “Earlier today, someone took shots at me and my Seven. I assumed it might’ve been a Mwuaji soldier sent by Abena. But now … Who is this Poison, and why haven’t I heard of him before?”
“Not a him. Her. And because she doesn’t care to be known.
She doesn’t give a fuck about reputation or any of that shit.
Which should give you a clue of exactly how dangerous she is.
She’s been around for about ten years, and no one knows exactly what she looks like because if people call me a shadow, she’s a goddamn ghost. And just as good as me.
Maybe better and more dangerous, because you’re right—I don’t take out kids.
Her? She’s not restrained by that kind of code.
It’s only about completing the mission. That’s it, that’s all.
She won’t give a fuck about the position of olori, and yes, she gets paid, but neither money nor power drive her.
I called her a ghost? Nah. Let me correct myself.
If they call me the bogeyman, then she’s the Terminator.
Focused. Unstoppable. That’s who’s on your ass now. ”
“Is that supposed to scare me?” She tips her head to the side, and if I’m not mistaken, there’s genuine curiosity in her voice.
I snort, irritated. “Now isn’t the time to play whose clit is bigger, Eshe.”
“I would invite you to find out, but that would mean you’d have to compare. Then I’d have to add another body to my count. And I’ve killed enough people who thought they could get away with touching what’s mine.” She smiles, but her tone is as flat as her eyes. “But I’ll do it again. And again.”
Her words take a minute to sink in, and my eyebrows arrow down over my nose. “What’re you—”
She pops up a hand. “I’on want to talk about them hos who fucked around and found out. Unless there’s something you need to tell me.” Her brilliant eyes narrow on me, heat flickering in them. “Like you doubled back and couldn’t find them…”
She seems to be waiting on me to supply her with an answer— or an apology …
“What the hell is going on right now?” I’m so fucking confused.
Her expression clears, and she leans back against the couch, picking up the forgotten and undoubtedly cold slice of pizza. The way her teeth chomp down on the crust is faintly threatening, and my dick jumps in both horror and interest.
Shit.
Even my mans is confused as fuck.
“Nothing,” she finally says around a mouthful of food.
Yeah, okay. I’ve never been in a relationship, but even I know what nothing means. It means a fuck ton of something.
Swallowing the bite of pizza, Eshe grabs the bottle of water and twists the cap off.
Without removing her gaze from mine, she drinks deeply.
“As I was saying, I’m a firm believer in staying ready so you don’t have to get ready.
I’ve dealt with Abena Diallo all my life.
One of my eyes hasn’t had a good night’s sleep in nine years because it’s always open.
So nah, Huntsman, I don’t need you to tell me to be vigilant.
And as far as fear? I don’t know her.” She demolishes the rest of the slice, then tosses the crust into the box. “You’re wrong.”
I stare at her, loosely linking my fingers together on my stomach, and silently wait on her to explain, because those are two words I don’t hear often, especially not paired together. And if I do, I guaran-fucking-tee the person doesn’t repeat them. Ever. At least not on this plane.
“This Poison—you believe she’s more dangerous than you or me because she doesn’t have shit to lose and no principles holding her back.
That’s not a strength; that’s a weakness.
Me? I’ll go to war for mine. I’ll fight dirty.
Lie. Cheat. Go to the lowest, filthiest pit in hell, fuck the devil, and then gut him while he’s still shaking from a nut with my pussy on his breath.
That’s how I’m coming behind mine. There’s nothing I won’t do, no line I won’t cross, no rule I won’t break to protect those I love.
Because without them, I have nothing. The only person more fucked up than one with nothing to lose is the person who has everything to lose—and knows what it’s like to have nothing.
They’ll do anything not to go there, to feel that again. ”
I don’t move a muscle, but inside? Inside, my heart pounds against my rib cage with huge meaty fists as if it’s trying to punch holes through to get to her.
For a second, I don’t recognize the sensation crackling like a live current.
It shortens the breath in my lungs, sensitizes my skin until even the slightest caress—like the brush of my shirt or the stale air in the room—feels too much, damn near painful.
That ferocity. That passion. That brutality.
Like a caveman with his first sight of fire, I desire to creep closer on all fours, craving its heat, its beauty. But fear it. Fear the pain of its touch. The intensity of its power that I have no hope of controlling.
So, when that fire throws back the covers and crawls across the mattress, my voluminous T-shirt riding up silken thick thighs, flashing a teasing glimpse of bare plump folds, I don’t move away. Don’t move closer. I’m trapped by my own wants, my own uncertainties, my own inadequacies.
She perches on the edge of the bed like a beautiful exotic bird—no, that’s too easy, too easy. An eagle. Gorgeous, yet cunning, deadly. Ready to strike. And right now, I’m in her sights, her prey.
And fuck if I don’t want to be run down to the ground by her, feel those nails curl and dig into my flesh, draw blood while she fucking feasts.