I Fear You Are Mine

Prologue

I’ve lost count of how many people I’ve killed. Hell of an intro, huh? Listen, I don’t do small talk and niceties. When you grow up as an agent of death and destruction, you kind of lose the will to be friendly. There’s no point in forging relationships of any kind in my line of work.

It’s not like the movies.

Hollywood loves to romanticize women like me. But Hollywood lies. Female assassins aren’t all bloodthirsty babes with killer bodies and killer instincts. Some of us yearn to burn our blood-soaked clothes and be done with it all.

And don’t get me started on the unrealistic depictions of violence in every assassin movie ever.

The reality is less glamour, more brain matter.

Witty quips are few and far between. Stylized violence doesn’t exist. Have I crouched on rooftops?

Sure. Do I crawl up walls like some latex-clad spider?

No. Gravity’s a bitch, even for us. Movies love acrobatic bullshit.

Sure, it might look great while you’re shoveling popcorn into your mouth, but in the real world?

Matrix-style is a fantasy. Shootouts are fast, frenzied, and fucking terrifying.

Trust me: No motherfucker is doing limbo when a bullet is flying towards them.

But there’s one area where Hollywood really loses the plot.

Can you guess where?

Two words.

Costume. Department.

God, the outfits. You think I’m stalking targets in custom Saint Laurent?

Please. And what’s with those silk gowns?

You know the ones I mean. Those Bond Girl-type outfits disguising a pistol tucked neatly in thigh-high lace garters?

Ever worn one? Fucking useless. Cute for two minutes until the garter sags and the gun slips. And then?

You’re screwed. Game over. Insert credits to start again, except you can’t start again because you’re mortal, and you only get one life.

Yeah, yeah. I get it. The fantasy’s cute. But the reality isn’t so sexy.

The reality is this: It’s a brutal life. One that is isolating and dangerous and unforgiving.

One that is void of family and friends. Even if parts of you are screaming for connection, you will deliberately choose to remain alone.

You can’t have relationships of any kind because they’ll weaken you.

Expose you. Put a fat motherfucking target right on your back.

Your life will be nothing if not a series of violent moments in ways no movie montage can capture.

And I should know, because I am one.

I’m a vicious assassin born from a bloodline of elite contract killers. Thanks to my parents, violence runs in my DNA.

Hell, violence is my DNA.

I’m a fire-spitting, supercharged demon from hell. (Or as some men will say—a typical woman). I’m everything and nothing all at once. You’re either going to obsessively love me or furiously hate me.

And my life? It contains scenes some may find disturbing, strong language, high-impact violence, and—everybody’s favorite—explicit sex scenes.

Please sit back, relax, and enjoy the show.

One of us should, at least.

I’m about to fuck up your life in three … two … one.

Action.