Chapter 2
two
. . .
My name was unknown and due to certain circumstances, I preferred it that way because pretty much my entire life I’d been a bad person. I firmly believed that sometimes you had to do bad things to make the world better, to right the wrongs that had gone unanswered.
Sometimes though, I was called Shinigami, better known as the God of Death and mainly by mafia families yet to catch me after I’d killed family members, friends, colleagues or soldiers.
The day he began training me, Uncle Haru called me korō, the Japanese translation for lone wolf. He said it suited me because I was a survivor, possessing a quiet strength I was yet to discover. More importantly, a lone wolf had nothing to lose, making me a dangerous, unpredictable weapon.
So I stuck with it.
My stance a faultless symmetry, the handle of the sword grasped with both hands, the blade lined flush against my body and the tip of my nose, I closed my eyes and eased my breaths to that of a near perfect corpse.
Then in a slow-motion sync, the tips of my toes on one leg arced out in a semi-circle, the other leg bending slightly at the knee, my sword in one hand, I rolled my wrist the same time that hand lifted and slashed down in a flash of two quick movements.
Bringing my leg back in, I returned to my symmetrical stance before raising my eyelids.
My eyes on either side of the upright blade, I stared at the single green apple on the coffee table now sliced into four even quarters.
“Kanpeki.” Perfection. I bowed slightly.
Moderately happy, I lowered my body to the coffee table and finished my training with a cleanup.
An hour later, breathing on the blade one last time, I polished the vapor created by my breath with slow meticulous circles.
My partner in crime needed loving tender care, not just a quick wipe.
Done, I stared at the reflection of my eyes in the gleaming silver, winked before sheathing the sword and set it down on a couch.
Rising from my perch on the coffee table, I glanced around the penthouse I’d rented, scoffing at the expensive furnishings paid for by the profit off human trafficking and drugs.
Given the luxurious building housed a multitude of trust fund singles, the realtor was only too happy to accept my offer. His hasty behavior stemmed from the death of the prior tenants in the apartment and why no one was willing to rent it.
A few months ago, I’d searched for a place specifically in this building, only none were available. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that the previous lessee and his buddy were on my watchlist.
Fate was a true genius.
Of course, when their bodies were discovered outside a bar downtown, the cops chalked it up to a rival gang kill, not like they had anything else to go on.
Grabbing the last apple quarter, I moved to the window, wondering what the realtor would do if he knew he’d rented the place to the dead men’s killer.
Would he call the cops or turn a blind eye since he now had a cash tenant not willing to share personal details?
I went with the latter because I had that face people blindly trusted.
Pinning the murders on me would require some serious skill.
My kills were clean. Always.
A low chuckle vibrating through me, I popped the apple slice into my mouth, sprinted up the stairs that led into the master bedroom and walked out the floor to ceiling doors.
At the edge of the marbled patio, I studied my devilish prince, in the building opposite, through the eye of the scope I’d set up since moving in.
He never knew I watched him, had always watched him. Wherever he went, I followed. My set up always quick and easy to dismantle. Wherever he stayed, I stayed.
Watching. Alert. Protective.
While the darkened apartment, lit only by the glow of a light from one of the other rooms and contorted by nightly shadows, his resting shape wasn’t hard to define.
To an ordinary person he looked peacefully asleep, yet just like me, he was as vigilant in slumber as he was awake.
The slightest sound stirred his sharp ears to say nothing of the handsome animal that roamed his master’s bedroom with the air of a wary predator.
My first visit, years ago, earned his unerring growl that suggested a step or two further would leave me with additional body cavities or missing limbs and why his master trusted the animal with his life.
With a deep inhale of the night air, I reentered my bedroom.
Slipping into a dark catsuit with an attached hoodie, I braided my dark hair then secured it in a bun at the back of my head before prepping my face.
The black and white ying yang mask heightened with red contacts set against painted black eyes, had made than a few strong men go ‘what the fuck!’ before their guys snapped to attention, a second too late.
Downstairs, I strapped my sword to my back, pulled the hoodie over my head and climbed over the balcony ledge. With measured steps, I descended fifteen floors using the drainpipe and the wall as my anchor. Once my feet touched the ground, I surveyed the quiet.
Nothing stirred.
Given my all-black attire, the dark night camouflaged my intentions. Having done this often, same machination, different building, it took barely two minutes to cross the road and another three to scale the building. Practiced stealth took me up to his penthouse lounge.
Letting myself in through the sliding doors, I made my way to the bedroom and stopped.
Apart from lifting his head, Duke, the beautiful grey American Bully remained still, the perfect poise of an intelligent beast ready to attack.
If he weren’t sleeping beside his master’s bed, he could be found outside the bedroom door.
Tonight, he was outside. As usual, I lifted a hand and held it palm out. Four fingers pressed tight together and straight up with the thumb resting on the palm, slowly, I bought it toward my face and touched the fingertips to my nose. Keeping eye-contact, I bowed my head.
During my training, my sensei taught me that an animal would sense a person’s attitude long before he came closer.
The more heightened your fear appeared, the more likely you were to attract the animal’s wariness.
Arrogance on the other hand would get you killed.
Whereas respecting the animal, his boundaries and his authority were far more likely to get you entrance.
By now, Duke had learned that my way of greeting was a sign of respect. With a soft whine, he cocked his head to the side, waiting for me to approach. He nuzzled the palm I held out taking the treat I offered then dropped his head to his paws, allowing me to enter the bedroom.
Immediately my nostrils flared with that familiar scent my body always reacted to, my skin goose-bumped and my nipples hardened, begging for his touch. Breathing deeply, I stopped at the bottom of the bed and stared at my target cast in the silver glow of the full moon through the parted curtains.
On his back with an arm curved around his head, the other lying over a tattooed torso, legs draped in silk pajama pants, his body rested in a peaceful slumber. The perfect dark prince any woman would willingly praise, on her knees.
Remo Rossi.
A man, men would kill to replace, and women would beg to fuck. Part human part spawn of hell.
Such affection.
My gaze drifted down his chest. Every inch of him was exquisite, beautifully sinful and while I willed myself not to run my tongue along that inked skin and taste him, the darkness in me yearned to feel my sword drag along the dips and curves of his toned body.
Craved the possibilities of how I’d mark him, watch his flesh give way, his blood spill.
My pussy tingled, pleading for release while I fantasized about him waking up to me trailing the tip of my sword over his taut abdomen, the swirl of my tongue following in its wake, lapping at the crimson trickle. I imagined his eyes widening, expression baffled, or perhaps afraid.
Never! Not Remo Rossi. Like me, he feared nothing, not even death. I let out a soft chuckle, shaking my head.
No one would grasp this bizarre connection I felt toward him, understand the ray of light he shone on my darkness, the only true color in my black and white world. We were made for each other, the perfect fit.
I killed, yes. Without remorse, yes. But I’d never let him bleed, not by my hand or another, as long as I lived.
Key to ridding this world of mafia scum, was to study my targets so well, I could sit down at their dinner tables and have a conversation about anything.
Not that I would. The first time I saw Remo’s photo, I knew it hadn’t done him justice and against my innate perception to stay away I decided on a closer look.
And God fucking almighty was I charmed. Just one glimpse and I knew he was mine.
He became my obsession and one day, I’d become his, he just didn’t know it yet. Regardless, I had yet to physically introduce myself to him.
Soon.
Confident, I studied his intricate tattoos. They always fascinated me. Skulls in varying sizes, some with a venomous snake through the eye, others adorned either with poisonous flowers or a deadly creature. Each representing a torment he’d defeated. Few if not none, knew that.
I did.
Because I’d watched him, learned him, anchored myself to him for so long, I knew everything.
Planning our introduction while he continued to pretend he’d picked up the pieces, crushed those demons, buried them.
But I saw the real him. I saw the mask and the broken soul behind it.
Regardless, he remained breathtaking, more that he’d survived it all.
“Don’t!” the sudden whimper, the sound of a boy’s voice jerked my eyes up to Remo’s face and my unemotional heart skipped a beat or two.
His jaw clenched, his brows drawn together in a severe frown, a light sheen of sweat dotted his forehead and the skin above his pursed lips.
The quick rise and fall of his chest suggested his torment strangulated the air to his lungs, probably making him desperate to wake up. Like always, I knew he couldn’t.
Movements that would trick a lion into believing it was just a brush of the wind against his fur, I climbed up onto the bed and drew closer to his sleeping form.
If his usual vigilance was anything like mine, he’d either keep up the pretense to determine my next move or launch a surprise attack.
And if my reaction was anything like his, I’d easily defend that strike.
But I knew better.
Caught in the throes of a dark dream, a constant torment, it debilitated his awareness. The first time I witnessed his nightmare, I refrained from touching him, unsure how he’d react. Now though, his distress called to my soul, begging reprieve.
Taking care not to startle him, I placed my hand over his heart. It sprinted a mile a minute, leaving me wondering what terrified a man who didn’t even fear death. Perhaps a little part of me knew and why I decided to help him.
My hands on the waistband of his pants, I eased it down gently.
Slowly, my hand drifted over his cock, fingers brushing the placid skin.
He shuddered and I paused briefly before wrapping my fingers around the beautiful girth.
I began stroking, watching as he hardened beneath my touch.
The way his body responded, even unconscious, sent warmth coursing through me, gradual and deep.
It wasn’t just desire but something older, quieter.
The need to soothe him. To drag him back from whatever ghosts were clawing at his mind.
His breathing stuttered, chest rising sharper now, fingers twitching against the sheets like he was fighting some invisible enemy. I leaned closer, brushing my lips against his shoulder, then his neck, letting my mouth follow the familiar lines of him.
“Come back,” I murmured against his skin. “I’m here.”
My hand moved with slow intention, not urgency, learning him the way I always did, patient and certain. A low sound escaped him, rough and half-formed, my name maybe, or maybe I just wanted it to be true. That did something reckless to my heart I couldn’t quite fathom.
My touch slowed, steadier now, less about want and more about grounding him, about reminding his body there was something warm and real here, not whatever darkness his mind kept dragging him into.
His breathing hitched then changed, the frantic rhythm softening.
His chest stopped jolting and began to rise slow and deep, as if he was finally surfacing from underwater.
The tension in his muscles began to melt under my palm, the tightness leaving him piece by piece.
His brow smoothed. His jaw unclenched. The nightmare loosening its grip.
His hand slid across the mattress, brushing my thigh in a blind search before settling there, warm and heavy.
He didn’t wake, would never know who was there.
Still, he held on until he succumbed. The quiet release moved through him, stealing the air from his lungs, and painting my hand in his beautiful cum, until his body went slack, head rolling to the side, a faint sigh leaving his lips.
The last of the nightmare dissolving as his face finally smoothed into something peaceful, almost boyish, almost soft. I stayed a moment longer than I should have, memorizing him like this.
Vulnerable. Human. Mine.
Then bringing my fingers to my mouth, my tongue snaked a rampant pattern over the salty wetness, savoring his taste.
Heat pooled low in my stomach, a warm rush of wetness staining the latex between my thighs.
Satisfied, I eased his waistband back into place, and moved away, careful not to disturb the sheets.
“Sweet dreams, my dark prince,” I whispered.
By the time he woke, he’d think the calm was his own. He’d never know someone had chased his demons out and slipped away before dawn. But I would. And tomorrow night, when the nightmares came back, I’d be there again. Watching. Waiting.
What I felt for Remo Rossi might not have a name, but I knew it started at forever and would always end at never.