Chapter 23
KIARA
Fuck Raiden Kane to the deepest pits of hell.
Maybe I’m delusional because a part of me had believed he might have actually come back to his apartment to get his things, but there’s been nothing but crickets.
I even snuck over there to make sure he hadn’t silently moved out while I slept, but no, everything is still there like a four-day-old time capsule, everything just as he left it.
So where the fuck is the bastard?
I swear, I’m starting to give up on my resolve to keep him just for making me sweat it out like this. Besides, he’s a man. Is he even capable of surviving out in the wilderness all by himself? Where’s he sleeping? Who’s he talking to? Is he working or just sulking like I have been?
I scoff at the thought. Raiden Kane doesn’t sulk.
He simply fucks his feelings out of his body.
Only if that’s the case, I have to go and chop his dick off purely on principle.
Now, I know this is all very new to me, but surely there’s some kind of mourning period, right?
Some unspoken rule that he can’t go swinging that thing around like a baby elephant for at least six to ten working days.
He wouldn’t though . . . right? Surely not after the way he held me in that hospital bed and vowed that I was his whole world.
From the moment we first got together in Barcelona, he hasn’t been with anybody else, and while I know we never had the exclusivity talk, it was there nonetheless.
Only now, I have no idea where we stand.
I’ve known him for exactly fifty-two days, but who’s counting? And over these past fifty-two days, I’ve experienced every kind of human emotion our complex bodies are capable of. Overall rating: two out of ten. I don’t like it.
I’ve felt lost and confused, even when I was overwhelmingly happy. Is that what love is supposed to feel like, or is this something different? I just need someone to clue me in because this shit is ridiculous.
Fuck, I need that asshole from The Avengers to come click his fingers and wipe me out for good because that seems a shitload easier than having to deal with the realization that I might have just lost the one person that’s ever been capable of making me feel something real.
My phone chimes with the familiar sound of an incoming contract, and I let out a sigh as I reach for my phone, feeling around on the couch cushion, until the cool metal brushes over my fingers.
Exactly six contracts have come through over the past few days, and I haven’t bothered with a single one of them.
They have all ranged from different skill levels, but when Raiden isn’t there to compete against, what’s the point?
The joy in the job has been sucked dry, and I don’t find myself as interested anymore.
Picking up my phone, I swipe my thumb across the screen to bring up the contract, and as it appears in front of me, I suck in a gasp and sit up, my eyes wide.
You know what? Take everything I just said, drench it in gasoline, set it on fire, and yeet it into the group chat archives where bad takes go to die. Clearly I was possessed when I dared to make a ridiculous claim like no longer being interested in these contracts.
The crumbs from my Flamin’ Hot Cheetos fall from my chest and drop straight down between my tits as I wipe my crumby fingers across the front of my white cami.
Okay, okay. I get it. I look like a slob.
My hair hasn’t been brushed since before I left for Austin.
It’s been in a messy bun, falling off the top of my head, and no, before anyone asks, I haven’t showered either.
It’s not been my finest few days, but what’s a girl to do when she’s busy obsessing over a ghost’s location?
I abandon the Cheetos, letting the bag fall to the ground among the other dishes and food scraps I haven’t bothered cleaning up, and focus solely on the contract before me, my knees braced on my stained sweatpants.
Thirty-five-million-dollar payout.
What the actual fuck?
Contracts like this don’t come along often. They’re reserved for high-profile targets, the kind of targets who are impossible to take out, the kind of targets who would only ever be pursued by a select few assassins at the very top of their game.
Contracts like this get people like me killed before they’ve even breathed in the scent of their morning coffee.
This shit is no joke. It’s as serious as it gets, and if successful, would launch someone into superstardom within our industry.
They would never be questioned again, never accused of just getting lucky.
My ego rushes in, and as I go to hit accept, I hesitate.
Am I ready to take on a contract like this?
My head hasn’t really been in the game these past few days.
Hell, it hasn’t been in the game since Raiden stormed into my life like a fucking nuclear strike.
But maybe this is the distraction I need to focus on to finally be able to put Raiden out of my mind. God knows I need one.
Maybe this is fate. Maybe the angels are looking down on me in my dirty sweatpants, watching me annihilate Flamin’ Hot Cheetos like they’re a personality trait, and had a little angelic meeting among themselves, because how else would you explain a contract like this appearing on my phone today?
I blow out a loud breath, placing my phone on the coffee table and getting to my feet. I pace in front of it for at least ten minutes, going over all the pros and cons.
If I do this, it could potentially be certain death. If I fail, I will forever feel invalidated. If I screw it up, it’s my head on a fucking platter.
Buuuuuuut, if I pull it off? Well . . . I suppose nothing would really change. Guess I’d feel pretty fucking good about myself, and it is the perfect distraction from assholes with redwood monster cocks that swing around like fucking helicopter blades and destroy everything in their paths.
Fuck.
I dive for the accept button before I have a chance to change my mind and immediately start to freak out.
“Ahhh, fuck, fuck, fuck.”
It becomes my new catchphrase, and I repeat it for a good twenty minutes while still pacing in front of the coffee table.
Then, deciding I can’t possibly research this job before getting my shit together, I promptly start stripping in the living room, tossing Cheeto-stained clothes across my apartment on my way to the bathroom.
Stepping into the shower, my head spins, and as the water rains down on me, I scrub myself silly, continuing my impromptu freak-out.
After finishing up and making myself look like a respectable human being, I settle back into the couch and reach for my laptop.
My eyes drift over the empty food containers around me, and the mess starts to scream at me like a raging raccoon trapped in a trash can.
I sigh. There’s no way I’ll be able to concentrate like this.
So, setting my laptop aside, I start cleaning everything up.
Honestly, I may just be delaying the inevitable.
Maybe Spikezilla would like to go for a walk before I get started.
Once I thoroughly run out of excuses, and my whole apartment is perfect, I finally reach for my laptop again. Making sure it’s fully charged, I take it straight to my island counter, pull out a chair, and take a seat.
Contracts like these are different.
Once it reaches a particular level, all details are concealed until after the job has been accepted, and as I open my latest contract and scan over the target details, my jaw slackens, shock rushing through my body.
No wonder this is such a huge payout.
My hand falls away from the keyboard, and I lean back in my chair, just staring at the screen.
There’s no fucking way this is the job that’s just come my way.
If Raiden were here, I’d already be knocking on his door, desperately seeking his opinion on how to approach this, not even caring if it made me look incompetent, because honestly, he’s probably the only person on the planet capable of pulling something like this off.
Target Name: Unknown.
Alias: Lazarus.
Designation: Tier Black.
No confirmed date of birth. No verified nationality. No real name on record.
Lazarus is less a man and more a classified rumor—a ghost stitched together from redacted files and sealed indictments.
Allegedly, a former biochemical containment specialist turned rogue asset, accused of trafficking weaponized pathogens and confidential research across borders.
The kind of accusation that doesn’t make headlines because headlines would cause riots.
There haven’t been any confirmed sightings in over three years. No photographs. No facial biometrics. Not a single crumb of information. Every supposed lead has dissolved into nothing but chilling silence.
From what little information past attempts have managed to string together, Lazarus relocates every forty-eight hours, moves through military-grade safe houses, and travels under the protection of rotating ex-special operations contractors.
Attempts have been made. Three confirmed teams. All of them failed, with one disappearing entirely. Which explains the generous payout.
Contracts like this don’t come from angry billionaires or jealous ex-wives. They come from higher up. The kind of higher-ups who don’t sign their names, but come with presidential seals. It’ll never be confirmed who ordered this hit, but it doesn’t need to be. I already know.
Lazarus isn’t just listed as dangerous—he’s classified as an imminent threat to global stability. To life as we know it. The file doesn’t spell out the details, but it doesn’t have to. Words like “catastrophic” and “containment failure” tend to fill in the blanks on their own.
And now he’s sitting in my inbox.
Fuck.
I sit at my laptop for two days straight, not moving until the grumbling in my stomach has become so exceptionally loud that I simply can’t ignore it, and even after forty-eight hours of deep research, all I’ve found are breadcrumbs and failed leads.
There’s no doubt in my mind that this is likely going to be the biggest contract that I will ever see, and I want nothing more than to share it with Raiden.
When the UberEats driver knocks, I lower the lid of my laptop, not willing my screen to be glanced at for even a second. The last thing I need is some random delivery driver catching sight of classified intel and deciding tonight needs to get interesting.
Grabbing the bag, I mumble a quick thanks before shutting the door with my foot.
My body is wrecked from two straight days of research at the kitchen counter.
My shoulders are locked, lower back throbbing, and a dull cramp low in my stomach from too much caffeine and not enough sleep.
It’s rough, but it’s not the first time I’ve been here, probably not the last either.
Twisting the lock, I lean back against the wood and inhale the smell of fried comfort seeping through the paper bag, and as my stomach screams to be fed, I glance down the hallway.
And freeze.
I see straight into my bedroom, and the lamp on my bedside table is on, and right beside it, bold as anything, is a small cactus in a ceramic pot shaped like a huge cock.
My heart stops.
I step forward, each footfall careful as I scan everything. No broken locks. No forced entry. No alarms tripped. Nothing out of place.
Except that.
Putting the food down, I move into my bedroom like it’s a crime scene, my gaze quickly scanning again before coming back to the pot. Two rounded succulents at the base with one much higher cactus through the center, making the perfect cactus dick.
Across the front of the cock pot it reads: I’m not battery operated, but I’m still a big prick.
My throat tightens. Fuck that bastard for turning me into this.
Needles.
The cactus Raiden had joked that he was going to get. The one he insisted Spikezilla needed so they could establish dominance together.
He was here. He was inside my home. Inside my bedroom, only a handful of feet away. Close enough to place Needles on my bedside table and turn on the lamp like he lived here. And I had no idea.
Everything shatters inside me all over again.
Tears sting my eyes, but it’s not just heartbreak. It’s so much more than that. It’s humiliating.
How does a highly trained assassin miss something like that? How does Raiden Kane get inside my apartment and into my bedroom without me ever noticing?
Fuck.
Picking up the ridiculous pot, my fingers tremble, and I carry Needles back to the living room before setting him down beside Spikezilla on the coffee table. The two of them sit there like a pair of criminals, daring me to respond in a grand way.
Raiden made his move, and now the ball is in my court, but I’m not sure I’m willing to play.
I’m no longer interested in games.
I’m interested in forever.