The Hitman's Bloody Kiss

1. Zane

ONE

ZANE

Blood trickles down the woman’s back from eleven thin, neat lashes. The first ten had been carefully controlled, as much as decoration as to cause pain, and I admire my handiwork even as the woman sobs against the St. Andrew’s Cross she’s been bound to.

The eleventh, the last I’d been able to land before Genevieve had stayed my hand, crisscrosses the rest, but it’s messy in comparison because she hadn’t been able to keep still.

The woman had ignored my instructions to relax into the lashes, to breathe with the pain, and her whimpering had turned into sobs, then into a scream.

Pathetic.

“She knew what she was signing up for, didn’t she?” I ask Genevieve, stepping closer to the woman so I can run my fingers along one of the perfect lines I’d left behind. My fingers come away with blood, and I rub them together, transferring blood from one to my thumb.

“Not this,” Genevieve says, and while she likely intends to chide me, she can’t hide the note of amusement in her voice.

“How much extra did this earn her?” I sigh, handing the whip over to one of the silent attendants.

“Five hundred,” Genevieve replies.

I huff out a laugh. “You’re getting stingy in your old age, Gen.”

“What, are you going to tip her extra?” she asks, arching her perfect brows.

“Of course not. The last lash makes me look like an amateur,” I reply. The annoyance has melted away into restlessness.

That hadn’t been enough to satisfy me.

Eleven lashes.

That had been nothing.

But we have to keep up pretenses, and that means that I can only go so far before Genevieve reins me back in.

I take a step back, admiring the work I’d done up until that last unfortunate strike, and wipe my fingers on her bare ass. She’d been lucky I hadn’t been in the mood to cause real pain.

Or maybe I’d been lucky, because Genevieve would’ve stopped me even sooner.

“Maybe get one with pain tolerance next time.” I turn to her at last.

“I always ask, dear,” she says, her tone dry. “But you know how they are. The allure of money drives them to promise more than they can actually endure.”

I scoff at her. “You shouldn’t have let that one girl quit.”

“That one girl?” Genevieve asks. “You mean Wanda?”

“Yes,” I say. “Her. She took the whip beautifully.”

“She didn’t quit,” Genevieve replies with a dismissive wave of her hand. “She overdosed.”

That gives me pause. “I didn’t even know she was an addict.”

Genevieve gives me a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “People surprise you in the worst ways. Disappoint you, too. I thought she had potential.”

So had I.

“I need to wash my hands,” I say, ignoring the attendant who dispassionately begins to care for the wounds on the woman’s back.

Genevieve pats me on the shoulder, and I head to the bathroom. I wonder what actually happened to Wanda, if she’d developed an addiction or if she’d flirted with bad decisions.

Decisions always have consequences, and in a city like New Valence, they can be deadly.

The wooden floor creaks under my feet as I walk from the living room to the hallway, the sounds of idle conversation interspersed with the occasional smack and cry of pain falling away behind me.

I know my way around this mansion well, large as it is; I’ve been coming to Genevieve’s private gatherings for almost five years now. She’s only a few years older than I am, but she has connections even I can barely reach.

Something about the ability to blackmail the wealthiest, most influential men and women in the city with a flair for depravity does that.

I consider the sheer amount of blackmail material she has on me as I step into the bathroom and dismiss the thought. I have an equal amount on her.

Mutually assured destruction, as it were, and neither of us wishes to be destroyed.

I wash my hands with the peach-scented soap. There hadn’t been enough blood for it to do much more than tinge the water slightly pink. I should’ve dragged my fingers over the wounds, through the wounds, until my hand had been slick with her blood.

But certain appetites can’t even be indulged in private parties such as these, and I rarely find someone I trust enough to bring home with me.

I’m forever doomed to restraint, and some nights, the restlessness beneath my skin makes me want to ignore all the rules and indulge in dark thoughts I know could lead to disaster.

Stefan joins me as I step out of the bathroom, looking me over.

“Can’t I even piss in private?” I ask him, but there’s no real vitriol in my voice. He does his job well, and I trust him.

As much as I can trust anyone, at least.

Stefan shakes his head. “Nope. Not after last month.”

Somebody had attempted to shoot me in a public restroom at a restaurant last month. If Stefan hadn’t been there, I would have been shot through the door.

As it was, I pissed in peace and stepped out to find Stefan had already subdued the would-be assassin.

That’s why I pay him an exorbitant fee, of course. He doesn’t only look the part of the bodyguard at 6’6”, with broad shoulders, an ugly face, and a buzz cut. He’s smart, too, able to assess danger before it ever enters my periphery.

We’d escorted the failed assassin straight to the swamp and listened to him scream as his blood attracted the alligators.

They really are much faster than people give them credit for.

“Do we have any ideas who might be behind the attempt yet?” I ask him, only to lift my hand to stay his answer. “Never mind. Not here.”

I don’t know who’s around. Someone could be listening, even though I can’t see anyone and the floorboards should give anyone away if they try to get close. Then again, Stefan had gotten close without me being aware of it.

“If I don’t see someone interesting in the next five minutes, I’m leaving.” I sigh. “It’s like these women don’t even try.”

Maybe I need to see if Genevieve will find me a discreet man. They have to be equally as desperate as women.

That’s even more of a risk, though; desperation can make people surprise you, as Genevieve had said of Wanda.

Stefan grunts in acknowledgement and checks his watch. “Sounds good, Boss.”

Sometimes, he’ll insist I stay longer or leave earlier so we aren’t on a routine schedule. The less routine I have, the less opportunity there is for anyone to anticipate my moves.

Nobody except Stefan, and the party-goers, even know I’m here tonight.

They’re all bound by ironclad NDAs, and they’re wise enough to know that breaching those contracts would lead to more trouble than they’re willing to have at their doorsteps.

I return to the living room, where the dark-haired woman has been taken down from the Cross. She’s probably in a bedroom somewhere being babied, as though this is Club Neon.

None of the women brought here for entertainment will meet my eyes, and I purse my lips.

An early night, then.

Except my eyes catch on someone unfamiliar, someone who’s bold enough to lift her chin in my direction.

I can’t see her eyes, because they’re covered by a black veil. The skin on her jaw is stark white in comparison, and her lips a shimmering pink. Long, bleached hair trails past her shoulders.

I follow the line of her bare neck down to her shoulders. The frilly blouse is unusual for this party, where most women are in a state of undress. The sleeves poof out, and the bottom of the blouse has uneven layers of ruffles.

She’s wearing tight black pants rather than a skirt, which is also unexpected. Her feet are bare.

Her build is different from the soft, weak women I’ve been seeing all night. Taller, a straighter stance, not cowering.

She has the potential to be interesting.

I should stop by Genevieve to get more information about her, but Genevieve is caught up in a conversation with one of the business associates I prefer to pretend doesn’t exist. Lucky her.

“I’ll be right back,” I tell Stefan, then stride in the woman’s direction. I don’t have eyes for anyone else, and I won’t until I unravel the mystery of this veiled, unfamiliar creature who’s put herself directly in my path. “Good evening,” I say as I stop in front of her.

Her lips curl into a smile. “Good evening,” she responds.

The voice is deeper than I expected, and I take in her form again. The blouse is loose, but I can see no significant swell to the chest. Her hips are narrow.

The person laughs. “Confused? I’m a man. Don’t worry, I get that a lot. I won’t be offended if you decide to leave.”

I should walk away.

Zane Vilani cannot be seen flirting with another man.

Then again, who is going to realize I’m doing anything but socializing, especially with someone who looks female? The only person who might clock it is Genevieve, and she already knows most of my predilections, for better or for worse.

“That depends. Are you a guest or entertainment?” I ask, considering him.

“Are those mutually exclusive?” Amusement makes his voice light. “I must admit, I wasn’t aware New Valence had such interesting parties.”

“What were you expecting?” I ask, quirking a brow. Most people who come here as guests know what they’re getting themselves into.

The entertainment…

Not so much.

“I’ve always found the rules at most venues to be a bit,” he pauses, as if searching for a word, then decides on, “stifling.” He licks his lips, and I wish the veil weren’t in the way.

I want to see his eyes.

“Mm,” I murmur noncommittally.

There are reasons I’m here and not at one of those other clubs, after all.

“Have you been enjoying the show?” I ask, wondering if he had seen me take the whip to that woman’s back.

He nods. “It was a shame you had to stop. But you know, it’s a myth that women have a stronger pain tolerance.”

“Is that so?” I itch to push the veil back, but I keep my hands to myself.

He reaches up and draws one slender hand from my shoulder down to my bicep with a light, feathery touch.

“Mm. It probably depends on the person.” He takes a small step closer to me. “But I like to think I can take more than eleven lashes.”

He’d been paying attention.

I hadn’t been counting aloud.

I tilt my head. “Is that an offer?”