17. Kaden

17

KADEN

" Fuck. "

The word rushes from my lips, sharp as a blade slicing through hot air.

Layla's bare skin shimmers beneath me every time lightning flashes, her fingers digging into herself, opening her pussy with pleading eyes.

I press my hand over her mouth, my fingers spanning half her face, and I relish the soft gasp she emits against my palm.

Layla's wide eyes stare into mine, shining with quiet hesitancy.

I use my other hand to skim my fingers over the length of bare skin stretched taut across her hip bone, tracing a soundless promise— I'll protect you —before I pad silently to the door.

The faint noise downstairs has amplified into an unmistakable shuffling. Not loud enough to be a breach, but too obvious to ignore. It's the sound of uncertainty tiptoeing through the seams of the old cottage, and my gut tells me it's human, not a lost fox from the woods.

I'm always ready for death—my own or someone else's. The Reaper is an old friend, after all. But Layla, she's still a stranger to his grasp.

Crouched into obscurity by the door, I extract a pair of sleek Glocks from the jacket I discarded. Their cold, metallic weight is a familiar comfort. Though it doesn't come close to Layla's warm skin, she's a luxury afforded to men not hunted by the monsters of their past.

Silently, I beckon Layla closer. She's so out of sorts, she tiptoes over without bothering to cover her bottom half. Once she's kneeling beside me, I press one weapon into her palm.

"Stay here," I order, "and shoot anyone who isn't me."

Her brows furrow and her throat bobs, but she nods, clutching the weapon like hope itself. I'd wager she's never handled a gun before, yet there's a delicious irony in arming an angel.

"How do I…?"

Her voice shakes but carries a soft acceptance of the inevitable.

"Keep your finger off the trigger until you intend to shoot. Aim low, center mass."

The paleness to her face intensifies, but she nods again, gripping the Glock tighter.

I rise to slip out of the bedroom, but Layla hooks my elbow.

"Are you going to be okay?" she whispers.

I smile before my mask comes down. "The idiot doesn't know it yet, but he's not breaking in—he's locking himself in here with me."

I brush my fingers against her cheek once, a silent guarantee that I'll return. "Secure the door after I leave."

Then I'm creeping down the stairs, nimble and silent as a cat. This intruder thinks darkness is his ally. I was born in it, molded by it. The fool is walking into my playground.

As I descend, each step below creaks slightly beneath my weight, but I time it with the storm outside, using the crashes of thunder and buffeting wind to my advantage. Leaves are whipped off trees, and rain peppers the glass windows.

Night vision illuminates my path forward, but I can't shake the taste of Layla's concern along with her arousal off my tongue. It's a sweet mixture that sticks in my throat, but beneath it lies something else: trust.

It's an unfamiliar flavor, and it distracts me for a moment too long.

The intruder lunges from the side, crashing into me with a grunt reminiscent of a wild boar ramming into its enemy. We stumble against a wall, his sweaty palm pressing against my throat as he tries to kick my legs out from under.

But I stand, immovable as the roots of the old oak out front. His body struggles against mine, and the taste of blood—that alloyed tang—singes my tongue as his fist connects with my mouth.

But he's just another raindrop in the storm outside. He is not my equal.

Faster than he can track, I twist, snapping his hold on my throat. I hammer my elbow into his gut, savoring the pained wheeze he emits as I drive it home again and again—until he doubles over. A swift knee to his face sends him sprawling across the hardwood, his body thudding painfully against a corner table.

Before he can recover, I'm on him. One moment he's struggling to rise, and the next his world is reduced to agony and blindness as my boot connects with the side of his skull.

His body crumples beneath me, twitching feebly in its death throes.

There's an odd comfort in the stillness following such violence. The cessation of movement, the fading heat from a body now slowly cooling .

I rummage quickly through his pockets, discovering nothing but a cheap wallet and a burner phone with a single number dialed multiple times. No ID. They never carry identification.

One down. How many more to go?

I toss the wallet onto the dead man's chest, then go still. The hair on the back of my neck rises. It's too quiet. I turn, scanning the room for any signs of movement.

The unmistakable footsteps of another prowling hunter draws my attention to the left. There's a second living pulse in this house.

Can he hear my heart pounding with adrenaline? Or does he mistake it for fear?

I drag the first intruder's body into the open, arranging him on the living room floor, before searching one of Layla's side tables, finding what I need, then procuring a knife from my boot and driving it through his hand, pinning a note between.

A brief glance tells me his time of death: 1:03 a.m. I take a cheap plastic watch out of my pocket, wind the hands to that time, then drop it on the note, rivulets of blood winding through the ink.

I'm sending a clear message: this is the Scythe's territory.

Breathing heavily, I turn my back on the lifeless intruder sprawled out behind me. The silence stretches thin again, only punctuated by the soft patter of rain against age-old glass and wood. Yet beneath its rhythmic lull is the slight rustle of fabric and a muffled breath .

I allow myself a small, brutal smile behind my mask.

Positioning myself at the end of the long hallway, I wait for him to come to me. The intruder's flashlight beam sweeps across the walls, inching closer until he pauses with a quick inhale of breath.

Looks like he found his friend.

The beam of light arcs toward me with an unsteady sweep.

"Who's there? Who the fuck did this?"

I press against the wall, keeping quiet.

As the flashlight nears, ricocheting between the walls without caution, I reach out, lightning-fast, and break the flashlight's lens. The sudden plunge into darkness is followed by a startled curse.

Before the intruder can say more, my hand clamps over the man's mouth, muffling any sound. The other drives a knife between his ribs.

I lean in close, my mask's lips brushing the dying man's ear.

"She's mine," I whisper, twisting the knife. "You never stood a chance."

I ease the body to the floor, already alert for the next target. The entire encounter has lasted less than ten seconds.

My pulse quickens, a mix of bloodlust and another, deeper starvation.

Layla's scent is still on my fingers, a soft, delicious overlay to the tinny stench of blood. But it's a fatalistic distraction. I'll never see killing in the same way now that her name is forever etched upon it.

A muffled explosion reverberates through the house, shattering my contemplation.

I'm moving before the sound fades, taking the stairs, a knife in one hand, gun in the other.

A telltale sizzle of circuitry fills the air as I step onto the second floor. I round the corner, taking in the scene in an instant, and note the broken lock on Layla's door, still smoking after the charge used to destroy it.

Layla's set up her phone to act as a spotlight and blind the assassin's night vision goggles. That assassin's now on the floor, goggles flung off and his body convulsing. Layla's backed against the side wall, dressed in an oversized sweater hitting her mid-thigh. I zero in on the wires trailing from the damaged lock to a battery pack in her hand.

Clever.

Layla must have tampered with the battery-powered lock to give a jolt of electricity to anyone who tried to sabotage it. And this guy was the lucky recipient of her surprise.

The tension in her body relaxes when she spots me.

"Scythe," she breathes out, her voice ragged as she drops the battery pack onto the floor with a loud thunk.

Her hands are shaking, but her gaze is deadly calm, a distinction that sparks pride as I assess her for any injury.

I nod at her, an acknowledgment of a job well done. She'd surprised me when she rammed her forehead into Bonesaw's nose, keeping her sense of self-protection despite her terror. Now, she's downright impressed me.

"Are you all right?"

My voice comes out rougher than intended, my concern seeping through.

Layla opens her mouth to respond, but in that split second, the intruder recovers, and with a wet growl, he lunges at Layla.

On instinct, I start forward, my gun already lifting. But Layla is moving as well.

With a merciless grace she shouldn't possess, she sidesteps his reckless charge, using his momentum to shove him face-first into her bedroom wall. He grunts in surprise and pain as she wrenches the arm he'd used to reach for her up behind his back.

My steps falter in disbelief.

And then ...

Then she swings.

In the span of a heartbeat, she slams her laptop into his face with a well-aimed crunch of bone against aluminum. The blow sends the assassin sprawling, his body going limp.

For a moment, there's only the sound of Layla panting, her chest palpitating with exertion. Then she's lowering the laptop to her side and looking at me with wide eyes.

"I'm ... I'm okay," she says, her voice wobbling.

I can't hold back my grin beneath the mask.

"Nice swing."

Gently taking the laptop from her, I guide her to sit on the edge of the bed. She allows this without protest, her gaze never leaving me.

I turn my attention back to our uninvited guest.

This guy isn't going anywhere soon, but if he and his friends knew about the power outage and wanted to take advantage, there are bound to be others. We need information—fast.

I cross the room and drop my knee into the assassin's back to secure his wrists in handcuffs.

As I pat him down for weapons, Layla asks, "Aren't you going to kill him?"

I glance up at her question. When I do, I realize I've made a grave error, for I'm incapable of averting my eyes from this woman who is so much more than she appears.

"Do you want to watch while I do?"

Her throat moves with a gulp. Then she seems to blink out of it. "No. Of course not. But isn't that what you do, as the Scythe? "

"Most of the time," I confirm, patting down the unconscious man one last time. "But right now, he's more helpful to us alive than dead."

Her hand flies to her mouth. There's a faint tremor to her voice when she asks, "Are you going to torture him?"

I pause. The question sounds almost accusatory. When I turn my head, studying her, I notice that her expression is frightened, but also curious. A morbid fascination with the monster she's allowed into her bed.

"Yes."

The barely audible gasp she emits shreds through me like a freshly sharpened blade. If gasps could be translated, hers would say, What would your daughter think of you now?

But that's impossible. Layla doesn't know enough about Cassie. No one does, except for me and her killer.

I'm doing this for you, baby girl.

Before Layla can interject further, I turn my attention back to the unconscious man. Abruptly, I flip him onto his back, eliciting a groan as his eyes flutter back to the present.

Using a sterilized blade from my gear, I cut open his jacket and shirt to reveal a tattoo etched on his chest—Morelli's sigil.

I grip the collar of his scuffed leather jacket with barely restrained fury, lowering my masked face to his. A single bead of sweat drips down my temple and into one eye.

The assassin's darting gaze steadies, then widens when he realizes who hovers above him.

"I have questions," I say. "And you're going to give me answers."