1. Kira

1

Kira

"You were hired for your looks, not your opinions."

For a moment I'm speechless, which almost never happens, though in my defense this isn't a time where I can tell someone to shove it. No matter how much I want to.

My usual quick retorts would get me fired. And I need this fucking job.

I have to bite my tongue, in this case hard enough to taste blood, to avoid verbally lashing out at my asshat of a client. I thought Mar did a better job of screening assets.

We're going to have a serious talk about this guy.

He's handsome, I'll give him that, with designer everything and impeccable grooming. He probably has a freaking pedigree sheet or something, if his thick black hair and firm jaw are any indication.

Too bad it's all just shiny gilding around a rotting carcass of terrible personality. Ugh.

After a slow breath to steady myself, I see if I can let off the vice grip I have on my poor abused tongue without throwing verbal knives.

"I was under the impression someone wanted to kill you," I say in a tight voice.

If he gets huffy, it won't phase me, thanks to my time spent around sergeants. Sarge insults are fucking awe-inspiring. I might have a foul mouth, but they are next level.

In fact, compared to most marines, I'm pretty damn tame. Some of them manage to say fuck every three words, which is a feat by itself.

See. That wasn't so bad, Kira. Not a single death threat or curse word .

You've got this , I tell myself.

The piece of shit doesn't even answer me, just runs his eyes up and down my body and then looks away. I guess chivalry really is dead amongst the upper classes. Not that I've ever rubbed elbows before this, but I guess I still held out some hopes about human decency.

I curse under my breath when my hand strays over to the dagger at my wrist.

Not allowed, bitch , I chide myself.

Stabbing a client is a great way to no longer be employed. I apparently don't care about that because my hand just keeps on creeping over to it, as I imagine ways I can use it to teach this insolent fucker a few lessons.

Without causing too much damage, of course.

Mar would kill you , the more rational part of my mind points out.

That is a much better deterrent.

I owe her big time for giving me this chance and I can't fuck it up. She's worked hard to build her security business, and I'd never jeopardize that. Not to mention I think she's saved my life a couple more times than I've returned the favor.

I was practically born into the military and without it, I don't know who I am. Working with her feels as close as I can get to still being in the Marines, and I'm clinging to that small lifeline currently keeping my head above the addiction water.

I have a feeling she might want to drop this client after I report in, but for now, I just need to suck it up and get through the night without killing the dickhead.

Tomorrow we can commiserate over the sting of people underestimating us.

He just keeps walking toward the seediest looking warehouse-cum-nightclub possible, completely disregarding my attempts to dissuade him.

Dumbass.

I mean, everyone knows a warehouse party in the middle of a 'hood is sketchy as hell, right? Not that I've ever actually been to one.

I've had far more important things to do with my life.

Like getting shot at in foreign countries.

I'd rather not get shot at here in the States, dammit. Though I guess I should have considered that before taking a job as a personal bodyguard.

My mom always said I was the dumbest genius she ever knew. Usually right after I fell out of a tree or got a beat down when I didn't back down from a fight that was well above my weight class.

If my dad was the one home, then he would just look at me with pride and talk about independence. Moving around a lot while my parents traded off deployments taught me the value of only relying on yourself. Now it's my superpower.

The good ol' days. Long before war wrecked my body, and I had to figure out what other ways a penchant for violence might pay the bills.

And so here I am.

I'd say going into a dodgy-looking nightclub would be a cry for help from this rich scumbag, except he's old enough to know better. I'm old enough to know better too, and yet I still trudge after him, my steel-toed shit-kickers thumping out my rage in the only way currently socially acceptable.

The bouncer at the door eyes me, his gaze clocking most of my hidden weapons. Knives at wrists, boots, and embedded in my belt. Guns under my left breast and the small of my back.

He missed the knives in the collar of my beat-up jacket and the outer stitching of my leather pants. Probably too distracted by how well my ass fills out the leather.

I suppress a smirk.

He takes a glance at my client, and we're waved through. As we move forward, I'm hoping that not being pawed at by the muscle-bound oaf bodes well for the rest of my night.

I dart a look back at the bouncer as we pass and, sure enough, he's ogling my hips. I feel like a genius for asking for the pants to be designed this way.

With a shake of my head, I bring my attention back to my job and scan the club for threats.

The music is pounding, lights are pulsing, and it smells like a barracks, except with the addition of sex, alcohol, and ganja. I'm sure there are plenty of other temptations in here I've been avoiding in my quest to stay sober.

Well, except sex. I haven't been avoiding it. More like men have been avoiding me.

I scare the shit out of them.

Not to mention they want a different kind of woman altogether. Less competitive. Less aggressive. Just... less.

I wish men were my problem, but unfortunately, it's everything else that causes me trouble.

Especially whiskey.

Nothing like immense pain to make you want to feel numb. The ache in my left arm, which still isn't fully functional, is like an insistent thrumming, all but crying out for me to go see who might share or let me buy.

It doesn't help that no one believed me when I told them a cyborg turned my arm into pulp during that fucked up one-way trip they sent my squad on to Antarctica.

I was the only one to come back alive, and my psych eval afterward claimed stress-induced psychosis. Because cyborgs don't fucking exist. I'll admit I turned to some chemical help to deal.

I'm past that, though.

It was more the mix of shame, guilt, and—most damning—relief that I wanted to deaden. I can't avenge any of my squad now and that rage swirling in my belly is all mixed up with relief that I won't have to face something so terrifying.

Then there's that insistent feeling of being unmoored now that I no longer have a long military career in front of me.

Well, as long as any infantry jarhead makes it, at least. Semper Fi, and all that shit.

It's all a jumble, but what I do know is medical retirement doesn't fucking suit me. I'd rather be around my usual type of chuckleheads than protecting Mr. Tall, Dark, and Half-witted.

A job's a job, though, so I follow like a good little bitch, ready to bite anyone who looks sideways at him or his precious designer watch.

I really don't like how so many people are jostling against us as we push through the crowd. I asked repeatedly to be briefed on his plans and our movements, but, of course, he refused. A niggling thought keeps trying to surface about how that seems really fucking suspicious.

Except Mar would never have sent me to him if he hadn't been thoroughly vetted.

And this is also my trial run. You know... since her finding me on a semi-permanent bender and offering me a lifeline didn't exactly inspire a lot of confidence.

I push down my self-loathing as I shove yet another person out of the way.

Plenty of insults comparing me to a dog and reproductive organs are hurled back at me for my efforts. I can't say I blame them.

I would have probably said the same damn things.

Not hurling anything back is the only apology they get from me. Lucky for them, the only person I want to knife right now is my asset.

I can see where he's heading now.

A roped-off section with another bouncer, this one clean cut and with a palpable edge of danger. I don't think I could take him in a fair fight.

It's hot as hell.

Now I'm the one letting my eyes roam over him.

Instinct requires I find his weapons first, but then I get to enjoy the cut of his suit, the corded muscles of his neck, and as I look back up to his face, the completely biteable lips. His eyes are just finishing up their own assessment of me and there's an answering appreciation and heat in his gaze.

It's been far too damn long since I had a hard fuck.

I'm not sure if I'm happy or annoyed that I don't get by this time without a pat down.

Okay, more annoyed. I fucking delight in being armed.

That said, it looks like this job comes with some benefits. He takes his time finding my weapons, being especially careful to ensure there's nothing hiding in my bra, between my legs, or on the plentiful globes of my ass.

As if anything would fit there.

I don't even have to pretend to pant as a distraction; he gets that honest, but he still misses the same weapons the other guy did.

Four whole knives.

I'll be sure to let my tailor know she's a rockstar.

He stores my confiscated weapons in a locker and hands me a key, spending just a moment too long running his fingers over my palm.

It sends a fizzle of pleasure right down to my core, and I clench my thighs in response.

He smirks when he notices, then nods at the woman behind him to move aside the ornate barrier that's keeping the plebs out. It's useless, of course, but few people would make it through the two of them.

He tosses his head toward the VIP area instead of speaking to us, which is a disappointment. I'd really like to know if his voice is as alluring as he looks.

Unfortunately, it's the woman who speaks. "She would eat you alive, Jin."

He grunts and just keeps on looking at me like he wants to eat me.

Please, please do , my gaze tells him.

The woman rolls her eyes and adds more to convince him. "This one doesn't want the picket fence, you idiot. You'd never know where you stand."

Damn, sis. Way to call a girl out. I raise an eyebrow at her, but since I'm not one to lie, I can't say much.

Love is dicey business, and I jump ship at the first glimmer of it in someone's eyes. My mom loved my dad, and where did that lead her? That's right. Dishonorable discharge and the bottom of a bottle.

The woman's not the first person to point out how emotionally stunted I am. In my defense, it's not that I'm completely opposed to settling down. I've just never met a man who could handle me.

I honestly don't think he exists.

In the meantime, there's plenty of man candy in the world. Might as well make them feel appreciated.

I blow the sex god a kiss as I walk by, and he runs his tongue along his upper lip with a wink.

Holy shit balls .

I take it back… This place is definitely worth revisiting.

Unfortunately, I must leave sexual fantasy land to focus on keeping the idiot in front of me in one fancy piece. He heads straight toward a room, pulls out a key card, and opens the door.

Did that fucker have a reservation and couldn't be bothered to tell me jack shit? I bite off a whole litany of curses. Every one of them well-earned.

My fists clench, but I keep my cool, and simply follow him into the room.

It has an exit in the back, and I waste no time ensuring it's locked. There's opulent furniture, a clearly visible camera, and a selection of drinks and drugs. Nothing that looks like a threat.

I put the authoritative growl in my voice that's made plenty of buck privates all but piss themselves, then try to reason with the man again. "Now would be a very good time to tell me why we are here."

He continues ignoring me, helps himself to a line and a drink, and then falls back onto the chair, sprawling out like he owns the place.

Maybe he does. Must be nice being rich.

I don't have to wait long before the mystery is solved about why we're here. Two more men enter the room, clearly also invited because my client remains calm, and they have a key.

Unlike me, they still have the telltale bulges of weapons.

Not good.

I try to get the attention of my client, once again to no effect.

The man in front looks me over. "Really, Chet? A female bodyguard?"

My asset shrugs. "It was the best I could do on short notice."

My eyes narrow at the insult. Guns pretty much even up the...

Oh, right. Sex god has my advantage locked away.

Still, there's no need to be offensive about it. Plus, I have a few tricks they probably don't want me showing them that involve knives in tender places. Imbeciles.

I keep myself loose, and don't let any of my thoughts show on my face. Even with the ache in my arm, I'm confident about my aim. Just because something gets smashed to pieces doesn't mean it can't heal up just as ready to kick ass as the rest of me.

It just requires some adjustment.

And insults? Nothing they can say could be worse than a staff sergeant yelling in your face.

"This won't do much for your debt," the man continues.

What won't?

I glance at my client, but he doesn't have any currency or valuables in his hands. If they wanted money transferred, they wouldn't have needed to meet.

My skin prickles. Nothing about this feels right.

I need to get out of here, preferably with my asset still alive, but after the way he's acted, it's no longer topping my list of priorities. Mar will just have to deal.

"Let's finish this in the back," the man says.

I clear my throat. "I advise against that."

Just like all the other times, he ignores me and gets to his feet.

I hold my hands out toward him as I shift my body to block him. "If you willingly go toward that door, I'm calling this contract void."

Dread spiders down the back of my neck when my client laughs in response. Fuck that, his stupid-ass name is Chet.

He's no longer a client.

"There's only a limited market for this type. Pretty much only the slimes, and that comes with a whole lot of inconvenience. This only gains you a month, at best."

Fuck. They're talking about me. What the hell, Mar? So much for vetting.

When the door opens behind me, I rush the men at front of the room, catching the one who just said I was fucking undesirable with a hard blow to the throat with my elbow.

He collapses to the plush carpet, his hands flying up to his crushed windpipe, his eyes opened wide in shock.

He's unsuccessfully trying to keep living when his companion pulls a gun. I'm not fast enough to knock it away, and so the sound of a silenced weapon firing coincides with a searing pain in my upper thigh.

I let out a screech of pain, but keep moving, pushing the gun to the side as I reach up and yank out a knife from my lapel. A moment later, a darting hand flings it forward, and it's embedded in the man's eye.

Fucking Chet is screaming by that point, pleading with the men who came from the back to kill me. I'm slowed by the weakness in my leg and turn around just in time to take a shot to my left shoulder.

It throws me back and I thump into the door before sliding down it.

I know it's over, but I use the last of my strength to rip another knife from the side of my pants. It takes everything in me, along with a screaming cry, to make myself raise my good arm. I pull it up to my right ear, take aim with my already swimming vision, then let it loose.

Seeing the blood pumping out of Chet's throat makes it all worth it.

I'm laughing manically as I take a boot to the head.

***

I'm in and out of consciousness as I'm transported. They really don't like me very much, especially when I share some of the choice insults I learned from my sarge.

I take a few more kicks, but no more bullets, before I wake up with straps holding me down. The room is icy as fuck and I'm shivering, which sends spikes of pain all over my body.

There's too much swelling and blood in my eyes for me to see, but I can feel unyielding, frigid hands all over me. Pain follows wherever they touch.

No, not hands. Metal instruments? Ones that grip and pivot. Robots?

There's this weird hissing, gurgling noise as the robots or instruments, whatever they are, continue to prod me. It has a cadence that my mind wants to associate with something. Almost like... I'm too far gone to figure it out, so I give up.

Another cold touch, this time digging into the bullet wound in my leg, brings me back to wondering about robots. My hands jerk, trying to kill the bastards, but they are held fast.

I scream until they stop digging, then lay there panting.

Whatever it is, it shoves my head to the side next, and I screech as it pushes painfully into the swelling from the repeated battering. Then another agony altogether joins it as they force something into my ear.

A searing pain flows from the canal into my skull and down into my throat. It's all too much and I'm losing my grip on consciousness.

As I fade into the black, I hear someone speaking. Almost like an overlay to the gurgling, in a confusing jumble. "I disagree. The scars will just let a buyer know how they can paint her."

"No. Shentrea sent a new suite to test on this harem. There won't be any star-baked scars."

"Next time say that first, desiccated member. I don't like my time wasted. Just make sure this one's pink."

What the fu...