Chapter 1

Present Day

I really hate these parties. Everything from the glamor to the price of the champagne is nauseating. The last thing I wanted was to be here, but alas, I have a job to do.

You would think that an assassin could pick his own marks, but the truth is, we all have someone, somewhere that we answer to. As much as I love my new boss, I am also pretty pissed with her right now because I had to put on a suit tonight. It turns out, the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom is a popular fella who has a half-decent security team.

I wade through the partygoers even as they stare at me and try not to punch any of them in the face until I can get to where I need to be. The way they look at me makes my teeth grind, but I hold it together because I have to.

Curious why I hate suits? Well, let me tell you. It's because I look like a lion pretending to be a giraffe. I am a trained assassin. Some would even call me a serial killer because I prefer a certain type of person as my mark. Predators, to be exact. I'm not a suit-wearing, party-going, people-mingling man of the office!

My job is simple. I kill people. Most of the time, they deserve it.

There might be another reason I hate them though too—the fact that I am covered in tattoos. My hands, my neck, and I even have two on my face. You might be able to dress up a threat, but I'll never be able to appear like a refined member of society in attendance here.

Not that I truly mind. As much as I wish I could blend in to better suit my job, I also love being my unapologetic self. It's freeing. None of these stuck up nitwits will ever know what that feels like.

My phone dings in my pocket for the third time today. I sigh as I step to the side, pulling it from my pocket to read the message.

Boss Lady: Because you refused to check in, I am sending one of my girls after you. Hurt her and I'll cut off your balls.

I chuckle as I read the message again, then scan the crowd of people. I wonder who she sent. I only know a few of her friends, but any badass female that she would add to her team is someone I want to know.

It's not that I didn't check in with her out of spite, I've just never been used to answering to someone so frequently. As much as I like it, part of me wants to boycott it.

You see, Evie is one of the very few people to ever care about me. I helped rescue her from a shitty situation, and she's had my back ever since. She's practically my family now.

I scratch the red Celtic knot tattoo on the side of my neck, thinking about a girl who was once on Evie's team, part of her little family even. The only girl I think my heart could ever be capable of missing.

Clenching my fist, I shove my phone back into my pocket, even more determined now. It was men like my target that killed the girl I fell for long ago; I won't let this man escape his fate.

Don't worry, I don't plan on killing him tonight. I just need to plant a bug and figure out everything he knows so that I can take him down before killing him.

The thing about child trafficking is that it's vital to get it all right the first time. If you go in too early, you risk separating the kids and never finding some of them. Go in too late and you never know what kind of state you'll find the kids in.

Hence, why I'm heading towards the scum of the earth right now, the great Prime Minister. I refuse to be too late because of people like him.

He shakes hands with someone, smiling while his drugged-up trophy wife hangs on his arm for the sole purpose of keeping herself on her feet. I don't blame her though; I'd need drugs to be that close to a man like him willingly.

As I prowl closer, the guest of honor tilts his head in confusion. People like me aren't normally seen here, but I might have doctored a video and letter that states otherwise.

I stick out my hand, firmly grasping his as I pull him close. His breath stutters as fear overtakes him and his eyes dart around. My head swims with adrenaline as I feel his pulse jump in my grip. To me, terror is as beautiful as art.

"Congratulations," I say, using my most sinister voice, hiding the bite of my Irish accent. "I hear there is more than one thing to celebrate tonight."

This bastard recently got paid a generous amount for allowing a shipment of kids to slide through one of his ports.

His security team draws closer as the tension in the room makes the large gallery feel small. In one swift movement, I release him while simultaneously tucking a small bug inside the fold of his pocket square. He gapes at me as I give a mocking salute and back away.

"Until we meet again."

I giggle like a schoolgirl to myself, pushing through the crowd and making my exit. They will likely throw me out anyway if I don't do it myself. I glance around me, staying alert in case any of the security here thinks they can get the jump on me. Just when I think I'm finally out of their sights, a flash of what looks a little too much like a rifle catches my attention outside the window.

There is only one vantage point to this room, a rather large tower right outside that can be accessed via this building or from the outdoors. I assume the security team wants to keep an eye on me until I make it to my car, so I give them a wink.

I have to be honest; I didn't think his team was capable enough to even think to have outdoor security. They typically stay within thirty or so feet of the Prime Minister.

Just as I disappear from sight, the glint of the moonlight illuminates a head of red hair I would recognize even in my sleep. I swear my cold, dead heart beats for a split second because the next thing I know, I'm rushing to that tower, needing to know my mind isn't playing tricks on me again.

A year ago, I was crushed when I heard the news that the girl I once loved had died. There was a tragic accident that ended in a building collapsing. The remains they were able to find had allegedly been hers.

Allegedly.

I went and visited the site myself, and the amount of dried blood around where they found her was enough to convince me it was all real. Well, after a little more digging at least.

Taking the stairs to the tower two at a time, my breathing ceases in my lungs when I reach the top and open the door. There she is. The Irish Reaper Princess. The daughter of the man who slaughtered my parents. My first love.

I watch as she hastily packs up her Black King rifle, one of the finest long-range rifles on the market. She always did have the best eyes, eyes that noticed everything. I remember when I would get lost while watching her look at things. The way she would tilt her head towards the sun as a warm smile stretched over her face, and the way the gold flecks in her irises would come to life.

Except right now, she's not looking at me. I should be concerned about her lack of awareness. I think back to Evie's message and realize this is who she must have sent.

My lips curve into a wicked grin as I step out from the shadows onto the stone roof. I watch as her whole body freezes, and those eyes that once held so much wonder, lock onto mine.

I'm curious if she can see the changes in me as clear as I can see the ones in her. She looks stronger, much more fit. Her hair is so long and dyed the same bright red I'll never be able to forget.

Then, I see happiness on her face. That's what finally brings me back to reality, the moment I realize she's found happiness living without me.

"You're supposed to be dead, A stór." A treasure in the night. My treasure in the night.

"You are too." Her breathing shakes as if she's afraid of the man standing in front of her.

Maybe she's able to see just how much I've changed in the past three years since faking my own death. The once giddy boy that was full of love and adventure, turned into a ruthless assassin and serial murderer.

Three years ago, I was a different man, still a boy even. But I'm not that person anymore.

I take out my knife and flick it open to clean under my nails. My hands feel dirty after touching that revolting man only minutes ago, and I want to carve him from my flesh. I shrug before leaning against the wall by the door, successfully blocking her way out.

"I faked it to hide from your father."

My words are emotionless, cold even. Just the thought of that man takes my mind to the worst place.

"I did the same." Her voice stutters this time, making it clear she is afraid of me.

But that's the thing—the woman I knew is afraid of nothing and no one. So, why is she letting herself be haunted by a ghost?

"Well then. Let's talk about how we can kill him. Shall we?"

I step into her space, crowding her as I pocket my knife and wrap a hand around her throat. I had to live for a year thinking she was gone, and I want to know why. I want to demand answers until she's crying and begging on her knees for my forgiveness.

The woman I knew never would have let me touch or threaten her like this. Yet, here she is, doing exactly that. Maybe the woman I loved really did die a year ago. Maybe this is some fake version of herself she pretends to be in order to hide away.

Using my hand, heavily tattooed with a dark skull, I squeeze around her neck. Her eyes flutter closed as I lean in, her sweet scent envelopes me, causing me to briefly lose all sense of reason.

I've mourned her and this love for a year, but here she is. In the flesh and very much alive, her skin warm and real right under the tips of my fingers.

"Harder," she whispers, and my body obeys on command, my eyes shooting open at her words as relief floods me knowing she is still the same woman I fell in love with.

Realization hits me that I'm not scaring her, she was waiting for her opportunity, and now she has it. Pain overtakes me as she crushes my balls within an inch of their life before backing away with a smirk.

I, on the other hand, collapse to the ground breathless for so many damn reasons. Feck, I should have choked her so much harder.

She chuckles as she bends down to grab her bag and tap me on the nose. "Am I still the same girl you remember, Killer?"

"Better." It's the only word I can get out as I roll onto my side, clutching the jewels as if my grip alone could heal their pain.

She stands to her full height to loom over me, that crimson hair blowing in the wind, resembling the fire I know blazes inside of her. I finally regain my composure and take a deep breath. She looks like a goddess as she reaches her hand out to me, just like she did when we were kids and she saved me.

"Come on. Evie wants an update." She pulls me to my feet and I stare at her in wonder.

"Who are you, Sweetheart?" I ask in a whisper.

She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear before adjusting the strap of her rifle across her chest.

"I think, I'm finally me." She shrugs, as if that wasn't the statement of the century.

"And who is that, Nessa O'Neil?"

Her mouth opens, but before she can answer me bullets chip at the edges of the building, shooting up towards us. I dive for her and the door, closing us in the dark space together before either of us are struck.

"Who knows you're here?" Nessa asks, her hands fisting my suit jacket before we turn and head down the stairs.

"Who knows you're alive?" I counter.

It's not every day that an Irish Reaper Princess fakes her death and decides to work with a girl like Evie.

"I have people who ensure my safety," she pauses on the steps to glare back at me. "Can you say the same?"

As we reach the base of the tower, her eyes widen when she realizes the door is locked. I may or may not have done that.

Don't worry though, I have a key.

Before I can get it out or say anything, panic crosses her features. She clutches at her stomach as if she were hurting, staring at the walls like they are closing in on her. It's not really in my nature to comfort people, but I reach out a hand and place it on her shoulder, pulling her attention to me.

"Just breathe," I say as I unlock the door. She nods, but the concern is still there. I wonder what happened to her in that tower a year ago.

Pushing the door open a crack, I peek out carefully, gun at the ready. There are three entrances to the tower, two of which are inside. I assume they decided to protect the people at the party versus sending people down to this location.

Nessa comes out behind me, watching my back as we make our way to the parking lot with haste. Thankfully, there are tons of trees on this side of the property, and they're well hidden in the shadows of the enormous castle. I grab my go bag strategically placed on the edge of the perimeter, in case I needed a quick getaway and throw it over my shoulder.

I watch Nessa move with calculated steps. She's in full tactical gear with leggings and tennis shoes while I'm in a monkey suit with expensive shoes that feel like steel around my feet. If it weren't for her clicking the unlock button on a car that's hidden in some shrubs a few feet away, I would have tossed the shoes in favor of being barefoot.

Nessa tosses her rifle in the trunk before checking her red holstered gun. It's then that I notice the black set of brass knuckles hanging from her tactical belt, and I have to hold back a groan.

Why are women with weapons so damn sexy?

Nessa nods to me then opens the driver side door. I strip out of my jacket and tie, throwing them on the ground behind some bushes while she hops into the car to start it up. The knot in my chest begins to ease, and I finally get into the very small two-seater.

Before I've righted myself in my seat, Nessa whips the car into gear and speeds down the abandoned back road, forcing me to grab the ‘oh shit' handle and pray as she guns it all the way to the main road.

She doesn't slow down by any means, but the speed becomes bearable when we are not being walloped by trees on a dirt road.

Where the feck did this woman learn to drive like this?

"What makes you think I want to kill my father?" Nessa asks after a long stretch of silence.

I scoff, looking out the window while noticing she's headed for the airstrip.

"Because he's a piece of shite," I state matter of factly. "And because he is sending a lot of money to the Prime Minister to ensure these children are trafficked through his ports."

She swerves as her head jerks to look at me before quickly straightening out the wheel. I, however, refuse to let go of my safety handle while this woman is in the driver's seat.

"Are you certain?"

I shrug, pulling up my phone and activating the bug I placed on my target.

"Am I sure he's funding it? Yes. I have seen the accounts. As for his level of involvement, that's just a guess."

Nessa grips the wheel, and I see the anger rising as surely as a thermometer heating up under pressure.

"He's a dead man."