Chapter 24

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Violet

It's late into the night when we've compiled everything we know between the two of us.

It's admittedly not much to go on.

I've known since childhood that my father was an assassin because I overheard the minister's wife talking to her husband. They knew, somehow, and used the knowledge as justification for the way they treated me.

We scoured everything we could together; he'd made some progress before we even talked.

We have the names of the people who fostered me, all of them, including the ones who had me for the longest time.

As an orphan in the system, someone could've adopted me, and it was a question I struggled with for most of my childhood.

Why not? Why not me? Why were other kids in foster care adopted into homes, but never me?

I didn't want to be part of the families that took care of me, not until I was a much older teen and found myself in the care of a family that treated me like a human being. But by then I was independent and headstrong and wanted nothing to do with ties to anyone.

I'm still on Cain's lap, snuggled in like I belong here. He lazily strokes his hand across my shoulder. Behind me lies the tray with the dinner we ate a while ago, the remains of chicken and potatoes that filled our bellies.

"It's time to come up with a summary. You've filled in more blanks than I have. Took me four fucking weeks just to compile the list of foster parents."

"Why?" I shake my head. "That doesn't make any sense. And for God's sake, if you'd only asked me…"

"You'd remember the name of the family that took you in when you were six?"

"Well, no, but I could remember some things."

"You did, baby, but not the details from when you were a child. Hell, Violet, I think you blocked half of them from your fucking memory."

Maybe I did.

He pulls up a screen and begins to read the notes we've compiled.

"Your dad was killed when you were four. Your name at the time was Violet, should've been Violet Bates, but nowhere in any record do you exist."

According to public record, my parents had no children. "That's odd, isn't it? How was someone who didn't exist put into the foster care system?"

He nods. "But you needed something to graduate high school, to get a job. What did you have for paperwork?"

I shrug. "My social worker gave me everything. But if there's no record of my birth, where did she get it from?"

He makes another note to find her, then taps something onto his phone to Joe before he continues summarizing everything we've found.

"You believe your father was an assassin, because your foster parents at one point mentioned to each other they had you in their care because they were trying to right a wrong, and we can assume that wrong was your father's history."

"Well, yes. They said my parents."

He pauses. "Is there a chance your mother was an assassin, too?"

I sit with this for a moment. "I… remember her being gentle. I remember she liked to sew. She didn't eat meat, but she'd make me chicken tenders." I shake my head. "How could a seamstress vegetarian be an assassin?"

Cain spins me around to look at him. "Never, ever assume." He bends down and kisses me, a gentle brush of his lips to mine, before he looks away. "I can be gentle, too, Violet."

I shiver. I know Cain's called The Executioner, and he's told me a bit about his past, but I never really put the words assassin and executioner side-by-side.

"Do you consider yourself an assassin, Cain?"

He doesn't blink or look away. "I do."

I'm falling in love with a murderer. Someone who takes the lives of others without regret, and I don't know how to stop.

He holds my chin so I can't look away. "You knew when you came here who I was, Violet. You knew when you offered to work for me what I do."

"I know some of what you do, yes, but not all of it."

"You knew that I killed for hire, and that I'll do it again."

My voice is hoarse with emotion. "I do."

"But this isn't about me. Soon, I'll tell you everything I learned about how to be a good assassin, since this knowledge will help us find more about your parents."

I straddle him, reach for his face, and frame it in my hands. My fingers graze his stubble. "Tell me now."

He lays his hands over mine. "We go through the rest of what we know, and then I'll tell you." He bends and kisses the very top of my left breast, then the right. Shivers skate down my spine. "I want you in bed when I tell you."

Ah. So we'll have one of those conversations. His specialty.

My sex clenches, eager to be filled by him, manipulated by him, eager for what I know he could give me and will.

With reluctance, I turn back to the computer screen.

"These are the names of some of the people who fostered you. Most seem innocent enough. They fostered several dozen kids spanning several decades, and still have solid relationships with some of them. Joe researched them for me. This family, though… the one you were with when you were ten. They're problematic."

I can still see her glaring at me over the top of her glasses before she hauled me to the closet. Bitch. "Yeah. I know."

"I can't find them on record anywhere. No names. No history. It's why I asked if you knew if they were alive, because there is no record of where they are now."

"How strange."

"But there's one single thread that unites all of the families that took you into their homes."

I look over my shoulder at him. "Really?"

"Yeah. They were all married at the same church, by the same minister."

Okay, so he really did do his research. "Yeah?"

He nods. "Guy by the name of Gray Descamps. Still stationed in the First Church of Christ, North Shore."

"Huh. Well, that's weird. Anything odd about him?"

Cain frowns, scrolling down the document he's saved with names and dates and details. "I don't know… there is, but I can't quite put my finger on it."

"Are there any other details?"

He shakes his head. "I think we need to pay the minister a visit."

Oh, dear.

"He's got to be ancient by now, doesn't he?"

"Suppose. Doesn't matter."

"Cain, you can't go in and threaten an old guy with torture or death."

He straightens. "Why not?"

"You just… can't. It isn't right."

He spins me around to face him, gets this wicked gleam in his eyes, then bends and licks one of my breasts. My nipple peaks, and he gathers it into his mouth to suckle before he releases it. I stifle a moan. "According to whom?"

"Oh no you don't," I say, but I'm already panting when he leans me over the desk. My head nestles against the padded top. I thrust my fingers in his hair as he makes his way down my front. I'm still straddling him, so my legs are on either side of his torso, my body laid out like an offering to him.

He licks my nipples and weighs my breasts in each hand, fingering one hardened bud while he laps the other, until my body's slick with arousal and need.

"Come upstairs with me, baby," he whispers against my ear. "I'll tell you everything else I know, but I want to be in you when I do."

He doesn't have to ask me twice. I throw on my discarded clothing but leave the bra off. He scouts the halls, and in less than a minute, we're back in his room.

"Grab the fucking headboard," he orders, in that tone that means he wants in me, and he wants in me now. He follows up on his orders with a solid whack to the ass.

"Ah, so we're in that sort of mood," I say, as I grasp the sturdy headboard. I gasp when his palm slaps against my ass again, hard. Who am I kidding? Playful Cain is the exception to the rule. Boss Cain's the norm.

"Yeah, baby."

I'm already undressed, losing my clothing the minute I stepped over the threshold, and he's making quick work of undressing behind me. I hear the rustle of fabric, the swoosh of his belt, then he taps it against my thigh. "Behave yourself."

I make a choked sort of sound and get on my knees. My fingers grasp the headboard, my legs splayed for him. I hear the sound of a match being struck, then the scent of warmed cinnamon. His favorite candle, one bought expressly for the purpose of torturing me.

I love it.

"The rules of an assassin," Cain begins, when he kneels behind me. "Repeat them after me so I know you're being a good girl that listens well. If you're going to get the revenge you need, you'll learn these rules."

My heartbeat spikes.

I nod. "Yes, sir. Of course."

He loves it when I submit to him. This is the only time he gets it. Cain has a rules kink—when he gives me rules to repeat, he loves to dominate me. My first taste of this particular kink was on the target range when he punished me for shooting a gun without permission. He's done it several times since, so it doesn't take me by surprise now.

"Assassins have plans to succeed, Violet. They never take on a job they think they can't handle, for failing at their job has dire consequences. They take on what they can do, and don't commit to anything they can't."

I nod. "Got it. Assassins plan to succeed."

I gasp when he snaps a towel out on the bed for me to kneel on. He has plans for me tonight. Dirty, naughty plans, and I'm here for it.

When the towel's secured to catch anything messy, warmed oil licks down my back. The cinnamon candle. Heated through, it melts into a massage oil that can be used anywhere on the body, and I do mean anywhere. I close my eyes at the glow the heat creates across my skin, then moan when I feel him rub it into me.

"Assassins get paid up front. No credit. No payment plans. Cold, hard cash."

The oil seeps into my skin, and I'm enveloped in the scent of warmed spice. My grip loosens on the headboard from my palms slick with sweat. His palm cracks across my ass.

"Hold onto that headboard like I told you."

I quickly obey and repeat the rule. "Assassins get paid up front."

"Good girl. Next rule, and this one is vital. Are you paying attention?"

"Mhm," I say absentmindedly, just to get him riled up.

" Violet. " He tweaks my nipples.

I gasp. "I'm listening!"

When he's satisfied he has my attention, he continues, speaking deliberately so his words hold weight. "Assassins kill with their heads, not their hands."

That's so hot. Oh, God, why is that so hot?

He strokes between my legs, then pumps two fingers into my core.

"Oh, God," I moan. "But you do know what to do with those hands don't you?"

"I do," he says with a low chuckle. "Now repeat the rule before I take my hands away."

"No," I moan, rocking my hips against his hand. "Don't go." I'm panting. "Assassins… kill… with their heads… not their hands."

"Good job. We don't need brute force, though proficiency with a weapon works well. We need to be astute and on point, prepared to pull the trigger when the time is right. Taking a human life isn't as easy as it sounds, because we've muted our responses to such things with video games and movies. It's a hairline fracture we walk, and we always, always have to be alert, ready, and mentally prepared."

I nod. "Understood."

"Any numbskull with a knife can kill someone. To be a professional, you have to know your shit."

He stops stroking, and my temper flares.

"Is that a rule, or are you just elaborating?" I say tightly, earning me another slap to the ass.

"Watch your tone of voice. You wouldn't want to be punished by going to bed without your dessert, now, would you?"

Goddamn .

"No," I say, as repentant as could be. He continues his perfect, brilliant stroking, until I'm panting and nearly begging him for more.

"Assassins trust no one."

What an odd rule, considering he's asked me to trust him over, and over, and over. Could it be that he's gone so long without trusting anyone that he needs to know there's still someone who can?

I moan at the feel of the head of his cock at my entrance. He swirls the hot tip through my swollen, slick folds, releasing a moan of his own.

"Assassins don't get fancy," he says. "This isn't the movies. This is real life. We don't use car bombs or poison fucking appetizers at a ball when a simple bullet or slit throat will do."

"Got it."

He shoves in me, a thrust that takes my breath away and makes ecstasy erupt in every damn cell. I moan, pushing back against him just to feel his thick, hot cock pulsing in me again.

"Fuck, baby," he groans.

My fingers tighten on the headboard as he pumps his hips and makes little sparks of electricity dance across my skin.

"You're so tight," he whispers in my ear, as I near release.

"Is that another rule?" I lower my voice but have a hard time concentrating. " Be tight. "

His dark chuckle washes over me as my eyes flutter closed against the rush of emotion. "Don't you let go," he orders as he comes inside me, filling me with his hot release. I come when he does, giving in to the pressure and release that fills me as I shatter into ecstasy. "Don't you ever fucking let go."

We collapse on the bed, tangled in each other. His words echo in my ear.

They should make me feel special. Wanted.

Instead, I hear them as a threat.

What happens if I do?