Authors: Chanel Cleeton
I wouldn’t say coming here makes me feel better. I know there is no forgiveness for the things I’ve done. But I came after the first time, and I haven’t been able to stop since. The first time—
The first time I confessed in tears, the feeling that the heart I didn’t even know I possessed had been torn from my chest, inescapable. My hand moves to my wrist, stroking the scar there, the pull of the past yanking me back—
I shrug off the memory, glancing down at my watch. Time’s up.
I stride from the confessional, not waiting for his response, my head ducked, my eyes darting around, taking in my surroundings. The same unease from last night washes over me again, the feeling that I’m being shadowed.
The bells toll above me, their rhythm filling the church. My heart pounds in time with the beat. Equal parts nerves and anticipation, I exit the church; my gaze scans the crowd, searching for the threat until I come up empty.
It’s time.
###
My steps become heavy the closer I get to her office, the sound of my boots echoing down the cavernous hall. I wince. I’m sure the Director would rather her best asset not arrive with the grace of a water buffalo.
I pass several people as I walk down the hallway but no one makes eye contact, their expressions carefully blank. There are two reasons you can be called in front of the Director and neither one is good.
My hand trembles as I grip the doorknob, the moisture on my palm slipping against the cool metal. I push the door open, willing my limbs still, my heart pounding in my chest.
Conditioned response? Probably.
“Come in, X.” The Director’s secretary doesn’t bother smiling. As long as I’ve been at the Academy, she never has. She sits like a sentry at her desk, guarding the Director’s inner sanctum. “Go ahead. She’s expecting you.”
I stride toward the heavy door behind her desk and raise my hand to knock, but before my knuckles touch the smooth wood surface, the sound of that voice—crisp, commanding, terrifying—fills the room.
“Enter.”
Right. No doubt she has cameras everywhere.
I walk in, immediately focused on the most dangerous thing in the room. The Director sits behind her desk. Her steely gaze fixes on me, pinning me to the floor.
“Sit.”
My movements are jerky, like a marionette. I sit on one of two chairs across from her desk, struggling to keep from fidgeting. The ice filling my veins, coursing through my body, finally stills my limbs.
The Director stares back, her gaze narrowing as she rakes me over from head to toe. My hand jerks and I can’t resist the urge to tuck my long hair behind my ear. Most of the girls at the Academy have followed the unspoken rule favoring short hair. It’s not so much that I’ve rebelled; I’ve just
resisted
a bit.
I stare back, falling into the old habit of cataloguing people.
She’s fit, but not too fit. On closer inspection, she’s perhaps not as old as I thought. It’s more that she looks
hard.
She wears the same stern expression she always has, her hair pulled back in a severe bun. Her eyes are piercing. Their laser focus never wavers, probing, sifting through all of my secrets.
I don’t blink.
The Director breaks the connection first; she picks up a file in front of her, pushing her glasses farther back on her nose.
“X?”
I nod, not sure what response she’s looking for.
“It’s the one we gave you. You didn’t choose another name.”
“No.”
She sets the file down. For a moment, she’s silent.
As much as it feels like a spider crawling over my skin, I refuse to blink under the weight of her stare. There’s something familiar in this routine. After all the years I’ve spent training for interrogation, I’m surprised she even bothers. It’s almost an insult, really.
“Why?”
I shrug, settling into the rhythm of this. The nerves are nearly gone now, training taking over. “There didn’t seem to be a need. My name doesn’t matter.”
It’s partly the truth. Some students like Grace keep the name they came to the Academy with. I couldn’t bear to keep mine.
I have a new life now.
The Director ignores my answer, her attention back to the folder in front of her. “You have a sister.”
I stiffen in the chair. My hands move to grip the sides, my knuckles white. I flinch.
Stupid
. I ease my body back into a casual position and nod, pushing down the panic rising in my throat. She knows all of this, and I’m terrified of where she’s headed.
“It’s a shame she hasn’t exhibited the same…ah…
talents
that you have.”
I don’t bother answering her. She’s not making conversation. Not on the surface, at least. She’s giving me a thinly veiled warning, reminding me of how much I have to lose if I fail to comply with whatever order she’s about to give me.
If I could I would kill her right now, without hesitation, without guilt. But I’m limited beyond what my abilities allow, and she’s a dangerous enemy to have.
The Director remains silent for a moment, Grace hanging between us. We’ve played this game before, and last time she won. She knows it; I know it. And no doubt she’s aware of the memory flickering through my mind, of the kill I desperately try to forget and the ghost who haunts me.
“We have another assignment for you.”
Surprise fills me. It’s not unheard of for assignments to run back-to-back like this, but it is unusual.
“It is a matter of some delicacy.”
Aren’t they all?
“How familiar are you with the political situation in Argonia?”
“Not very familiar,” I reply.
“Well, that’s not really important. Argonia is a small country in Eastern Europe. Besides a few banking institutions, it really is a country of little consequence. Within the country there are two ethnic groups that have been at war for centuries. For most of that time, the Arnoff family has been in power holding the throne. The tides are changing. The current king is a harsh ruler; he stifles freedom of religion and any kind of political debate. There is evidence that he is systematically cleansing factions within his country. Argonia is too small to have received much international attention; however, for reasons which we cannot convey, Argonia has not escaped our notice.”
“What’s my mission?”
“The king is old. He’s in poor health and the odds that he will survive this war are slim. But he has a son named Henry. His son is the only thing keeping the Arnoff family in power. We need you to eliminate him.”
“How?”
“The method does not matter. Unlike young Michael, we don’t need a message to be sent. The king will know regardless of how it is done.” The Director picks up a sealed envelope on her desk. “Henry attends a university here in London. He is heavily guarded. When the time is right, you must ensure he is taken out. You will be paid your usual fee.”
I reach out and take the envelope from her, careful to keep our hands from touching. It all seems easy enough.
“Am I dismissed?”
My skin crawls. There’s something about the Director that evokes an almost visceral reaction in me. She knows it, too.
“Not quite.” She studies me behind her glasses as though I am a particularly interesting insect, my wings pinned, holding my body still for her inspection. “Today is your birthday.” She definitely isn’t saying it to wish me a happy day. “In a few months, you will leave the Academy and you will be sent to an international posting. As a field agent, you will be on your own. Your missions will be more dangerous. More difficult. This mission is not as easy as you may think. We need it completed quickly. The situation in Argonia cannot continue.”
“I understand.”
“We have assigned a liaison to assist you.”
No fucking way.
“I don’t need a handler,” I protest. “I’ve been working on my own for a while now.”
“This is not open for discussion.”
I freeze, silently cursing myself. Above all, we are not to question the Director. I stare down at the floor, hoping the sign of respect is enough to pacify her, even as my humility burns in the back of my throat.
And then I hear it—a sound creeping from the darkness—
“I told you she wouldn’t obey.”
My head jerks up at that voice, the clipped British accent, the lazy delivery. A chill runs down my spine, sending a tremor through my body. It can’t be. It absolutely can’t be.
With a few words, my world shatters into a million pieces.
I turn slowly, not caring that I’m showing the Director the gravest form of disrespect. I was so focused on her presence when I walked into the room that I forgot the first lesson I’d ever learned—
Never walk into a room without analyzing all potential threats.
“I believe the two of you have met.” The Director’s voice is dry, but there is an undercurrent contained there. If I had any doubts, they have been answered.
As I whirl around in my chair, my gaze settles on a shadow in the far corner of the Director’s office. At first, I see only a black boot. Then higher up, a black trouser leg. Slowly, he emerges from the darkness that cloaks him. If I am a cat, he is a panther—sleek, predatory, deadly.
My gaze follows the tapered waist, impressive chest, arms corded with sinew and steel. Up higher to his muscular shoulders, broader than I remember, until I find his face and lose myself.
He always had a beautiful face—hard planes and angles that make the breath catch in my throat. A nose that would be perfect if not for the slight imperfection where it’s been broken—by me. Dark hair that’s always just a little too long, as if he perpetually needs a haircut. His brown eyes blaze with hate.
“Hello, X.”
I open my mouth to speak but no words come out, my past eviscerating me in a moment. Here he is come to haunt me, my living, breathing nightmare. The ghost I carry with me everywhere.
If I am the Academy’s best asset, it is because I learned from the best, trained with the best, fought with the best. Until only one of us could remain. His is the first mark in the wood under my bed.
Our gazes collide as the shiver spreads throughout my whole body, tingling through the long scar on my right wrist. The scar
he
put there.
I am the Academy’s best asset because I killed the one who came before me.
Or so I thought.
Emotion is not encouraged at the Academy.
I follow Luke out of the office, my heart pounding at a freakish pace.
It’s been two years. Two years of regrets and memories that wake me in the middle of the night. Two years of wondering if I made the biggest mistake of my life, if he really was guilty of the crimes they accused him of. Two years of loving him, hating him, missing him. Two years—and now he’s back.
Even with the physical differences, the signs that he’s not the boy I once knew, there is enough of the familiar there to fuck with my head. He’s different, but he feels utterly the same.
He’s still tall. Certainly much taller than me—a few inches or so over six feet. His brown hair is a bit longer than it was before, but his body is the biggest difference. When we were younger he had a lean, rangy look, as if he could never quite get enough to eat. Not anymore.
Now he’s big. His shoulders are broad beneath his dark shirt; his body is corded with muscle. He looks strong, and in our world strength means survival.
Luke stops outside the administration building, whirling around to face me. There I see the changes even more. His eyes are more jaded, the hard planes of his face like cut glass. He looks older. He looks weary. He looks amazing.
For a moment, he doesn’t speak. Just stares. His gaze travels the length of my body, hovering on my face and back down again, and I can’t help but wonder if he’s cataloguing the changes in me as I am with him. I search for something in his eyes—understanding, emotion, anything—and come up blank, the flicker of fear sparking within me the only reward for my trouble. I used to love his eyes. Now they fill me with dread. The boy I knew is gone; the one who has replaced him is infinitely more dangerous.
“I killed you.” My words come out somewhere between a choke and a gasp. Maybe it’s not the best starting point, but tact has never been my strong suit.
A corner of his mouth curves as he toys with me. “You certainly tried.”
It was a clean kill. Textbook.
“You still haven’t figured it out, have you?” There’s that voice again—silky, taunting, challenging. Mindfucking me.
He leans closer, his head barely grazing mine, the smile on his lips and in his eyes reminding me that everything he does is for a reason. He’s playing a game, and I don’t know the rules.
I resist the urge to take a step back
,
déj
à
vu rippling through me. We’ve always been like this—pushing each other, challenging each other, invading each other’s space. Too close for comfort. Too
everything.
“They needed to figure out what to do if one of their assets got poisoned. I needed to disappear for a while—”
Was it all a lie, then? The things the Director told me about Luke? Was it all just a game? A test I both passed and failed?
“—and you needed an easy first assignment.”
I open my mouth to tell him to fuck off when I hear the sound of my name coming from the last person I want anywhere near Luke.
“X!”
I turn, horror filling me at the sight of her bright smile, her light brown hair pulled back in an elaborate braid I never could have managed. Grace strides over to me, a pale pink cupcake in her hand. She must have slipped out between classes.
“Happy birthday.”
I shift my body to the side, placing myself directly between her and Luke.
“Where’s mine?”
Grace’s eyes widen as she spots him. “Luke!”
When Luke “died” the younger kids were told he’d gone away. It was common here at the Academy considering how many students “graduated” each year. Turns out they got the truth and I was stuck with the lie.
He steps forward, his body so close to mine that our shoulders brush. I stiffen at the whisper of his skin against mine. We haven’t been this close in a long time and my body knows it.
“Hi Grace.” Luke’s tone is easier than it was a moment ago. Anyone who saw him now would think he was genuinely fond of my sister.
“It’s so good to see you.” She reaches over and gives him a quick hug, her braid swinging with the motion. “How long are you back for?”
My sister is a terrible judge of character; it’s the fundamental reason she’s more suited to computers, why she’ll never make a truly good asset. She’s too trusting, too willing to like everyone.
Fortunately, it’s not a trait we share.
“I’m back for a while.”
My gaze flies to Luke, trying to read between the lines, attempting to translate the tone of his voice and the look in his eyes. It hurts to look at him. Hurts to remember the weight of what I’ve lost.
“You still good with computers, Grace?” he asks, ignoring me.
She nods.
“Your sister and I may need your help with something.”
A chill spreads through my limbs. “She’s not helping us,” I snap. “Go to class, Grace.” My voice softens as hurt fills her eyes.
Damn.
I struggle to keep my expression neutral. “I don’t want you to be late. I promise we’ll celebrate later. Thanks for the cupcake.” I’m not much of a hugger but I reach out, wrapping my arms around her slim body. She relaxes in my embrace, her hurt swiftly forgotten. Grace forgives easily. We differ in that, too.
“Bye, Luke. Glad to have you back.”
We watch her walk away, tension rising in the air. I don’t know what to say; there’s too much lingering for words. I have no clue how to begin, how to cross the gulf between us.
I’m sorry I killed you? Sorry I betrayed you? I’m just sorry?
It’s always been complicated with Luke. When we were younger, I followed him everywhere. He was always the smartest, the fastest, the best asset at the Academy, and I always wanted to be better. It’s been two years since I last saw him and I’ve thought of him every day.
“And you, X? Are you happy to have me back?” he asks, echoing the thought that fills my head.
There’s a challenge in his voice that winds its way through me, calling to emotions I need to keep buried and struggle to deny. Did I ever love him or did I just love the game? Can I even love?
I honestly don’t know.
I meet his gaze. “Stay away from my sister. If you touch her—”
“You’ll what? Kill me? Maybe this time you’ll actually finish the job.”
His tone is conversational, as though we’re discussing our weekend plans instead of me threatening to end his life, but underneath his devil-may-care attitude he isn’t as calm as he pretends to be. The tension in his body speaks for itself. He’s angry and he looks like there’s nothing he’d love more than to take a bite out of me.
Apparently, Luke doesn’t believe in forgiveness, either.
“I did finish the job. If the Academy saved your ass, that’s not my fault. They wanted a clean kill and I gave them one.”
“Because I made the mistake of trusting you. Hypothetically, of course. I told them you wouldn’t be willing to do it. Guess I was the idiot. I thought we were friends.” His words escape in a low growl that washes over my skin like sandpaper. He always had a temper when pushed, and no one pushed his buttons better than I did.
“We were never friends,” I respond, recognizing the lie in my words even as they escape my mouth. If I had anything close to a friend, it would have been Luke. “Rivals, maybe. Occasional allies. Never friends.”
“That’s right. You don’t have friends, do you?” He moves closer to me, his body practically blocking everything around me. His voice goes husky. “Is that all we were?”
I can’t.
I push him away, my hands connecting with his strong chest, feeling the bulk his clothes only hinted at. Memories come rushing back to me as I struggle to get my body under control—memories of bare skin and hard flesh.
A tremor slips through my voice, and I hate it. Hate that he’s turned me into this, hate that two years later he can make me feel.
“Friends make you weak.”
He knows what it’s like here; he grew up by my side. How could he think differently?
“Like your sister?”
This time I do meet his gaze, and my words drip with promise. “If you touch my sister, I will kill you.”
“After we finish our assignment from the Director. Then, sure, you’re welcome to try.”
And suddenly I’m exhausted by this—by the tension in the air, by him.
“Why are you back?”
I stare into his eyes, waiting for his answer. Trying to solve the mystery that has always been Luke. I’m good at reading people, but I’ve never been able to read him. Maybe because he always mattered more than he should.
“I had unfinished business.”
“I’m better than I used to be.”
A slow smile spreads across his lips. It’s a dangerous smile, one that starts on his face, and yet strangely, I feel it through my body like a shock.
Fuck.
“I’ve always liked a challenge.” He leans down, his lips brushing against my ear, the whisper so low I strain to hear it.
“Game on.”
He hovers there, too close for comfort, his scent filling my nostrils and my mind with memories. For a moment, he presses against me—it’s fleeting, but it’s enough—enough for me to feel the power beneath his clothes, his cock hard against my hip—enough to make me crave, my body swaying slightly as it moves into his embrace with an ease that terrifies me. Suddenly he pulls back, releasing me, turning from me without missing a beat. He walks away, his strides long, his gait carefree, leaving me standing there, wanting him, hating him, confused as hell.
It’s still early out; thankfully, we didn’t draw much of a crowd. The news that Luke is back will spread through the Academy like wildfire; he always did attract attention nearly as much as I avoided it. He’s dangerous, brash, bold. Everything I could never be. Not with Grace. He’s too much of a risk—for her, but mostly for me—
He wasn’t just my first kill. He was my first everything.
###
I walk into the gym dressed in a loose-fitting pair of black exercise shorts and a gray hoodie. Working out doesn’t just fulfill a physical need for me; it also keeps me sane. Days like this I need the sort of mindless oblivion I get when my muscles are aching, sweat dripping down my body. I need the moments of peace.
I stop in my tracks.
Fuck me.
There—dressed in faded workout clothes, going through a set of fighting moves—is Luke. Or perhaps it’s more appropriate to say he’s kicking his opponent’s ass, because it doesn’t even kind of look like a fair fight. Of course, very little is with him.
He’s beautiful, abso-fucking-lutely beautiful. His body is a work of art—muscles that ripple and flex with each thrust and parry. The fighter in me notices before the girl does. Sweat drips down his face, glistening on his skin as he moves—so quickly he’s nearly a blur. His shirt lifts and I can just make out the edge of a tattoo—black swirls that trail up his ribcage. And then the girl kicks in.
Suddenly Luke stops fighting, pulling back from his opponent. He grabs a towel from the mat, wiping the sweat from his brow, his movements easy, as natural as breathing. And then he turns and his gaze meets mine without even the barest flicker of surprise. There’s nothing there—no emotion, just a void that presents a challenge to figure out what he’s really thinking, feeling, what he wants and why he’s here.
Neither one of us looks away, that pull that was always between us back again. The sensation slams into me, jarring me away from his penetrating gaze. It’s easy for him; he knew he was coming back, knew we’d see each other again, knew I was alive. I’ve spent the last two years envisioning a world without him, and now I’m playing catch-up.
I stalk over to one of the equipment bins, taking the moment to drag air into my lungs and pull on a pair of leather boxing gloves, ignoring the chill at the back of my neck, his scent filling my nostrils. I don’t have to turn around to know Luke is behind me.
“What do you want?”
I turn, my stance defensive, ready for the battle brewing between us.
“What do you want?” I repeat.
He leans down, grabbing a spare pair of gloves off of the floor. “Show me what you’ve got.”
As much as I probably should, I don’t hesitate. I used to love fighting with Luke. Used to love the rush of adrenaline that flooded me when he challenged me, pushing my body to its max. There’s a sense of satisfaction in taking on an opponent as worthy as Luke, plus I just can’t resist the chance to try to best him. Old habits, and all that.