Dead Drop (The Guild #2)(4)
Not that it had been an official assignment, anyway.
Somehow… for some reason… I found myself confessing the informal kill order to her as we lay sweaty and intertwined some hours later.
She didn’t react to the news, not really. She just tipped her face to meet my eyes with a small frown marring her perfect brow.
“One of the Circle wants me dead,” she repeated. “It’s not a contract?”
I shook my head, my fingers tracing patterns over her smooth, bare hip. Fuck, her skin was soft. And so pale I could almost see the blue-ish tint of blood passing below the surface. Would she let me mark her? In a permanent way? The bruises my hands had left around her wrists weren’t enough. They would fade so fast… then how would she carry me with her when she left?
Because she would leave. Sooner or later, she’d go. But I would follow her, and I think she understood that now.
She was mine.
“Emmanuel Blanchet,” I murmured, my voice rough. “He’s… how much do you know about the Circle power structure, Danny?”
She quirked a brow. “About as much as any Guild mercenary, almost nothing. Secrecy and mystery is sort of their main objective, isn’t it?”
I flashed a smile. She wasn’t wrong about that. But I was feeling strangely compelled to share a little of that mystery with this bewitching woman in my bed. Even if it did end up biting me in the ass later, right now there wasn’t much I wouldn’t share, if she kept looking at me with those big, interested eyes of hers.
“Right. Well… do you want to know more?” Why was I offering this? I should be strangling the life out of her and wiping her clean out of my mind. Focusing on my job. But no, here I was drinking in her sleepy smiles and living for every breath. Here I was, ready to spill the kind of secrets that have protected the Guild for hundreds of years. Was this what it meant to be pussy-whipped?
She narrowed her eyes. “That’s the stupidest fucking thing I’ve ever heard you ask, Marx. Of course I want to know. Are you kidding?”
I grinned. What the fuck was this strange emotion curling through my chest? It wasn’t unpleasant, but it was definitely unusual. “Okay, you twisted my arm.” I propped my head up on my hand, turning onto my side to face her better. “The Circle, you already know, has seven seats of power. They’re handed down through bloodlines, because like all ancient secret societies, the Guild is fueled by wankery and bullshit. DNA is more important than competency.”
She blinked at me. “What a smart business model.”
“Agreed,” I muttered in response. “Although most of the Circle are competent right now. One or two are likely to be killed by their heirs soon, but that’s inevitable when power is passed by blood. But that’s beside the point. The Mercenary Guild has grown so large over the years that it made sense for the Circle to split up the responsibilities somewhat. So each Circle member is directly responsible for certain groupings of mercenaries, roughly assigned based on geography. Emmanuel Blanchet is the one who you work for.”
Her brows hitched. “And he wants me dead? That can’t be a good thing.”
I couldn’t stop touching her. I traced my fingertips across her alabaster flesh, tracing the lace of her tattoo, then circling the freshly healed scar on her side from the gunshot in Prague. I wanted to repeat the gesture with my tongue and lips. I wanted to worship at the altar of Danny DeLuna.
“Yes and no,” I replied when I finally dragged my focus back to her face. “It wasn’t an official kill order.”
She wet her puffy lips, her tongue inviting me to kiss her so much that I needed to tense my jaw to keep from pouncing on her.
“So… what does that mean?” she asked, the confusion clear on her face. “Why wouldn’t it be official?”
“Because kill orders on Guild assets need to be approved by more than one Circle seat. The Guild puts too much time, effort, and money into assets to just kill them off on a whim. Which means Blanchet either couldn’t get anyone to support his request, or he didn’t even ask. Either way, if it’s not official, then I have no obligation to follow through.”
Her spine stiffened under my fingers, and her gaze turned sharp and accusing. “You? You’re the one he asked to… oh my fucking god, you’re an executioner?” She scrambled to sit up, but there was no fear in her gaze.
I lay back into the pillow, drinking in the sight of her full, perky tits with those pale pink nipples just begging me to touch them. The delicate ink decorating the base of her sternum was perfectly positioned. Her messy, well-fucked white hair draped around her shoulders like something straight out of a Michelangelo, and my dick hardened once more. The dressing patch on her throat where I’d cut her only added to the perfection.
“Yeah, I am,” I replied casually, linking my arms behind my head, paying no mind to the way the sheet rose up. “Is that a problem?”
She blinked at me, like she couldn’t decide whether to laugh or scream. Then raked a hand through her tangled mane of hair. “It’s only a problem if you’re still planning on killing me.” She paused, locking eyes with me. “Are you?”
I took my time to consider her question. For some reason, I felt an insatiable urge to tell her the truth, to stop hiding my true self. Whoever the fuck that was. So I really thought about her question, rather than tossing out an empty platitude.