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  Copyright © 2018 by A.K. Koonce and Harper Wylde.

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

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  Cover Art by Silviya Yordanova

  of Dark Imaginarium Art & Design

  An Assassin’s Death

  The Huntress Series Book 1

  A.K. Koonce

  Harper Wylde

  Contents

  1. Stroke the Night

  2. Rookie Mistakes

  3. Gone in Sixty

  4. We Meet Again

  5. The Golden Boy

  6. Joining the Team

  7. A Father Figure

  8. Quiet as a Mouse

  9. Tylin’s Résumé

  10. Welcome Home

  11. Her Past

  12. Trust No One

  13. The Cock House

  14. A Delicious Wake Up Call

  15. A Trial Phase

  16. Drunken Mistakes

  17. Love and Loyalty

  18. Fighting Fire with Fire

  19. A Simple Kiss

  20. Truth and Other Lies

  21. The Team Uniform

  22. Flocking Moths

  23. Stone Man

  24. A Date

  25. Sex Between Friends

  26. Things that Go Bump in the Night

  27. An Assassin’s Past

  28. Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell

  29. Devil in the Details

  30. Her Demands

  Author’s Note

  Also By A.K. Koonce

  Also By Harper Wylde

  About A.K. Koonce

  About Harper Wylde

  One

  Stroke the Night

  It’s a strange feeling of calm that drifts through my chest as I watch him settle in for bed. My heartbeat is a steady sound. It’s a lazy rhythm that no longer holds reckless adrenaline for what I am about to do. Somewhere along the lines, the eeriness of stalking a person as if they’re prey has become normal in my life.

  I’ve become detached. I have to be. As a huntress for the Lifeless League, I have to keep the idea of killing in a numb place within me.

  It’s hard. It’s all I talk about. All I train for. All I think of.

  And yet, it holds no meaning.

  The moonlight strikes across his smooth features, highlighting the angles of his strong jaw that’s tipped up to the ceiling. The lighting is perfect; dark enough to hide within the shadows but bright enough to spot a major artery on your next target.

  Yes, just the way I like it.

  A small amount of warm streetlight showers over the worn brick building. It’s late into the night. I haven’t seen anyone on the quiet street down below. Not one single car. People often romanticize the nightlife. And they’re right to. Nothing says romance like not noticing the woman perched on your balcony watching you as you stroke yourself slowly.

  Seriously, will this guy never let himself come?

  I have three other men I have to get to, and this guy’s having a late-night date with his right hand. Just get on with it and go to bed.

  It’s so much easier when they’re asleep. I hate the look in their eyes. I hate the fear that slips into their gazes. It keeps me up at night.

  That’s a lie, my backlog of assassinations keeps me up at night.

  I’m almost a month behind. If I could be fired from the Lifeless League, I’m sure they would have canned my ass by now, but I’m flawless at what I do.

  I’m hanging just outside his bedroom. My boots scrape roughly against the concrete balcony that’s hiding me from my target. It’s uncomfortable but manageable. My fingers dig into the cold railing, threatening to drop me to the ground at any minute. Annoyance prickles through me and my eyes narrow on my target.

  Who has time to masturbate for thirty minutes? Does he have no other priorities? Nothing else going for him in his life?

  I’d think a wrist cramp would be a real concern for him at this point.

  It’s late. I can’t hang—literally—outside this asshole’s house all night. It’s a quiet neighborhood, surrounded by thick trees and shadowed alleys; no one to notice the darkly clothed woman who shouldn’t be here.

  I thought this would be quick. This morning I tracked the four men I was assigned to and found that they all resided in close proximity. I thought I’d start here and take care of them all tonight.

  I peek over the ledge to find Target One with his head still tipped back, his palm making slow work of caressing his cock.

  Fuck, at this rate, I should find some popcorn, kick my boots up, and settle in for a tediously long performance.

  Should I move on to Target Two and circle back here?

  Annoyance simmers through my chest. I’m not deviating from my plan. Mistakes happen when plans are changed.

  And I don’t make mistakes.

  So if he wants to die with his dick in his hands, I guess that’s the way he’s going to go. It could be worse.

  Tension fills my arms as I haul myself slowly over the balcony. My leather gloves are smooth against the brick, my steps are quieter than the wind. In just a few short paces, I’m staring up close and personal through the glass double doors. The room is dark, but a dim light shines from the far corner, casting his body in a soft golden glow. My own reflection shows against the glass; clear blue eyes are the only feature that can be seen, my long, dark hair is tucked carefully away within a heavy hood.

  Slowly, my gaze peers past my features, taking in the hard panes of his bare chest, the fluid movements of his arm. A tattoo swirls across his forearm but it’s a minor detail. As much as I’d like to say I’m measuring him up for the possibility of a struggle, I’m also, very blatantly, measuring him up. It’s an impressive size. I can see why he gives it so much attention.

  But thirty minutes? Now he’s just being egotistical. Cruel, even.

  The knife I keep strapped against my outer thigh is now in my palm as I continue to watch him with rapt interest. The cold, hard metal of the handle presses into my glove. With careful movements, I pull the door open. My clean boots are silenced against soft, beige carpet. It’ll be quick. His jugular is perfectly exposed to me.

  It’ll be messy, but quick.

  He has no one to mourn him. A slashing death will not bring an outraged family forward.

  I stride toward him. My heart beats a steady rhythm. I’ve done this a thousand times. Never… quite like this, I suppose. I arch a brow at his length and try my best to focus on absolutely anything else about him.

  Target One, Tylin Valderban, is approximately seven inches taller than I am. Corded muscle tone. Dark hair and darker eyes. A dominant stance is all I found him in today when I shadowed him. From our short time together, I learned nothing personal. Not one hint of his private life. No friends, no hobbies, no pleasures.

  Until now.

  I guess this could be considered a hobby. He’s certainly treating it like an in-depth pastime.

  My head tilts to the side, giving his rolling wrist one more long look before I raise my knife. Three more steps bring me behind him, his tall frame shadows me and I lean into
him, careful not to touch. Just as I’m hovering above him, poised and ready to slice through the vessel along the side of his throat, something in him shifts.

  He stills beneath my ominous actions.

  It all happens too quickly.

  One minute the guy’s jerking off and the next he’s throwing me to the ground. His body dominates mine, and a rush of air escapes my lungs as he slams my back into the floor. Pain shakes through my chest, but I push it aside. Big palms grip my wrist, holding down my blade as he looks into my eyes.

  “Did Armond send you?” His lip curls with a sneering smile. It’s a look of menacing anger and smooth beauty. He didn’t smile once today, but this eerie hint of happiness doesn’t seem pleasant at all.

  The use of my leader’s name sends a prickle of fear crawling down my spine.

  His dark eyes glint against the warm lighting. Of all the things I should do in this dangerous moment, looking down to make sure his dick’s tucked away is not one of them.

  But I can’t help it.

  It’s carefully hidden away within his jeans. It seems he had enough time to find his modesty.

  Not that I haven’t already burned every inch into my memory.

  My knee comes up—hard—at the same time as my head slams against his. I attack him from all angles in less than a second. It’s what I’ve been trained to do. A rumbling groan shakes through him, and I have the upper hand once again.

  The pain doesn’t surface in my mind. Adrenaline takes over, pumping through my veins with strength and determination.

  Using my slight weight, I roll his big body, shifting until I’m above him. My blade is quick, slashing through the air in one fluid movement.

  When it’s skimming over the scruff of his five o’clock shadow, it halts. My actions freeze as I press the blade over his throat. It’s shoved there, right where it needs to be. It would take the smallest of movements to take his life.

  But the tattoo inked along the side of his throat gives me pause.

  The sharp arching angles are familiar. The mark is one of promised comradery. It symbolizes loyalty and life.

  It’s a symbol I was given years ago by Armond himself.

  This man is marred with the Mark of the Hunter.

  Just like I am.

  Two

  Rookie Mistakes

  His eyes narrow, taking me in as the muscles in my arm clench tighter, waiting for my brain to send the signal to slash his damn neck using the knife in my hand. Except my brain is frozen, as is the rest of me.

  My eyes are glued to the tattoo. I know better than to pause in the middle of an assassination.

  To do so means death, and not for my mark.

  Yet here I am, straddling my intended target and staring at his inked skin. I’d like to say that his life is still in my hands, but I know better. Tylin outweighs me, and while I’m lethal in my own right, the rolling muscle he’s covered in tell the story of his strength—as does the mark he’s wearing.

  If it’s real, he’s been trained, the same as I have. I’m not sure how either one of us is alive right now instead of locked in this deadly standoff. I should have killed him instantly. And he should have done the same to me. It’s a damn miracle—or a curse. The kind of curse that leads to my expulsion from the Lifeless League. If I make it through alive, that is.

  “Where’d you get this from?” I look at him just long enough to gesture to the mark on his neck.

  “Same place as you, Huntress.” The insulting quality of his voice only serves to aggravate me further.

  “I don’t think you’re in a position to be snide.” I narrow my eyes and tighten my grip on the knife in my hand, pressing it into his skin in warning.

  “I don’t know. I always did like a cowgirl.” With a flex of his hips, he uses his body to try and distract me. It won’t work. At least, not much. I am currently straddling his impressive abs, using my position to hold him down, but I can feel the outline of his semi-hard cock through his jeans as he presses it up against my ass.

  Seriously? Was a knee to his balls not enough to cool his ardor?

  I roll my eyes at him, keeping my knife exactly where I want it until I get my answers. He knew my boss’s name, and we wear identical marks. Both pieces of information lead me to believe that he is a legitimate hunter, but I’ve been sent to kill him for a reason. If he’s an imposter, I need to know beyond a shadow of a doubt before I bleed him. It’s one of the rules we live by: hunters don’t kill other hunters.

  “Show me the other mark.” I’ll take my chances, my muscles coiling, my body ready to strike if he makes a move I don’t approve of. It’s a chance I’m willing to take. Out of all the kill orders I’ve carried out, I’ve never taken down one of my own before.

  “Not going to take me to dinner first?” He cocks an eyebrow, his features remaining entirely serious as he taunts me condescendingly.

  I let my eyes scan his golden skin, seeking the second mark that will verify his identity. The one that will tell me what kind of abilities he’s capable of.

  His voice is rough and dark when he speaks again, “Try a little lower.” He thrusts his hips again—hard—and I ride through the movement while keeping the knife from pressing further into his skin and drawing blood. If I wasn’t so skilled, he’d be bleeding out on the damn carpet right now.

  Dying by my hand. The way he’s supposed to be.

  Hell, he should have already been dead. Between his little pleasure session earlier and the fact that this assassination is going horribly wrong, I’m already wildly off schedule. My carefully laid plans to take out the next three marks on my list lay in ruins. The whole situation only serves to piss me off further.

  “Do you have a fucking death wish?” I’m annoyed and thoroughly shaken—not that I’ll admit to it.

  “Apparently, or you wouldn’t be on top of me now, would you?” His dark sarcasm isn’t lost on me. This entire situation is bizarre. I’ve never had such close contact with one of my marks before. I need to get a damn grip and figure this out.

  Armond is testing me. He has to be. My brain is processing everything as quickly as it can, helping me to work through the details. Is this an exercise in following orders? Or is the mark on Tylin’s neck a fake, only placed there to buy him time if an assassin, like myself, came after him and paused when spotting it? Like I am doing now. Fuck.

  “I can see you’re overthinking this. Let me simplify it for you.” Faster than I would have given him credit for, his hand grabs my wrist, bending it and dislodging the knife from his throat. With a twist of his body, he flips me, knocking the breath from my lungs as he lands on top of me. My legs are still straddling his waist as his body weight settles over me. Every part of him is solid against me. Using his hips to pin me under him, he wrenches my hands over my head and holds them still, knife and all. The dominance that radiates off of him equally turns me on and frustrates me all at once. “I think this is a much better look for you; restrained and at my mercy.” His eyes rake down my body, taking in every inch of me he can see.

  There’s a part of me that is enjoying this tête-à-tête. A hunter’s life is quiet and lonely, and going toe to toe with Tylin is refreshing. And annoying. Wasn’t he trying to make a point? A point that isn’t about sex. I roll my eyes.

  “We both know my current position is only temporary…” I smirk at him. “Weren’t you trying to simplify things for my poor female brain?” I push his regular brand of sarcasm back at him.

  His body rumbles against me with muted laughter. “It has nothing to do with your gender. I’m rather thrilled that Armond sent a female after us. Makes things so much more interesting.”

  I stiffen at the name of my boss on Tylin’s lips again and work to mentally calculate who the “us” in his statement could be. Nothing I had uncovered about him hinted at friends or colleagues. And why is he so well informed? It’s rare that marks know about the hit against them. They may realize they’re in danger, but rarely are any of them
expecting the grim reaper—in the form of me or another hunter— to actually show up and steal their lives from them. What does it mean that Tylin has all this information?

  “Who are you?”

  He tsks at me. “Carrying out hits without all the details?” He gives me a condescending look that makes me wish I would have slit his throat. “Now that’s a rookie mistake.”

  I growl at him, gnashing my teeth together in anger before I bite out a reply. “I’m not a damn rookie. I always do my research above and beyond the file that lands in my hands. I’ve researched you thoroughly and nowhere are you associated with…” I stop myself before I give away the name of my association. Now that would be a rookie mistake. Instead, I leave it generic, “… a hunter.”

  His eyes flick back and forth between mine, like he’s trying to read me. I open my face and let him see the truth behind my statement. If he is a hunter, he would be trained to read body cues.

  “So he’s erased us from the system.” He suddenly looks tired as he hangs his head a little, breaking the eye contact.

  This moment of weakness is the moment I’ve been waiting for, but I hesitate for a mere second. His dark eyes seem tired, the golden skin of his arms is taut as he holds my hands down, each muscle defined. There’s something lethal about him that calls to me. He personifies the phrase “tall, dark and handsome” and I soak up the attraction I know I’m feeling toward him.