112: You Reek Of Blood
SERA
I wasn't going to say it out loud, but... yeah. I was worried. The second I'd shown Killian the texts from Mr. Stranger, his entire demeanor had gone colder than a Russian winter. He'd suddenly possessed the kind of calm that told me he was sharpening every blade in his head and already mapping ten ways to commit homicide.
And don't get me wrong, I was married to the man. I loved that side of him. But there was one problem: Killian didn't just go down rabbit holes. He set the whole damn warren on fire and dragged the ashes home.
Which is why, instead of pacing around like the world's sexiest mob wife, I was here at a photoshoot, pretending I gave two shits about silk gowns and perfect lighting.
"Arch more, Sera. Yes, just like that. Bellissima," the director practically sang, snapping his fingers.
I arched. Not just because I wanted to. But because I was imagining my husband's reaction if he heard this man crooning over me like I was his personal dessert. Spoiler: it involved snapped vertebrae and me possibly bailing him out of jail.
"Perfect. You are divine, my muse," The director said, actually clutching his chest as if I'd personally healed his cholesterol.
I flashed a smile for the camera, channeling my inner femme fatale. Meanwhile, in my head, I was wondering how much longer until I could ditch the dress and get back to knives, bullets, and the man I married.
Finally, the director called for a break. Someone must've bribed the heavens because the next thing I saw was a trembling assistant shuffling toward me with not one but two bouquets.
"Uh, these... these were delivered for you, Miss Cross." He could barely meet my gaze. I guess the aura haze was real.
My gaze zeroed in instantly. One bouquet: a lush arrangement of red roses. Classic and elegant. It literally had Killian written all over it. The man had a way of reminding me I was his, even when he couldn't be in the room.
The other bouquet? White lilies threaded with black dahlias. It was dramatic and a little too funeral-chic.
My stomach dropped.
The assistant handed me two small envelopes. One sealed in Killian's beautiful scrawl. The other... sleek, black, and embossed with a tiny scorpion pressed into the wax.
Oh, fuck.
I reached for Killian's first, because that was safe.
I opened it, my chest loosening the second I saw his neat handwriting.
"Stop distracting the world with your beauty. It's mine. Only mine. Wear the red dress home, Angel. I want to tear it off you myself."
My lips curved before I could stop them. Possessive bastard. My possessive bastard.
But then... my fingers curled around the other note.
My nails dug into the paper as I tore it open.
The message was short and clean. Yet, it sent chills crawling down my spine even as fury burned through me.
"Arch your back more. The red dress suits you. But you looked even better when you smiled just now. Don't frown, queen. It ruins the shot."
My hand tightened so hard the paper crinkled.
He'd been here watching me while I worked.
I could practically hear his smug voice as if he were lounging somewhere in the shadows with popcorn.
And just like that, every ounce of unease was consumed by rage.
Because if Black Scorpion thought he could stalk me, taunt me, and live long enough to send another damn bouquet? He'd learn real fast what it means to piss off the wrong person.
Fucking hell, I'd been too compliant. They were all beginning to forget who the fuck I was. I guess it was time to go hunting. Not that hubby would approve. But I had to do something.
...
You'd think pregnancy would slow me down. That three months in, I'd be waddling around in sweatpants, craving pickles and ice cream.
Wrong.
If anything, I felt sharper. Lighter, too. Maybe a little too smug about it. Because the truth was, lately, my darling husband had been the one suffering all the weird symptoms instead of me. Nausea, cravings, midnight bathroom runs. Killian fucking Cross, the Devil of the city, reduced to glaring at a pint of strawberry ice cream at two a.m. as if it had personally wronged him.
Now I was on a rooftop, plotting murder.
The first target had been easy. A Black Scorpion runner. He had a lit cigarette dangling from his lips as he leaned against the fire escape. He never even got to flick the ash before my knife buried itself in his throat.
One down.
I moved fast, melting into the shadows, switching between rooftops because the city was mine to devour.
The second target was an accountant who thought he could keep books for scum and not end up with a slit jugular. Spoiler: he was wrong.
Blood sprayed across his desk, soaking the spreadsheets he'd been scribbling over. His eyes went wide for half a second, then dimmed. I didn’t feel sorry for any of them.
Because every move I made tonight, every life I took, was one less hand reaching for my family.
The third one tried to run. Sweet. I liked a chase. My heels clicked along the rooftop, my dress fluttering in the wind. He stumbled, glancing back, and that tiny moment cost him. My throwing knife caught him square in the back. He dropped like dead weight.
Three down.
My pulse thrummed steady. My blades were hungry tonight.
And by the time I was done for the night, five men lay bleeding across the city. Five fewer shadows breathing down my neck.
I perched on the edge of a rooftop, my breathing steady. A smile curled my lips because for the first time in weeks, I didn't feel fear.
I felt alive.
Black Scorpion wanted to play predator?
He'd better pray I didn't find him first.
....
By the time I slipped back into Killian's massive mansion, I'd traded my rooftop assassin couture for sweatpants and a hoodie. The transformation was laughable. From the city's blood-soaked reaper to suburban mom chic.
No one needed to know that my hoodie pocket still held a knife sticky with someone else's blood.
I padded through the hall as quietly as I could, tugging my hood lower just in case the cameras decided to be nosy.
The instant I stepped into the bedroom, I found my broody husband pacing as if the devil himself was giving him cramps.
Correction: my cramps.
"Angel," Killian ground out, one hand pressed against his stomach. He looked lethal even when he was pale. His curly hair was damp from a shower, his jaw tight. His chest was heaving like he'd gone twelve rounds in a ring.
I leaned against the doorway, tugging my hood back, a smirk tugging at my lips. "What's wrong, hottie? Eat bad takeout without me?"
His glare could've peeled paint off the walls. "Don't."
"What?" I feigned innocence, strolling in. "I just got back from my... yoga class."
"Yoga class?" His voice dripped disbelief.
"Yeah," I said sweetly, dropping onto the couch as if I hadn't just painted rooftops red. "Very... stretching. Very... therapeutic."
Killian's nostrils flared. He stalked closer, looming, the towel at his neck slipping as his muscles flexed.
"You reek of blood."
"Tomato juice," I corrected smoothly. "Part of the yoga cleanse."
He pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering in Italian. I caught ‘Dio santo’ and something that sounded like a very creative curse involving my throat.
Then his face twisted. He doubled over slightly, clutching his stomach.
"Oh no," I gasped, clutching my chest dramatically. "The king of the underworld is dying of... pregnancy cramps?"
He shot me a look so murderous it almost made me laugh out loud.
"Rue asked me tonight," he said tightly, breathing through his teeth, "if Daddy is having the baby instead of Mama.”
That did it. I wheezed. "She WHAT?"
"She thinks—" He grimaced, his hand fisting at his side, "—this is your doing."
"Well." I folded my arms, leaning back with a satisfied grin. "Technically, it is. You said ‘in sickness and in health,’ right? Guess the universe took that literally."
His jaw flexed as if he wanted to argue, but a wave of nausea must’ve hit him. He growled low in his throat, like a feral wolf forced into human skin.
I watched him, my heart twisting even as my lips curved.
Because as much as I wanted to laugh until I choked, there was something brutally tender about seeing him take the weight for me. His body carrying what mine could have. His suffering was, in some twisted way, protecting me.
I pushed up from the couch, padded over, and pressed a kiss to his jaw.
Killian didn't move when I kissed his jaw. He just stood there with his muscles tight.
Then, slowly, he tilted his head, so close I could feel the drag of his breath against my temple.
"You come home in sweatpants," he murmured, his voice low and lethal. "And you also smell like blood. You think I won’t notice?"
My smile froze for a fraction of a second before I forced it back into place. "Maybe I just like... rolling around in tomato sauce?"
His hand shot out, gripping my chin, forcing my gaze up to his.
"Don't lie to me, Angel." His eyes burned like blue flames.