Chapter Seventeen-Dinner.

Chapter Seventeen-Dinner.
ARTEMIS'S POINT OF VIEW

ARTEMIS’S POINT OF VIEW
The house is enormous. Most of the rooms have no light on. In the others, I saw two maids and a few guards in front of the house, but nothing I can’t manage.
I look around, counting the cameras and searching for blind spots, but my mind freezes when I see him in the dining room with his family.
They are eating, talking, and laughing. They seem happy, and something tugs at my heart when I remember that I’ll have to cut their happiness short. In a few days, they’ll sit at the dining table in silence, unable to eat, not laughing but crying—mourning the death of their son and brother. I guess the little girl who’s looking at him as if he invented toys is his niece, and my heart breaks thinking about how much she’ll suffer. But then again, he should have thought about the repercussions of his actions.
The three guys who were at the club the other night—I assume they are his brothers. I can’t see the older man sitting at the other end of the table and holding a woman’s hand, but I think it's safe to assume that they are his parents.
My attention immediately shifts back to him. It’s like when he’s nearby, everything else becomes blurry and he becomes my main focus.
They look like the perfect family, like the ones from a TV commercial, but their happiness and love seem genuine even through binoculars. I can’t be sure because I've never experienced this—a family dinner, or a family at all. It was always just my sister and me struggling to survive, but I believe their love is real.
For the first time since the accident, tears well up in my eyes, and I try to breathe and push them away, but I can’t. The burning sensation is too intense, and my lungs refuse to take in oxygen.
I fight and try again, but it’s in vain. The pain came unexpectedly and caught me off guard.
They fell. Warm tears I had kept inside for years are now freely streaming down my face, and the heart that was barely held together with makeshift stitches is now breaking again. I guess those stitches weren’t meant to hold it forever, but I thought I’d get more time. Maybe enough for my sister to wake up.
This time, the sweet lie feels bitter. I know better than this—she’s been in a coma for seven years, and the chances of her recovering are nonexistent. Still, I usually manage to fool myself into believing that the doctors are wrong and that one day she’ll smile at me again, one day I’ll see my face without looking in the mirror.
I visit her every week, read to her, talk to her, hoping that she’ll wake up and hug me again, tell me that this was all a nightmare, but I’m talking to a shell; she doesn’t hear me, and she never will. I also managed to fool myself into believing that even if she can’t open her eyes, she can still hear me, but I know she can’t—I know she doesn’t.
I wonder what she would do if she were me. She is the one with advice, I am the one with actions.
“What would you do, Rhya? Please tell me. Please, I need you, twinnie... I want to hear your soft, calm voice. I want you to yell at me... do whatever you want... just come back to me... please...” I realize that my voice, just like the rest of me, breaks as the pain becomes bigger, unbearable, stabbing me with memories and taunting me with the promises we made to each other, plans, and dreams.
“Why did you leave me? Come back to me… I am begging you…I’m lost without you… I’m lost, Rhya… I think I have feelings for him. Please tell me what to do. I know that you would know what to do. I know it... I need you, baby girl... I love you to the heavens and back.” Maybe she hears me from above, maybe she’s watching over me... maybe.
Who am I kidding? This is another way I’m trying to fool myself, to glue myself back, but how can I when my other half is missing?
I take deep breaths to calm down and look again at the happy family. They are laughing. I wish I could laugh again as I used to. I wish I could be in the room with them, holding his hand.
Something is really wrong with me, with my brain. It just doesn’t want to understand that my wishes can’t and won’t come true. Even if he weren’t my target, he would never want me. I’m an assassin, and nobody wants to sleep next to a cold-blooded killer.
I refocus on what I came here to do and slowly get out of the car to inspect the back of the house. To my shock, I see he has no cameras, no sensors, and no security measures.
Handsome but not so bright.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the light turn on in one of the rooms, and I focus my attention there.
Handsome indeed.
My breath catches in my throat when I see his big hands starting to unbutton the black button-down shirt, and slowly revealing a sinfully hot body. I’ve seen his muscles straining against his shirt, so I knew he was muscular, beyond toned, but I didn’t expect this.
His well-defined pecs, symmetric eight-pack abs, ripped side muscles, and stacked biceps and forearms move harmoniously with every move he makes, and then there are the two paths that I’m sure would take me straight to hell: two mouthwatering V-lines.
Fuck!
The stripshow continues as he unbuckles his black belt with a black buckle, then his black dress pants, which, once they are removed, reveal a pair of magnificently muscular thighs, and long legs.
He has no tattoos, and his skin has a slight tan that isn’t caused by the sun. It’s natural. He has minimal hair on his forearms and legs. It’s simply perfect.
The man is a living, walking masterpiece.
The last piece of clothing is the pair of black, tight briefs that cover a rather... generous bulge.
He is the result of all the gods’ hard work.
My thighs clench by themselves, and I’m not one bit surprised when I feel the wetness between them, and who could blame me? The man, or maybe he is a god, I wouldn’t be surprised, I mean, his name is one of a god, so... good Lord, he is sex on legs.
Maybe I could fuck him and then do my job?
Fucking hell, I’m one fucked up woman.
What’s wrong with me?
He goes, where I can only assume it’s his bathroom.
And now, the image of him naked is printed in my head forever. Well, not quite naked because unfortunately, he didn’t get rid of his boxers.
Fuck, I’m disturbed.
Anyway, enough about my perverted self. He is the hottest target I've ever had.
It’s a pity that he has to die.
I stayed a bit longer, counting the cameras and watching for any sensors.
Okay, truth be told, I stayed because I wanted to see him one more time, because next time won’t be so pretty.
After a while, he comes back out with only a towel around his waist, water droplets streaming down his sculpted body, and a charming smile on his lips.
Why is he smiling? I haven’t seen anyone else with him. Is there someone else?
A strange feeling hits me when I think about him with another woman, man, or any human being, for that matter. It can’t be jealousy, he’s not even mine.
Nu-uh, no way.
Before any other strange and unfamiliar feelings can reach my heart or stomach, I pack my things and go home.
Also, if I stay one minute longer, I go from investigator to stalker.