Assassin Read Online Free

Watching it in her lips. She looked up into his dark eyes and, as he handed her the tiny box of matches, she said, Thank you.
    Thank.
    You.
    Thank.
    You.
    Yes.
    All thanks for the cigarette, sir.
    A cigarette. The final request before death. And for Makedde Vanderwall, a final chance. She fumbled with the matches.
    I’m lonely.
    Lonely.
    Lonely.
    And then her captor is close, so close, towering over her with his hulking body. So large. Too strong to fight. But close enough to smell is close enough to kill. I want you , she whispered, pulling the clothing from her shoulders, inviting him, licking his ear, running her tongue across the scarred, repulsive cheek of the professional killer who was her captor, her warden, her abductor.
    His belt buckle dragged along the stone floor.
    His hands. On her.
    His rough flesh. Against her.
    His desire. Pressing.
    His sickening penetration.
    But the key and the match — these two things held her freedom. The key and the match. The key … She could do it. If she could just survive this. Do what she had to do. And then,she had it, the key, the match, the flame — blue and nearly invisible at first, then rising in magnificent amber, dancing across the mattress, across his shirt, his hair. A blaze, beautiful, vengeful and horrific.
    Eat fire, fucker.
     
    Makedde Vanderwall woke to the sound of a single piercing scream. She could smell smoke and burning flesh — the sickening mix of cooking skin and hair, like sulphur and seared meat. She sat up violently and looked around her, blinking, her body a tangle of adrenaline and fear. For a moment she was unsure whether the scream had been her own.
    Yes. You were screaming. Again.
    Though Mak had been sure of the smoke, the air was clean, her lungs clear. There was no fire. She was in bed, the early light coming in past the shutters over the balcony. It was another nightmare. Her subconscious was still in that dank cellar in the French countryside, but the rest of her was in the bedroom of Luther Hand, the hired assassin who had been her captor. The man she had burned alive.
    Mak’s face was slick with sweat and her stomach felt dangerously queasy. She stifled a gag, and quickly realised there was more. No , she thought as she pulled the bed covers off and ran through the spinning dark for the nearby toilet, a hand over her mouth. She had just made it inside the black-tiled cubicle when her stomach emptied itself through her fingers. There wasn’t much there, but she managed to aim what there was at the open toilet. With a ferociousness that surprised her, she gagged and choked until the feeling passed, then sat back on her heels, disgusted. She flushed, closed the lid, wiped her mouth. Cold water felt good on her hands,growing warmer as the pipes woke. She washed her hands and kept the tap running so she could splash her face. Dammit. Face wet and eyes half closed, she stepped across the narrow hallway to the bathroom and flicked the light on. A bottle of spring water sat next to the sink and she used it to rinse her mouth and brush her teeth once, twice. Still, the acid taste remained. Her eyes strayed to the small bottle of Chanel No. 5 on the toiletries shelf. She gave the top two quick squeezes and the air filled with the distinctive, musky floral scent. She brushed her teeth again.
    Perhaps unsurprisingly, the nightmares had become worse since she’d found the order for her death. What would happen if a second of Cavanagh’s hired killers got hold of her? What horrors awaited her? And all because she wanted justice for the things the Cavanaghs had done, the people they’d had killed for their own gain.
    Justice is dead.
    Mak leaned on the rim of the sink with both hands and looked into the mirror, where a slim, naked woman with bone-straight black hair greeted her. The light cast unflattering shadows, accentuating the jut of her collarbone and the contours of new, lean muscle. She’d been exercising using the dumbbells and chin-up