Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72863 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72863 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
He was supposed to catch killers, not marry one.
Detective Boston has built a career on hunting dangerous people. Rules don’t scare him. Blood doesn’t bother him. And morality has always been … negotiable.
But nothing prepares him for the night he walks in to find her.
An assassin for hire with electric blue hair, a blade in her hand, and no intention of being caught.
He should arrest her.
Instead, he makes her an offer.
Marry him, and he’ll keep her secret.
Refuse, and her life will fall apart.
For him, it’s a calculated move.
For her, it’s blackmail dressed up as a wedding.
Living with an assassin was never part of the plan.
But the longer they’re married, the harder it becomes to decide who is more dangerous.
*Standalone Dark Romance*
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
ONE
MAVEN
I love men.
Honestly, I do.
My current circumstances might suggest otherwise, but it’s the truth. Men have their uses, of that I’m certain.
Mostly in the bedroom.
Though, if I’m being honest, I can get myself off just as well.
“Please.” My attention snaps down to the man bleeding out on the ground at my feet. The night air is cool against my skin, and leaves rustle softly in the distance. This was supposed to be quick. Clean. Efficient. Instead, he ran.
Which meant I had to chase him.
Which also meant I had to get closer.
And now my hands are dirty, and I hate getting my hands dirty. I am a lady after all.
“You’re a—” He doesn’t finishes his sentence. My blade takes the words from him before he can. The knife slides cleanly across his throat, and his eyes widen in that familiar moment of realization.
They always look surprised when they finally understand. Not that they’re going to die, but that the person killing them is a woman. I step back carefully, keeping my distance so the spreading pool of blood doesn’t reach my high heels.
They’re my favorite killing shoes—elegant, sharp, and tall enough to make my short frame look a little threatening. And the color? Well, red has always suited me.
Plucking my phone from my purse, I pull up the contact I want, and press call. Carrie answers immediately.
“Is it done?” she asks.
“Done,” I confirm. “Picture coming through.” I snap a quick photo of the body before sending it to her.
A few seconds pass, then Carrie groans. “Gosh, Maven, why is there so much blood? And you’re wearing your good heels.”
“I know.” I sigh, glancing down at them with mild irritation. “The asshole decided to run. Do you know how sore my feet are going to be?”
My gaze shifts to the man again. Honestly, I should kick him for that, but I can’t risk getting blood on my shoes.
“I’m sure you’ll survive,” Carrie says. “You practically live in heels.”
I flick my long, curly blue hair over my shoulder. “I do, don’t I,” I say with a small smile.
Her tone changes then, turning sharper. “You need to move. The police have been notified of a disturbance. They’re heading your way.”
“That’s because the asshole was screaming,” I mutter.
I crouch and wipe my knife across his shirt, carefully cleaning the blade before sliding it back into my very expensive purse.
“Stop and grab some milk on your way back,” Carrie adds casually. “I’m out.”
I wrinkle my nose. “You need to stop drinking that stuff.”
“And your energy drinks are better?” she shoots back.
“At least they don’t give me diarrhea,” I reply.
Carrie sighs loudly. She loves milk. Unfortunately for her, milk does not love her back.
“Whatever! They’re closing in, so I hope you are gone.”
I’m halfway down the street when I hear the sirens, and I make the snap decision to join the line waiting for entrance into a nightclub just around the corner. Once the police cars fly past me, I step out of the line and continue walking.
“On my way to your place; anything else you need?” I huff out.
“Yeah, chocolate.”
“That goes straight through you as well.”
“Shut up,” she grumbles just before I hang up.
Carrie, my sister, works for me. Or as she likes to say, I work for her. We aren’t really sure which way it is anymore. She gets the money, pays herself, then gives me the rest. It’s been this way for years.
Before I asked her to go into business with me, Carrie worked in cybersecurity. She’s a whiz with computers, while my skills lean more heavily toward … combat.
You see, Carrie and I aren’t biologically related, but she’s my sister all the same. Even just looking at us, you can tell we aren’t related, as Carrie is of Chinese descent. We were both orphans who were adopted by the same family. Carrie was with them for three years before I came along. And like me, she never knew who her birth family was.
Our adoptive family wasn’t awful, but they only took us in for the money. As soon as Carrie turned eighteen, she was told to leave. I kept in touch with her, as she’d felt like my only lifeline, and there was no way I was letting her go. And two years later when I turned eighteen, I was told to leave too.