Page 28 of Assistant to the Assassin

“Why do you think I agreed to work with you?”

His eyes flick back to mine, and he half smirks. “I thought that was because of the promise of good healthcare?”

“Well that too.” I squeeze his arm. “Thank you for telling me.”

He nods, meeting my gaze. “What made you decide to stop practicing?”

I’m surprised he’s asking me that, but I guess if I pried, so will he. “As you know, my parents died when I was seven. I went to live with my grandparents, and they took me to church on Sundays and made me say my prayers at night, but I didn’t want to talk to the God that took my parents away. How could God be benevolent if he causes us all so much unnecessary suffering? And then I got diagnosed a couple years later and that firmly made me an atheist. God gave me a body that actively tries to kill me. I want nothing to do with God.”

He nods, no judgement whatsoever in his eyes. “I understand that. I may identify as a Catholic in terms of my faith, but I don’t subscribe to organized religion. Even when my mother was alive, I never went to church or read the Bible. My faith was built around the idea of loving and accepting everyone, a foundation created by my mother.”

“That’s beautiful,” I tell him, truly meaning it. These days faith is built around so much hate and anger—hearing about the opposite is refreshing.

He takes in a deep breath, doing a shit job of hiding his ever-poignant grief. “How is your blood sugar doing?” he asks.

I fish out my pump from my sports bra and check it, seeing that my level is at 208 and rising. I just ate, so this is pretty normal. I show him the screen, and he nods. “Go grab a juice from the kitchen and bring it with us to the gym just in case you go low later.”

Always looking after me. “Okay, Mom.”

He gets out of his chair and shoots me a glare. “Don’t be a brat.”

I give him a challenging grin in return. “Why? You gonna spank me?”

I meant it as a joke, but I get goosebumps by the way his gaze intensifies.

Oh my God, does he want to spank me?

Oh my God, do I want him to spank me?

“Meet me in the gym,” he says, his voice low and sultry. Without another word, he leaves the kitchen and disappears behind the metal doors.

Christ Almighty.

Journal Entry 99

I used to ask my mother why God took my father away from us. If God was good, why would he kill someone innocent? Why would God make me grow up without a father?

Momma would tell me that God isn’t all-powerful like others claim. He can’t meddle with every single person’s lives and dictate who lives or dies. God created us with free will, and it’s our choices that decide our future.

But my father didn’t choose to die, I would argue.

Momma would shrug and say that his death was the choice of another. Not his own. She insisted that my father was still with us, that he watched us in heaven.

I have always wondered if that’s true. Do my parents watch me from heaven?

Part of me hopes the answer is no.

They would hate the choices I’ve made and the future I decided for myself.

The Extent of My Worthless Anger

We practiced the defense moves for hours after lunch. We only stopped to eat some dinner—which consisted of mac ’n’ cheese—then we trained for another two hours. I bet I can do those moves in my sleep.

I offered to turn on some Downton Abbey, but Henry wasn’t in the mood. He slinked off to his bedroom a little while ago, leaving me to my own devices. Naturally I started reading some fanfiction while listening to Justin Bieber’s Believe album. “As Long As You Love Me” is playing, a personal favorite of mine, and I mouth along to the words as I read.

I’m something of a fanfiction aficionado. I wrote fanfics as a teenager and retired when I joined the CIA because I had zero spare time. But in the rare moments I do have a moment to myself, I open up AO3 and go to town on some 1D fanfics. Right now I’m reading one where Harry Styles is a vampire.

Feeling the need to set the proper mood, I go back to my Spotify and change it from JB to 1D, picking “Take Me Home” to listen to. “She’s Not Afraid” starts playing, and I forgo with mouthing along to the words.

---