Page 7 of Cause Of Death

“Steve, you know the drill. I’m not sure if Les is in with Kimmy or by themself, just make sure your room is up to scratch then unpack your shit in the closet. If there’s anything missing or wrong with the bed, come find me.”

A gruff chuckle sends shivers down my spine, closely followed by the feather-light slide of a finger.

“And what if the bed I want happens to also belong to a fiery Wisp of a thing, what then?”

I slow my steps and turn to face one of my oldest and dearest friends, one of the trusted few who hastrulyseen me naked and vulnerable.

“Honestly? Right now, I feel kinda dirty, what with how I dispatched my mark. While having you erase his memory with your touch would be amazing, I won’t use you in that way. Nor will I rub Hen’s nose in my hesitancy by undertaking one of our trysts outside my heat, while he’s here and I’m still unclaimed. However, if you want a massive cuddle-puddle, I’m sure the others will be only too happy to indulge you with that need. Just let me wash this last job away before we set it up, okay?”

Steve’s sweet smile and easy acceptance soothes my ragged nerves. Reaching out to cradle my face in his hands, he presses a soft kiss to my forehead, before lifting his chin.

“Go on then, short-stack. Go have that shower, scour the scent of that asshole from your skin. I’ll stow my gear before helping Hen out with a late dinner, yeah? You must be starving, shifting forms like you did on top of completing that job. Then, while we’re waiting, you can dictate to me, and I’ll write out the details regarding Prince. It’ll be easier that way, as none of us can read that chicken-scratch you call handwriting.”

I stick my tongue out at the sigma behemoth before I turn around and mock-flounce my way to my room. Steve’s chuckles echo in my wake, and I shake my head over his words.

Chicken scratch, indeed.

Ilove my shower.

With a large, fixed rainfall shower head jutting from the wall and a smaller, adjustable setting handheld shower arm attachment, I’m spoiled for choice when it comes to my bathing needs. Tonight, I simply want to stand beneath my large rainfall shower and let the water wash over me.

I step under the steaming spray, the temperature hot enough to boil a lobster. The water burns as it drenches my hair and flows over my body, but I need it scalding hot. I need that heat, that pain, to strip away my sins and stains.

Because that’s what fucking my marks feels like.

A stain on my very soul.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m no prude. Sex between consenting adults is perfectly acceptable, whether it’s a one-night-stand or a long-term relationship. So long as everyone involved is of legal age, on the same page when it comes to contraception, and all parties display willing and enthusiastic consent, then it’s nothing to be ashamed of.

But still. There’s something…icky… about fucking someone who I’m about to kill. Even if they do go out with a metaphorical “bang.”

It was one of the first discussions I’d held with Steve and Henley after I was inducted into the Guild. I didn’t want them to think less of me for utilizingallof my wiles and craft bestowed upon me as a member of the fairer sex. Leslie was all for me using every trick in my book to get the job done, and Kimberly was supportive of whatever decision I came to about it all. But Steve and Henley’s opinion of memattered.

Funnily enough, it was Steve who suggested the boundaries, not Henley. Perhaps it was because I had yet to bed Henley, or maybe it was because as a soldier Henley knew how to partition parts of himself, to disassociate from the more violent or lethal aspects of his career. Steve, however, didn’t have that experience or knowledge to fall back on.

“You’re not going to go into these contracts blind, short-stack. You’ll have done your research, figured out the best method to get close to your mark and terminate them without risk of exposure or violent retaliation. If that means you’ll have to fuck them, then so be it. Just keep it distant, okay? Don’t becomeintimatewith them, don’t get all cuddly and sweet. No kissing or hugging. Just fucking. Like that movie about the hooker who snags a rich dude and they fuck on a piano.”

If imitating Julia Roberts inPretty Womanmeant that Steve wouldn’t feel as though me fucking my targets was a betrayal, then I’d detach and pretend I was using a rather lifelike toy instead of allowing a stranger inside of me.

My mental chant helps with that.

I scrub my body with my odor-neutralizing body wash, removing all traces of Mitchell Collins and sweaty sex from my skin. Once I’m done, I contemplate putting the detachable shower head to good use, but ultimately decide against it. If I’munwilling to rub Henley’s nose in the fact I’m having sex with others who aren’t him, I also refuse to upset Steve by declining his offer only to turn around and pleasure myself. I switch off the shower and wrap myself in the fluffy bath sheet from the towel warmer next to the shower door. I don’t tend to expose my omega nature to the outside world, but in the safety of my home, with those I trust surrounding me, I can let loose. I can revel in plush fabrics, soft textures, and enjoy mountains of blankets and cushions in a rainbow of colors.

I cuddle myself for a little while, allowing the towel to wick the moisture from my body. Once I feel as though I can breathe again, I finish drying myself and bundle my hair into another, smaller towel to dry it. I then smooth body lotion over my skin, the faint hints of honey from the Sweet Alyssum scented lotion pairing well with my natural smoky vanilla. Last of all, I pull on my bamboo cotton lounge wear, the buttery-soft fabric skimming over my skin and falling in gentle folds around me.

Finally, feeling clean and more like my real self and not my Guild persona, I head back downstairs to join the others. Henley is busy at the stove and the delicious smell of fragrant stir-fry reaches me as I settle on one of the bar stools on the other side of the island bench. Steve stands on the other side of the bench, already halfway through preparing edamame salad and garlic green beans, while Kimberly is in charge of the air-fryer. From the stacked plates beside her, she’s cooking up vegetarian spring rolls.

“So, what are we having, what do you need me to do, and where’s Les? I hope they haven’t skipped out on helping with dinner.” I ask, casting out the bait to see if anyone will take a nibble. Kimberly doesn’t disappoint.

“Dee, you know that Les will burn water, so Hen banished them to go and buy dessert. I think they’re after moon cakes and those mango sticky rice balls you like. But maybe I should callthem and tell them to come back instead, if you’re gonna go and get all snarky like that.”

I bite down on my lip to hide my smirk since I don’t want to start World War III all because I pushed Kimberly’s buttons.

“Kimmy, settle yourself, she’s just fishing, and you took her bait—hook, line, and sinker. Little Wisp, you’re not in the kitchen tonight so instead of stirring the pot, how about you go and set the table and maybe get us all some drinks? I bought a couple of mini-kegs of Renegade earlier, and restocked the bar fridge with some of them. Leslie shouldn’t be long, and we’ll eat once they’re back.”

Sufficiently chastened, Kimberly turns back to her spring rolls and I follow Henley’s instruction, ignoring Steve’s soft, mock-disappointment tongue clicks. By the time I’m done, Henley is plating up the chili garlic noodles and ginger cashew chicken stir-fry, Kimberly has a platter laden with spring rolls and bowls of hoisin and sweet chili dipping sauces, and Steve has two large bowls full of edamame salad and crisp garlic green beans.

I’m pouring out the last glasses of the Renegade Brewski Peach Lager when Leslie bustles back inside, a whirlwind of pinks and purples and—most importantly—carrying desserts. Their flurry of movement only stops once they’re seated at the table with the rest of us, all conversation stalling as we devour the Asian feast.

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