Page 2 of Claimed By the Hitman: Codename Cupid

Cupid’s dark eyes scan me, plucking out every bead of sweat on my exposed neck. The assassin’s gaze is hungry. I wonder if he looks at his targets the same way? Suddenly, I feel naked in this dress.

I’d feel vulnerable in a suit of armor if he were looking at me.

“You’re late.” I sit upright, set my book down, and snap for the waiter. “Order something to drink.”

Cupid smirks at me, leans back, and crosses his legs as the waiter comes over. He never takes his eyes off me as he switches to French to order an espresso. There’s a nonchalantness about him that I find infuriatingly attractive. It’s like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

Me? I’ve had a stress headache since yesterday.

“I’m on Paris time,” he yawns, waving his hand as if to dismiss the concept of clocks altogether. “Been here for weeks. Waiting. Drinking. Eating. Maybe you’re the one who’s late?”

“I was here exactly when I needed to be.”

“Ah, but what if you had come early?” He accepts his coffee and stares at me over the rim as he smells the creamy film at the top. “We could have explored Paris together. Drinking. Eating. Fucki—“

“Enough.”

I don’t raise my voice, not yet. Already, Cupid is living up to Olympia’s warnings. Organizations like Olympia never deal in physical media. I’ve never seen a picture of Cupid, never read a file, and certainly never seen footage of his work being carried out. When I’m given an assignment, I’m usually shoved into a van with a bag over my head and brought to Zeus.

Zeus told me that Cupid would be different.

We’re losing control of the asset.

“I need you to understand something,” I speak lowly as a group of teens saunter by. “I am not your previous handlers. You will follow my directions to the letter, or I will simply report to Olympia that you are unfit for utilization.”

This puts an even slyer smile on Cupid’s gorgeous face. He smirks like the Devil.

“This is not a game,” I say.

“Everything is a game, Hera,” he responds. “Especially this.”

Beneath the table, his foot inches near my heels.

“Why do you think they call you Hera?” he asks.

“It’s a codename. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“So, what’s your real name?”

My heart flutters at the thought. It’s been so long since I spoke it. An alias occupies my passport, and I wouldn’t even givethatname to Cupid. This wild line of questioning makes me yearn for my previous assignment. Hephaestus was straight-laced; he did things by the book. Unfortunately, he had to go and break his back in a rock-climbing accident.

So, here I am, staring down Cupid’s mischievous grin.

“Do not ask me that again. It’s against protocol, as you know. No names. No files. Olympia passes information to me, and I pass it to you. You know this. No evidence.”

“No evidence except forus.”

Cupid loudly scoots his metal chair over until our legs are completely entangled. My dress rides up my legs, and I can feel my sweat being wiped off by his pants.

“What are you doing?” I hiss.

“Ah, come on. Act natural.” He leans in and smiles. “Have you ever even been to France? Two attractive Parisians would never sit so far away from each other on a hot day like this. The tension is too tight for that, ma chérie.”

My mind does flips trying to place his morphing accent. One minute, he sounds American with hints of West Coast flair. The next, his tongue moves like he’s from the Netherlands but studied abroad. His French, what little I’ve heard, sounds more localized than mine.

The fact that he called me attractive melts my mind further.

“Keep your hands to yourself…”

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