Page 51 of The Queen
A deep breath in, hold it, let it out slow. The city moves around us, clueless. I’m a shadow within shadows, a ghost no one knows exists. My finger, a silent judge, squeezes the trigger. The suppressed shot slips out, a whisper of death riding the morning air. It finds its mark, and I know without looking the job’s done. It’s always done.
I feel the rush, the dark satisfaction course through my whole body.
The body hits the ground, a sack of nothing now. I don’t flinch. I don’t feel anything. My face is hard, just another day at the office as I move onto the next phase.
I work quickly, breaking down the rifle. Piece by piece, it comes apart in my hands. Every movement is exact, no wasted motion. The parts nestle into their foam cutouts, silent as the grave.
Snapping the case shut, not even an echo in the empty room, I stand, ready to vanish into the city’s heartbeat again.
Leaving the quiet building and moving through the alley away from my work, I join the stream of people on the pavement, hearing the screams on the other side of the building. The case in my hand is just another briefcase, nothing that screams I’m carrying the tools of my trade. I slip into the ebb and flow of waking life, my footsteps soft against the pavement.
The sedan waits for me, just where it was, and I slide into the driver’s seat, drop the case on the passenger side, and start the engine. It purrs to life, a hushed sound drowned out by the growing noise of the city. I merge into traffic, another faceless citizen beginning his day as the sirens scream close nearby.
Concrete and steel flash past as I drive, but my mind’s not on the scenery. It’s already churning over what comes next. Always moving forward, like a shark that drowns if it stops swimming. The townhouse looms in the distance, a fortress of secrets and power.
As I pull up to the curb, the quiet engulfs me again, solitary and thick. I leave the car, taking the case with me, and head inside. The door closes behind me, sealing me in with the cool darkness of the entryway.
“Hey,” Oliver says, coming out of the kitchen with a mug of coffee. “Early job?”
“Yeah.”
“Nice.”
I nod, heading up the stairs, not needing to go into anything else. He knows not to ask.
My room is as I left it, immaculate, the blinds drawn tight.
After placing the case down, my thoughts briefly drift to Eliza before I push them aside. In the quiet of my room, I stand still for a moment, letting the adrenaline drain away, leaving nothing but the chill of duty accomplished.
I lock the door and rub at the tension, knotting my shoulders. The silence around me feels heavy, loaded with the unspoken truths of my existence. The guy who pulls the trigger, who does what needs doing without hesitation or regret.
As I pull out the cleaning kit. I lay each piece out with robotic perfection, the routine familiar and comforting. The weapon parts lay scattered before me like an ominous jigsaw puzzle waiting to be put back together.
I start with the barrel, running the brush through its length, removing any residue. Each part gets the same treatment — meticulous and thorough. There’s a rhythm to it, a methodical process that requires just enough concentration to keep my mind from wandering where it shouldn’t.
Nothing about this life is simple, but this part, the cleaning, is straightforward. Piece by piece, I wipe away the evidence of today’s work. No fingerprints, no smudges, no mistakes. In this world, you can’t afford them.
The metal pieces gleam under the touch of the cloth and I replace the parts where they belong. It’s ready now, just like I need to be, for whatever job comes next. There is always a next in this game.
Finally, I store the weapon away, hidden but within reach. A necessary companion. I slump into the chair. My head’s a swirl of shadows and whispers, the kind that comes with the territory—a constant fellow in this life I lead. It’s not just a job; it’s who I am, what runs in my blood, what keeps me on edge. The darkness is seductive, wrapping around me, tightening with every breath.
It makes me horny, and finally, I relax enough to feel my cock, hard and demanding. I need a release, something to ease the tension after the high of the hit. Flipping open my laptop, Eliza’s image fills the screen—the one person who gets this twisted part of me without flinching.
She’s asleep, her waves of hair fanned out across the pillow. Her lips are parted, and I imagine the soft sighs she’d make if I were there, touching her, feeling her warmth.
Pulling my cock out, I stroke myself, rough and fast, eyes locked on Eliza. She’s a rare beauty, fierce and gorgeous, and watching her sleep without her consent is a huge turn-on. I picture those green eyes snapping open, fixing on me with that sharp intelligence that sees right through the bullshit. She challenges me, pushes me, that’s exactly what I need. Gripping my cock tighter, I lean back in the chair, my other hand reaching down to cup my balls. The pressure builds, an intensity that has me teetering on the edge. Thoughts of Eliza fuel the need, the way she moves against me when we’re fucking, her confidence, how she takes what she wants without hesitation.
The heat coils tighter, spiralling down as I chase the pleasure, chasing the oblivion that comes with it. My breath hitches, and I lean into the sensation, the pressure building until I can’t hold back any longer.
“Eliza,” I groan, low and guttural, as my climax crashes over me. For a second, nothing else exists, just the raw pulse of pleasure and the sight of her lying there, so peaceful, so beautiful, it hurts.
As the waves ebb away, I clean up, cold and meticulous again. Emotions tucked away, desire spent, I close the laptop, cutting off the connection. It’s back to business now, back to the shadows where I thrive, where I wait for the next call to action, for the next time I can lose myself in Eliza’s gaze.
24
ELIZA
My phone buzzeson the bedside cabinet, pulling me from the tangle of silk sheets. I reach for it and squint at it. The screen lights up with a cryptic message.
