Page 112 of Lethal Lover

These all play a part.

But the reasons always change. We aren’t heroes, but we are top of our game. And when we want to play, we’ll burn things to the ground to get our prize.

My motivations are usually about the challenge, the meticulous set up. Matching the right tool to the right target. For Logan Cooke? Poison was the best bet. For others, it’s a gun. Sometimes a knife. But each and every one of my kills are planned. Every scenario thought out.

I like the wait, the stretch of time, the heightening of senses that comes with control. Like when I have a sub on the St Andrew’s Cross. Or have her tied up as I work out the next move. The most effective one to get what I want.

Layers and control.

For Malone, it’s chaos and mess and carnage. I take a long look at the blond man with his aristocratic features and carefully manicured beard scruff. He looks like the type to help old ladies over the street. But I know he’s the type to slit their throats if he wanted to; the type to charm them out of millions, whether it’s art, jewels, or money.

Malone is deadly.

Just like me.

He thrives on chaos, it’s like fucking to him. I don’t. I thrive on the detail, careful planning, control. The minutiae.

It’s pure patience, something that’s come from my past, a way to survive. I’ve come, as they say, a long way from dealing and living on the streets, from that kid who’ll do anything to survive, that monster.

It’s what I had to be.

Become worse than those around you and own the game when it’s time or fucking sink and die.

I had no intentions of the latter. Even back then.

When the Knights came knocking, I was more than ready. Primed to take my place among those like me.

Because if you don’t have the urge to climb shaking ladders of morals and wear pristine clothes to hide the rot underneath, when you don’t chase fame, when you finally have the billions, then…the world is there for the taking.

And I’m here to fucking take.

The Knights have a place to meet, to let loose, to talk in the open. But here, even in a place where navel gazing isn’t an occupational hazard, it’s a prerequisite, talk is dangerous. It’s why Malone pushes the envelope.

I allow it because he knows the rules of the game. And he wants something. I’m always interested in that.

“Broken Angel?”

My next job. Bring down the fucker behind the string of clubs. It’s going to be involved. It’s going to take patience. And skill. My skill set.

“Let’s say I was asked.”

And I was. This job comes with all enticements an Obsidian Knight wouldn’t turn down. Stakes in the power game. Real power. Stuff most would kill for.

“By a higher up?”

“Yes,” I say. I take another sip of the single malt and check my watch. The chaos Malone wants is going to happen soon.

“It’s not going to be easy.”

The request comes with an offer I’d be a fucking moron to refuse. But that’s not why I’m taking this on. The challenge is more than there, but that’s not the reason either.

“Since Orion isn’t here,” Malone says, his voice monotone as if we’re at some board meeting and not in the middle of a party, “I’m guessing Cara, his latest fuck piece, is here to help you out tonight in his place.”

Then he turns to me, a sinister smirk on his face.

“Or maybe the tasty little morsel she just brought in here with her is.”

“She’s off limits. Stay in your fucking lane, West.”

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