Page 2 of The Secrets That Kill

I want to time everything perfectly. Cooke, my revenge, my next project?—

“You’re pretty,” a girl slurs, her hand on me, lashes fluttering furiously.

She’s hot enough, I guess, whoever the fuck she is. But she’s touching without permission.

I glance at her hand then her until she releases her grip on me. Rich and never worked a day in her life. This type is easy to pick out of a crowd. She doesn’t go away, and I’m aware my fellow Obsidian Knight, Malone West, is watching closely.

“Not interested. Go away.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“But,” I say, gauging just how cruel I can be. “I do.”

Her eyes narrow and she turns, flouncing off.

“That’s not nice, Vale.” I stiffen at the sound of Malone’s voice as he approaches me from the bar.

“There’s a lot more I could have said. Or done.”

“Boundaries,” Malone warns.

“The thing, West,” I say, not bothering with the niceties of society—fuck society—as he hands me a Laphroaig. “Is that money gives us the freedom to do anything we want.”

“You’re a cold fucker.”

“You aren’t?” I spare him a glance. “Also,boundaries? For fucking real?”

Malone doesn’t give a damn about boundaries. What he gives a fuck about, what all the Knights do, is his own ass. The ability to indulge in his deepest, darkest appetites when he wants, how he wants, with no repercussions.

The Obsidian Knights. A very secret society, one that exists in the realm outside law, order, and rules that the rest of the world follows. Each Knight has been carefully curated, each of us has special skills. The crème de la crème of underworld criminals. Shadowy, existing on the edges of society. No oneneedsto work; we take on jobs or projects for different reasons.

I’m not saying there’s no money involved. There is. So much that half the assholes in here would come in their pants over all the zeroes attached to the numbers we receive for our work. I’m just saying money is never the sole reason why we do what we do.

Revenge. Pleasure. Boredom. Power. Hate. Even love, for those who believe in it.

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 also 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.

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