Bossed Around

Chapter 1

Duncan

I’m a giant, but I move like a quiet breeze.

When the hair lifts on the back of someone’s neck and they check the window for a draft, there’s no draft. It’s me approaching them from behind with a piano string. I’m a part of the shadows on the edges of the room. I’m an assassin with frigid blood running in his veins and no remorse. No conscience. All I have are orders and a deadline. A target.

If all of that is true, why am I standing in the dark corner of this art gallery, arrested by the sight of a tiny girl?

My deadline to kill her uncle is approaching quickly. The deed should be done by now, but I can only stand and watch her give such a big yawn, she almost falls out of her chair. She is more like a sleepy angel than a girl. How old is she? I have no experience with females. They are weak, confusing things that inevitably cower in my presence. This itty bitty one who can’t keep her glasses on her nose properly? She would probably turn white as a sheet if I stepped out into the light. She’d cry and bargain and plead for me to show mercy.

I think…I think I’d be tempted to show her some, this drowsy angel.

I’m alarmed by the realization.

Mercy is a foreign concept to me. No one has ever shown it to me, nor have I ever seen it given. But I think if my objective tonight was to kill this tiny girl with the messy brunette bun on top of her head, I would not like it.

I would hate it.

Again, she yawns so wide, she almost tips sideways in her chair and I have to lock my muscles down tight to keep myself from stepping out of the shadows and steadying her. What would her delicate body feel like in my hands? Would I know how to touch someone without crushing them? Why is she not in bed when she is this tired?

She should be in bed. A huge, comfortable one with soft blankets. Dozens of pillows. And fire crackling in a nearby hearth. I would like to put her in that bed and guard her from a position at the door, ready to slash the throats of anyone who wakes her up.

The angel’s name is Thea.

I know this information from the dossier.

I’m here to kill her uncle who owns this gallery where I’m standing. It’s a remote location, detached from the city. Once a thriving institution for lovers of art, it’s now gated and secluded. An exclusive place to display and procure rare paintings—at least on the surface. Gardner is a world-renowned painter himself, though only a few of his pieces are exhibited here. His niece is the curator. Thea. Thea.

When I’m alone later, totally alone, I’m going to say it out loud.

My loins tighten just thinking about it.

Letting the soft word roll off my tongue.

So few words do.

I don’t speak unless necessary and can’t deny that saying her name, hearing it with my own ears, is one hundred percent vital.

She pokes her bun with the pencil she’s using and rubs her sleepy eyes. My fingers curl into my palms, around the wire I’m holding. I swallow roughly, off kilter. Confused by the sharp twists happening in my chest. I’m having a more and more difficult time not going toward Thea where she sits at a desk, filling out an endless stack of paperwork. A twitch is developing behind my right eye, the pressure increasing the longer this girl isn’t in bed.

She can’t be more than sixteen or seventeen, can she?

If I were a member of society and practiced their rules, this might be considered inappropriate. A thirty-seven year old man watching this young girl from the darkness. It might be called stalking or perversion or peeping. This is simply my life, though. Watching life from the outside. Looking in from the cold.

This is the first time I’ve wanted to step into the light, the warmth so badly.

Thea yawns again and this time, it’s accompanied by a little sigh. She sets down her pencil and stretches her tiny arms up over her head, arching her back—

My cock stiffens angrily at the sight of her breasts. They are petite as the rest of her, but round, pointy-tipped in the center. Perhaps she is older than seventeen, but only slightly. And I am having trouble controlling my breathing now, my hands aching to touch those mounds, fondle them. My entire being burns to emerge from the edges of the room, pull her out of the chair and examine every inch of this girl. Thea. I want to strip her naked and memorize every mole, every curve and dip. I want to know her fragrance.

I could do it.