Kill Me: Kiss of Death 1

  Copyright © 2016 by LP Lovell

  All rights reserved

  This book is an original work of fiction. All of the names, characters, sponsors, and events are the product of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously. Any similarities to actual events, incidences, persons, deceased or living, is strictly coincidental.

  Any opinions expressed in this book or solely those of the author.

  KILL ME

  Copyright ©2016 by LP Lovell

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any other information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction, all names, characters, places, and events are the products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locations is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the UK Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Dear Reader

  Acknowledgements

  The Author

  Other Books by LP Lovell

  Blinking my eyes open, I groan and flinch back against the bright fluorescent lights overhead. My head is pounding, my body feel stiff and achy. I don’t recognise my surroundings, and I panic, sitting bolt upright. The motion makes my head spin and my vision dip in and out. The last thing I remember is them taking me from the orphanage, bad men who do awful things to girls like me. All I can see is concrete. The walls, the ceiling, the floor, all grey and bleak. No windows, no anything. I’m lying on a fashioned bed, hanging from the wall via two chains. It’s a prison cell. I notice a security camera set into the corner of the room above the door, the red light on it blinking. Pulling my knees to my chest, I wrap my arms around them, fighting back tears. In an attempt to stop the violent shaking of my body, I squeeze my arms even tighter.

  A tear tracks down my face, and I swallow around the painful lump in my throat, jumping when the door screeches and then opens. The second I see the man who took me, fear grips me so hard I think I’m going to be sick. A horrible smile pulls at his lips as he comes to a stop a few feet from me. I curl into an even tighter ball, trying to make myself smaller. Another man walks into the room, lingering by the door.

  “Hello, child. My name is Erik.” I drop my gaze to a spot on the bed directly beside me. I don’t want to look at him, and I don’t want him to look at me, to see me.

  “She’s pretty,” the other man says in a way that makes me shiver in fear.

  “Why do you think I brought her back?” He laughs. “Stand up, girl,” he barks, but I don’t move. I can’t move. My limbs are locked in place. I yelp when he reaches for me, grabbing a handful of my hair and dragging me off the bed roughly. My knees collide with the concrete floor and pain ricochets up my legs. His boots are right in front of me. I want to get as far away from him as possible, but I stay still, staring at the floor as tears track down my cheeks steadily. He drops to a crouch and his calloused fingers grip my jaw, forcing my face up. I slam my eyes closed and he laughs.

  “Close your eyes all you like. Do you remember what I told you?” I say nothing, but feel his hot, smoke scented breath on my face. “I promised I’d break you,” he whispers. The words trigger something in me and animal instincts kick in. I wrench my face away from him and scramble backwards, pushing to my feet and pressing myself against the wall in the far corner of the room. His laughter echoes around the small space and a frustrated cry leaves my lips. I’m not getting out of here. Two grown men, against me, a girl. He’s going to break me and probably kill me, or worse, make me a whore. I know all about these things, the places they send girls my age. I’d rather die.

  His laughter cuts off and he storms across the room, reaching for me. I lash out at him, but it’s a pathetic attempt. Gripping the top of my T-shirt, he tears it apart, straight down the middle. I yelp and curl in on myself, covering my body from him.

  “She hasn’t even got tits yet,” his friend says, spitting on the ground.

  Erik grabs my hair, pulling my head back so hard that I cry out as I’m forced onto my knees in front of him. He steps close, pulling me into him until my cheek is pressed against his crotch. “I don’t mind.” He laughs. Bile burns the back of my throat and I fight the impending panic that makes me want to curl into the foetal position and just blank it all out. For a few seconds my mind tells me to just accept it, that this is what I must do to survive, but the second the thought crosses my mind, I recoil in disgust. I snarl and lash out, punching him between his legs. His hold on my hair becomes so painful that I scream, but then he lets go. Staggering back, he sucks in ragged breaths, cupping his crotch. I know it will be short-lived, but I bask in the small victory for a second.

  “You little bitch! Hold her.” It all happens at once. The concrete floor hits my back. Hands grab at my arms and body, pinning me down. I scream and my nails rake over skin. Erik’s body falls over mine like a lead weight and hot breath blows over my face, making me wretch. I kick and lash out and when it does nothing, the tears blind me. He pulls at my jeans so hard my entire body jerks and he’d drag me across the floor if it weren’t for the other man holding me down. He throws my jeans to the side, and I try to pull away, to curl my bare legs closer to my body. Fingers wrap around my ankles, wrenching them apart. A sickening grin works over his face and it feels as though someone has a hold of my heart, squeezing it in their fist as he reaches for my cotton panties. Managing to work one arm free, I swing at him and slap him across the cheek. My palm meeting face sounds like a thunderclap in the room. His hand slams around my throat and he snarls in my face, spraying spit over me. I gasp for breath, bucking my body uselessly as he rolls his hips between my legs. Black spots begin to dot my vision, and I’m on the verge of losing consciousness.

  “Enough!” The voice comes from the doorway and Erik stills. The guy holding me down releases me as if I’m on fire. “Get off her,” the voice says. Erik flashes me one last glance and pushes to his feet.

  I gasp as the pressure is released from my throat and sit up, scrambling backwards into the corner of the room. I clutch the tattered pieces of my shirt together as I pull my knees to my chest. I don’t want to be here. I want to be anywhere but here. Pressing my face against my knees, I close my eyes. I imagine I’m back at the orphanage with Anna sitting next to me, her sweet smile on her face.

  Something brushes my knee and I whimper, lifting my face. A man crouches in front of me. He has dark hair with a few grey streaks at his temple, and eyes the same colour as a stormy sky. He wears a suit with a waistcoat beneath his jacket and a red tie knotted neatly at his throat. A small smile touches his face and his eyes meet mine, watching me for so long that I have to look away. He doesn’t
try to touch me though. Slowly, he reaches inside his jacket pocket and takes out a lollipop, offering it to me. I frown, confused. I don’t trust him and I don’t take it from him. He shrugs and takes off the wrapper, popping it in his mouth before he slides his jacket off his shoulders and slowly drapes it around me. Grabbing the two sides, I pull them together, covering my entire body inside the material.

  “What’s your name?” he asks. I don’t respond, and he lowers himself to the ground, sitting on the dirty concrete in his nice suit, propping his back against the bed. All I can hear is him sucking on the lolly. “My name is Nicholai.” He stretches his legs out and crosses one ankle over the other. “Nicholai Ivanov.”

  “Una,” I whisper.

  “You’re strong. A fighter,” he says, holding the bright red lolly in front of his face and inspecting it.

  “Please let me go,” I whisper, fighting back tears.

  He tilts his head to the side, rubbing a hand over his chin. “It’s the strong that survive in this world, Una. And the weak…they die, forgotten and inconsequential.” I sweep my hair behind my ear and he tracks the movement. “I can offer you the greatest gift of all, little dove. I can make you strong.”

  “How?”

  A smile pulls at one side of his mouth. “I can make you a warrior.” He stands up and offers me his hand. “If you survive…and I truly hope you do, little dove.”

  Thirteen years later

  Austin Daniels closes the door to the penthouse suite of the Four Seasons. I glance around at the sheer opulence of the place. I guess dirty politics pays well.

  This godforsaken city has been my home for weeks now, and I’m more than ready to be done with it. I feel stilted being surrounded by all the concrete, as though I can’t catch a full breath. I’ve spent weeks posing as his social media manager online, but of course, the moment he met me, he wanted to fuck me. Most men are predictable and simple creatures in my experience. They see women as a commodity, something to which they are entitled, a pretty face and a tight body to forget their troubles in. To the unsuspecting eye, I’m their walking fantasy. The reality couldn’t be further from the truth.

  He moves behind me, gliding his hands around my waist. Every instinct I have roars to the surface, demanding I react. Years of training wrestle with my control as that voice in my head shouts at me to kill. It’s all I know, it’s all I am. I force it down, committing to follow the plan. He presses his lips against my shoulder and I tilt my head to the side, allowing him to work his way up my neck. I tune out the feeling of him touching me, mentally overriding it.

  “You’re so beautiful,” he says, blowing warm air over my skin. I turn to face him, taking in every detail of his face. Austin is a good-looking guy in his late thirties. He’s driven, wealthy, ambitious, but he’s too ambitious, that’s what’s landed him here, with me in his hotel suite, seducing him. Poor, stupid fuck.

  Men like Austin, well, our paths should never cross. I don’t ask the reasons when I take a job, I just do it and get paid. He must be in bed with some really nasty people to have my kind of price tag on his head. In my world, corruption and death are constant companions, a simple fact of life, a measurable risk. And I’m the queen. Austin doesn’t belong here, and yet he willingly ventured into a place where the monsters under the bed are very real. I slip my fingers beneath the material at my shoulders and push it off until the straps slide down my arms. The dress falls apart, exposing my bare breasts. His eyes fall to my chest and he shakes his head, reaching for me. His hands palm me, brushing over my nipples reverently. Shrugging out of the dress, I slide it over my hips until it pools at my feet and I’m left wearing nothing but my heels. He’s completely focused on my body and it’s pathetic, really.

  “Get on the bed,” I order.

  His fingers fumble clumsily over the buttons of his shirt as he tries desperately to undress himself. I sigh, quickly running out of patience. The shirt finally parts and he shrugs out of it before lying on the bed. I flash him a sensual smirk and throw a leg over his chest before I slide up and straddle his face. This is a personal favourite of mine.

  “Lick me.” My voice a husky, sex-laced breath.

  He groans and grips my thighs, swiping his tongue over me. I grip the headboard tight enough that my knuckles turn white and my nails bend back against the heavy wood. He flattens his tongue over my clit, and I grit my teeth, my entire body tensing uncomfortably. Sex is not a pleasurable experience; it is a means to an end. There’s a certain power in it, rendering the victim weak, compliant. After all, blood and bullets are so messy. I consider just killing him right now, but his bodyguard is right outside the door. I need him to hear me moan, listen to Austin groaning. Enough that he relaxes his guard, because if he’s any good, he’ll still be on high alert. Of course I could kill him too, but I like to keep my jobs clean.

  Forcing a fake moan past my lips, I roll my hips against him, making sure he’s completely relaxed. One hand dives into his hair, pulling him harder against me as I ride out the pretend orgasm. When he’s completely unaware, I shift, placing my thighs on either side of his neck. I smile down at him. He smiles back, his face covered in my pussy, and when he opens his mouth to say something, I tighten my grip on his hair, clamping my thighs against his neck. Wrenching his head back, I hear the satisfying crunch of the vertebrae in his neck cracking. I never tear my eyes from his, watching as the light leaves them, feeling the life drain from him. His body jerks underneath me for a second, the nerve endings going haywire.

  It’s the ultimate power, a rush unrivalled by anything else. Death is unscrupulous and I’m her harbinger. I stay there, waiting and listening for the telltale rush of air to leave his lungs. It does with a heavy hiss, and then the twitching slows until he lies still.

  Sliding down his lifeless body, I sweep my hands down his face, closing his eyelids. I lean over him and press my lips against his forehead. “Prosti menya,” I whisper against his skin in my native tongue. Forgive me.

  I’m not a pious woman. I’ve seen too much evil in this world to ever believe in a god or anything greater than this hellhole of a life we have. All you can do is dig your way out of the gutter, and for me, I had to use a mountain of bodies as my stairway up that shit-stained cliff face. This man did nothing to me; he’s simply a job, a paid contract. He died because he was weak. I continue to survive because I am strong and do what I was trained to do. Kill. I ask forgiveness because although I have to do this, I shouldn’t enjoy it nearly as much as I do. I don’t kill simply to survive, I like it, I live for it. Never do I feel more alive than when I’m taking life. The thrill of death has become an addiction I willingly feed. And I’m good at it. I’m the best. We all need validation somewhere.

  Bumping my bike over the curb, I allow it to roll down the small embankment into the treeline. Kicking the stand down, I take off my helmet and rest it on the fuel tank, then pulling the hair tie from my hair, sending long, white-blonde strands cascading down my back. The scent of the woods wraps around me, the pine trees, the earth, the moss. After the confines of the city, it’s a welcome reprieve that revitalises me. The city is too loud, the cars, the people, it both overwhelms and numbs my senses. Out here, I can hear everything and nothing, because silence reigns, disturbed only by the occasional chitter of a bird.

  Pulling my hood up over my head, I start jogging up the road, clinging to the shadows as I approach the house. To the unsuspecting person looking in, this is merely the Hamptons mansion of some guy with a fuck lot of money, I know better. This is the fortress of Arnaldo Boticelli, the underboss of the Italian Mafia. Not many outsiders will ever see the inside of those walls, and I am always an outsider. It’s why they hire me.

  I wait until the guards change; taking advantage of their small moment of distraction to make for the six-foot high stone pillar that sits to the left of the enormous metal gate, just in the shadow of the guardhouse. Gripping the ledge, I haul myself up, launching straight over the top and landing on the
other side in a silent roll. I pause, waiting, listening. My senses are attuned, picking up the slightest sound and movement. I can tune it all out or allow it all in. The faint panting of a dog and the clumsy footfalls of heavy boots are all I hear. Thirty seconds is all I have to get to the house. I run over the dark lawns, but the closer I get, the riskier it is. The mansion is like a modern palace, made of glass walls that allow light to spill out across all that surrounds it. There are at least three snipers on the roof along with four guard patrols circling the perimeter and six directly surrounding the house.

  Scanning the house, I spot one of the upstairs guest rooms has a window that is ajar. The enormous pane of glass is tilted from a central pivot, and the room behind it is cast in darkness, one of the few that isn’t lit up like a Christmas tree. The guard below the window seems distracted, bored. Making a break for it, I sprint into the light cast across the lawn and outflank him. My feet whisper across the grass as I run up behind him, jumping and wrapping my thighs around his hips in order to leverage my arm around his throat. He staggers for a moment and slams back into the wall, winding me as he tries to pry my arm off his throat. I squeeze harder, using everything I have to crush his thick neck. And then he goes down, hitting the ground with a soft thud. I land lightly on my feet beside his unconscious body, my chest heaving with the effort.

  Now…I just need to scale the building and slip in the second-storey window. Easy.

  Arnaldo’s house is a fortress of marble and glass, all of which I know is bullet proof. Pressing my back to a wall, I peer around before ducking back in. Two guards stand outside the double doors that lead to Arnaldo’s office. Yanking my hood further down until it shadows my eyes, I take a deep breath before stepping out from behind the wall. The guards snap their attention to me, and I pop just a little more sway in my hips as I approach them. They both reach for their weapons and I drop to the ground, ripping the pistols from my thigh holsters and pulling them up in front of me. The triggers give way under my index fingers and the guns release with a silenced pop. Both of them grapple for a second, reaching for the small darts protruding from their necks before they simultaneously slide down the doors. Darts so aren’t my style, but then it doesn’t go over well to come into a client’s house and kill their personal guards. I press my boot against the arm of one of the guys, shoving him to the side so I can open the door. My boots sink into the thick carpet and I push the door closed behind me.