REBEL

REBEL

The crazy, rowdy Cali streets were rowdy and crazy, but I had perfected the skill of ignoring the din. I slipped through a crowded market like a razor, slicing through it as sharp as a blade. My dirty little paws dug into pockets and pouches like an old man sifting through them slowly, lifting wallets and coins without so much as a scent of a whisper of suspicion. I was actually a ghost at age six, and nobody noticed or heard me, and walking developed my survival mechanism.

While walking, I feel that someone is watching me, but if I go back, nobody is there; thus, I have to go on.

-MICHAEL

I rested against a lamppost on the edge of the market, following the little girl step by step with my curious gaze. I'd had her in my sights for three days now, interest accumulating moment by moment. Most kids her age had families, or at least a crew to cling to on the streets. Not her. She was as solo as it's possible for a kid to be, surviving with a quiet talent that implied both skill and necessity.

Today, though, it was not so much her luck.

"Hey! Stealer!" a fat vendor shouted, reaching for his apron where his purse had been.

She tensed for a moment before she fled, bobbing between legs and dodging stalls. The vendor followed her, with two others, their large boots booming on the ground as they chased after her.

I joined the fray, pushing forward with seething fury. I cut off the peddler in half a second, his broad body immobilizing the man in his way.

"Calm down," I ordered, my voice rough and commanding. "You're chasing after a child."

"She robbed me!" the peddler shrieked, but his fury crumbled under my icy glare.

"And you're a big man. Go away," I instructed him, he was left with no line of reasoning. The trader stepped back before grumbling to himself and leaving.

While the kid had fled down an alley, her fire-seared lungs exhaling ragged gasps of air as she clung frantically to the stolen wallet and her heart thudded against her ribcage. She was used to fleeing, to hiding, but for some reason, that one in the market square sent her brain, already in agony, twisting further. He hadn't chased after her. He hadn't yelled. But for some reason, I'd gotten the idea that he'd noticed me. Honestly.

"You're quick," I said, easy and casual.

She turned around, eyes narrowing at the sight of me at the end of the alley. She looks me up and down.

"Leave me alone," she spat, stepping back. She looked down at her back, ready to take flight again.

"You've got talent," I continued as if she'd cut me off. "But you're wasting it."

"I don't need your advice.".

No, but you're in trouble," he exclaimed harshly. "How much longer do you think you can manage that? Stealing bread and fleeing from men twice your size? You're going to come crashing down sometime."

"How long have I been living on my own?" she retorted sharply, although the tremble in her voice betrayed the fright.

I took a step forward, not willing to frighten her. "Good is not surviving. I can provide you with more.".

She taunted me. "Like what? A hot bed and three square meals a day? Is that where you feign concern?"

I didn't even bat an eye at her sarcasm. Instead, I went down on my knees to get in her face, his piercing eyes locking with hers. "No. I'm giving you a purpose. A respite from this life if you want it.".

She stared at him, amazed. She didn't even challenge him. There was something in what he'd told her, the manner in which he'd said it, that amazed her.

"What's the catch?" she asked sternly, her voice distrustful.

I smile. Good girl, there's always a catch, but to me, "You do what I say. No more stealing. No more running. You train, you learn, and you survive," I say to her bluntly. "Or you can stay here, hoping someone catches you and thinks you're not worth rescuing."

My words dangled over her like a pall, and for the first time in who knew how long perhaps, glacial fear wrapped tight around her heart as she gasps roughly. She cast a glance down at the wallet still clutched in her hand and back at me again.

"Why would you care?" she panted weakly.

My voice eased, but not much. "Because I think you can. And because nobody ever scooped me up when I was your age. Perhaps I am attempting to level the playing field."

She just stood there, her gut screaming at her to run. But for some reason, she just could not quite seem to take that very first step out, and then another.

"Fine," she said, shaking voice but firm. "But if this is some kind of trick-

"It's not," Michael cut in, standing and extending a hand. "You'll see."

She placed her tiny hand inside mine and breathed deeply. She felt the harsh, calloused, but firm and unyielding surface of my palm. For the very first time in her short life, she sensed a spark of something she never did before. Security.

REBEL

And so started my life with Michael.

I've been called back home after ten years abroad.

Strange, is it not? I don't care about Cali anymore. You'd think you'd feel nostalgia, but there's just apathy. It's where my boss, Michael, discovered me when I was six years old, under a bridge. I was such a skilled pickpocket that he couldn't resist watching me. He sat and observed me for days, saw how I managed on my own. And then one day he stopped by and kind of took me in. Michael is. complicated. Hard and harsh, yes, but the closest to a parent I've ever known.

He never allowed me to slack, never allowed me a normal life. Not that you can lead a normal life in our world-it's not secure enough. His wife passed away on one of his operations, and he's been emotionally closed off since. We work underground, taking on missions for governments, private citizens, politicians-anybody who'll pay us. The missions are do-or-die as far as risk goes, and the pay is outrageous, but we fly under the radar. I've worked myself into being an expert at being able to blend in anywhere, anything, anytime, leave no footprint. This morning I read the letter. A plain white envelope with no address to send it back to, but I knew immediately whose seal was on it-a blood-red crescent moon, a dagger plunged dead into the center. Only one people carry that mark: my "family." My family, the family that I fled all those years ago. It was an invitation to come home. Come home, it read. Now. The word 'home' is a stranger, bitter on my lips. Which house have I known? Cold, naked walls of Crescent's castle? Harsh training grounds which promised vengeance if I failed? Dark halls once which terrified me, hiding in them, fearing what the years held. Even now, I can hear the voices of my trainers, the ones who made me what I am an assassin. They taught me how to kill, how to conceal, how to make silence a sword. But how to bury the pain of fearing to grow up, they never showed me. I learned this myself. I had to.

Here I stand holding the letter in my hand, and all that past work I put so desperately behind me now comes crashing down on top of me. After I'd departed, always knowing that I could never really be free. If Shadow Axe has called for me, then something is wrong. Shadow Axe does not call people.

But. they were my family. For better or for worse, they were what constructed me.

All I do know is that when I did finally, something should have fired nostalgia, rage, maybe sorrow.

Nothing.

No attachment to this place whatsoever, emotion non-existent.

House, mere house, expensively appointed, of course, but none that I had chosen: neither decorator items, nor art, and not the house. Never staying in one place for more than a moment, I had cared about or become interested in nothing. But between the luxury condominiums and the beach houses, the holidays never were home anywhere. Exhausted, in fact, I am. But my life is not my own. It's the organization's. That was what I signed up for.

The maids:(Curtsies) hello mistress back

With the glass of wine in my hand, gazing at the next victim after a long soak in the bathtub, I emerge from the tub. Two maids enter my room and begin to wrap me in towels. None of us ever ask a question; all I've been taught is the name of an individual, and they're going to kill her tonight. Folded across the bed is a ruby-red night dress, slit high up on one side. The fabric is silky to the touch and perfect. Red's never been my style-it's bold, it's dramatic, it's deadly. I allow the stylists to work their magic on my hair, make-up, and jewelry. When they're finished with me, I'm fantastic. My bold red lips finish off the dress, and the face that looks back at me in the mirror is killer. Deadly. My phone rings. Michael.

Michael: Hey baby

Rebel: Hi daddy

Michael: Does it feel good to be back?

Rebel: Not so much Michael

Michael: Don't fret, darling, but you're likely just jetlagged. No trace, no trail, okay? Get in, get noticed, take care of your target and bail. And if you do find yourself with a problem at all, ring me right away. Clear?

Rebel: Roger, Daddy. Will call after taking out the target.

Michael: Stay on your game Rebel

Rebel: Bye Daddy (phone dead)

I summon a maid to bring my driver. The party this evening is A-list, so I won't be packing a gun. No issue. I wear a small pistol on my thigh for good measure and smile to myself. I am twenty-five, and my whole body is an arsenal. I don't need much to get the job done. Even my nails are lethal.

As I take one final look at myself facing the mirror again, a tiny hand holds a knife up to my throat, and I slowly look into the shaking person's eyes, smile before little girl will choke, turn and break her neck, turn and take hold of the very same knife in little girl's hand and kill three men and touch up my makeup, I immediately listen for footfalls and plant my stance, ready for yet another battle.

DANIEL

The weariness gnawed at me like a thick grey cloud, thick and grey, clinging to my skeleton. Hours upon hours of consecutive meetings had sucked the life out of me, and all I craved was to go home, pour scotch into a glass, and just sit-dark and I. Maybe even read a book if my eyes wouldn't get too heavy before that. But of course, Klaus would not allow me that respite. "You're going to the gala, Daniel," he'd shouted at me in the previous moment, with that voice you can't resist because he'll wear you down until you've fulfilled what he had wanted. "This is your gala. Do you know how it will go if you don't go?" And here I was. Left stranded in a ballroom that was an Emerald City but could just as well have been a prison, surrounded by artificial smiles, rehearsed laughter, and the sort of dialogue that held no sense and had a high cost. Klaus nudged me, growling like a cross parent chastising a child. "Smile." You're at a wake, not a party. I smiled, rigid and plastic, the kind that never reached the eyes but I offered it to him anyway in the hope of dissuading him from chasing after me. "Better," he gasped, as if he didn't care. "Treat yourself like human, Daniel. You are not marble or a life vase that is not moving; you are flesh. Show them that." Flesh. amusing, I did not feel flesh. I felt stone-cold, tired, still. Finally, Klaus snarled and chased me off. "Go cool off. Take a break, recharge your face. And when you come back, for the love of God, don't look like you hate everyone in the room." I didn't need to be told twice. I came into the bathroom, rested against the sink, and scrolled through emails and texts until words ran together. Thirty minutes had actually passed before I regained consciousness, my body frozen, my mind racing. I was still staring at the light of my phone when she bumped into me. The shock jolted me back to life. My arms automatically braced her upright before she fell. The overhead lights poured down, and the red silk of her cocktail dress was caught and pulled up, and the cloth clung and flowed in every direction-liquid fire that raged around her. And then her eyes. Dark brown with gold streaks, hard enough to rip me open and soft enough to cinch my chest into a vice. I couldn't catch my breath for a second. "Sorry," she whispered. Her voice... God. Low and sweet, with a sound I couldn't place. I swallowed, words knotting in my throat. "No. my fault." They didn't sound like me, strangled, someone else speaking. There was a flash of electricity in the air, sudden and fleeting, holding me to her. And then-just as suddenly-she smiled, thin and enigmatic, and vanished. A shadow in red. I was stunned, drained chest already empty of something I didn't even have. "Let me guess," Klaus sneered, standing next to me with that crooked smile that had my hands clenching to punch him. "You think she did it on purpose? Teasing the big fish?" "No." My objection had been reflexive, louder than I'd meant. I'd shocked myself with its ferocity. "And if she had. I'd have been a willing catch." Klaus's eyebrow ascended but fell. I ignored him in any case, my gaze roving the room, aching to catch a glimpse of her. My heart still was not at rest. Who was she? The. rest of the evening was agony-. gritting my teeth in grins at. things I was indifferent to and nodding at conversation, simultaneously working the room. I saw her again, with some old man who could have been her father. There was something ugly and vicious inside me. Possession. Starvation. I did not think. I acted. "I'm cutting in," I said to her, no warning, no asking. The man smiled and laughed and moved back. And then she was in my arms. Her hand against my shoulder. My hand at her waist. The music spun us around, but it hardly seemed to matter. The world narrowed down to her. "Daring thing," she said, the voice precisely halfway between challenge and curiosity. "Necessary," I answered, looking at her. "Who are you?" Her lips curled up-teasing, maddening. "Does it matter?" "I would like to know." She cocked her head as if weighing her response, then squashed hope in four words: "You won't have my name." The line ended before I could gather some more. There was a champagne waiter. She took a glass, tasted and put it on the table as if it did not matter. "I should leave," she said indifferently. Too easily. As if leaving wasn't a big issue for her. Panic congealed in my chest. "Wait-" I reached for her wrist. My fingers brushed against metal. Cold. Hard. A gun. Adrenaline slammed into me like a sledgehammer. My head reeled. No one went to a function like this armed unless they had a reason to do so. She frisked me, calm as always. Didn't jump, didn't shatter. A backward glance-and she was gone. I stood there, free hand, constricted chest, all the cells of my body screaming to go after her. "Klaus," I snarled, low and commanding. "Get the men to follow her. I want it all. Who she is." Where she comes from, who she's with, parents and foes are who, any shred of information must be gotten not held back. "He glared at me for a moment, taken aback by my tone, but nodded and called. An hour passed and the call was nothing. She was gone." I didn't tarry long at the ball, choked by my own party, worried at her absence more than the expanse of flesh ever could. Outside, the night was cool, nipping at my skin, but not strong enough to silence the storm in my head. Her face, her voice, the touch of silk beneath my hand, the heaviness of that gun-all tormented me.

Who was she? And why did I know, deep in the marrow of my soul, that nothing would ever be the same for me again until I laid eyes on her again?

REBEL

The Gala ballroom glowed in the honey, golden light which made them all richer, happier, and far more important than they'd ever been before. Perfume and wine and syrupy string quartet music wafted through the air, dense enough to drape around, sending shivers to the corner of the far side of the room. Couples waltzed to precise rhythm across the highly burnished floor, each step memorized, each smile synchronized.

I followed behind them, my hips moving to the beat of the music as if they were mine, but they weren't. The host for whom I was hired-a finance banker, I barely recall his name-talked business deals and real estate exchanges. I smiled where I was instructed to and smiled occasionally when it appeared I should. But I wasn't listening.

Because I knew it.

His eyes.

Daniel.

I was unaware the gala was for him when I got there. I'd not yet seen him, at least not yet-not the billionaire they talked about, the man who had more power with a single signature than most governments had in law. But when finally I did see him. I regretted that I had. For since that day, his eyes had not released me.

I acted dense, even when every nerve in me screamed otherwise.

My heart also betrayed me. It thrashed too hard, too loudly, though I kept on smiling at the foolish man in front of me.

Then Daniel intervened, his voice echoing through the room.

He barged in without a please, no apology, no courteous invitation-but only a voice which could not be denied: "I'm cutting in."

The banker smiled once and stepped aside as if he knew he couldn't do it any longer. And Daniel had me in his arms, arm around my waist, arm around my waist. The music came swelling up, and the world around us melted.

My heart struggled back, revolted against me.

He leaned against me, mouth on the rim of my ear, warm breath. "What's your name?"

I smiled-bitter, not sweet. A dazed smile. "What?" I panted back, moving, pulling him into my arms as though this were a game too. "Daniel's men found nothing on me, Daniel?"

I could sense his body tighten to my words. His arms held me closer against him, pulling him closer, so close we were to the obscene light of the chandelier. His thudding heart and roughened voice.

"If they could, I wouldn't be asking twice," he panted, his voice almost starving. "But isn't that unjust?

I forced a white smile and stepped back just so, to provoke him, but his grip did not let go. "Names are only words."

"Not to me," he snarled. "I require yours."

I edged closer, my lips tracing the curve of his jaw as I gasped, "Why?" My voice was soft and alluring, but underneath it was steel.

He breathed. He needed to know, though he tried to keep it hidden.

"Because you intrigue me," he admitted, as if it hurt him to say so. "And I don't care not to know."

I smiled. Low and wicked. "Are you sure you're ready for what you'll see?"

"I like danger."

"Beware what you wish," I breathed, smiling more wickedly than flirtatiously.

But rather than pushing me out of the way, he stepped closer. His knuckles pressed hard into the curve of my waist, his face set with a fierce glare that he would not let me go.

"I'm not a problem to be solved by you."

"Then talk, tell me your name," he taunted, his eyes blazing mine.

I smiled and said absolutely nothing. Silence was my answer.

We danced, circling one another the way predators circle each other, testing who will strike first. Again, his hand dropped, too low to be hurtful. I tensed-shock-not with his bravery, but with what he would find.

And he did.

His fingers followed the lip of the barrel of my skirt, the machined metal hidden within. My gun.

I stiffened, gasping. I was held in terror for a moment-then fury. I struggled to throw him off, but he was fixed, rigid, a pillar of will and muscle.

His fingers crept down the length of the gun, hesitated, glanced, then crept up higher-too high. His fingers brushed against the edge of the lace of my knickers. I lost a tiny involuntary sound, a moan that escaped from my mouth before I could bring it back in. My body was betraying me once again, burning as my head was screaming at me to get grip again.

I leaned in. He recoiled, his face impassive, though his eyes blazed with something that made my cheeks flush with heat. Interest.

"You're carrying a weapon," he stated, his tone low and questioning. "How did you make it past all the roadblocks?"

I didn't speak. I stared at him, my silence a blade-sharp thing.

He smiled on my cheek. His smile made my stomach turn, not from fear but something appallingly close to excitement.

I needed to leave.

I tried to step away, but he grasped my wrist, drawing me in, his voice falling to one that took my breath away.

Please forgive me," he breathed into me, his mouth against my ear. I could feel every word against my skin. "Because I want you and I'm not letting you go. I'll do whatever is necessary to make you mine. To marry me. To have my babies. To tear you asunder so you're mine. So, forgive me beforehand... but your island days are over. I'm in charge.".

Those words would have scared me. Would have upset me.

They shook me, though.

Music was interrupted, sparing me. I was dragged out of his arms, panting, my head reeling. I spun and I walked away and did not speak a word. He did not pursue me, but I could sense the heat of his eyes down my back.

I remembered why I was there. Focus. This had nothing to do with Daniel. He was a distraction.

Five minutes, and the victim died. No one was suspicious. No motive was observed. I was that good at what I did. The headlines tomorrow morning would be announcing it as cardiac arrest. A clean, beautiful kill.

I was on the roof, city lights before me, wine in my hand. It was cold, nipping and biting. I replayed the night again and again in my mind-the dance, his words, the way he touched me, the way my body betrayed me.

I should have been angry. I should have been outraged. And all I had were butterflies.

It was crazy. He was volatile. Wrecking. Too curious for his own good. But in some hidden part of me, somewhere out there, I was content. And I knew-he was speaking the truth.

I called the group, checked for a hit, and exited the building. If they brought Daniel in, if they even thought he was snooping around on me, they'd kill him without a second thought. I never wanted to lay eyes on his face again.

And my phone beeped. New message.

"Reb, there are people who are searching for you. They're not nice folks. Did you happen to irritate the wrong individual?"

My stomach fell. My head knocked. I didn't want to know whom.

Daniel.

I closed my eyes and sipped wine. Tomorrow will be trying.

I placed the wine glass against the rooftop railing, gazing out at city lights that burned like a thousand disapproving glares. The message still sat on my phone screen.

My lips twisted into half-smile, half-groan. If only my contact could see how real that was.

I didn't have to think. Who else was it going to be, anyway? Who was so unencumbered? One dance, one talk, and already they had their people following me. It should've made me angry. It should have made me sever all connections, fly before he even caught a scent of the actual me.

And so. I was trapped in a grin; the music blew on the breeze.

Because it meant he wasn't a liar.

Daniel'd said he'd be intrigued, obsessed, that he'd never let go. I'd anticipated bluff, words of lust and adrenalin. Not. He'd meant it. Already he'd changed.

That was dangerous. For us both.

I raised the wine again, sipped again slowly, and closed my eyes. I experienced something that I had not experienced for years: fear. My work never troubled me before. My killings never annoyed me. My life was pure, unsoiled, like a knife. I never allowed people in me.

And yet tonight Daniel had somehow invaded my thoughts. His eyes, his fingers, the voice as though he'd already claimed me as his own-it went round and round in my head.

I should have despised it.

Instead, butterflies. Actual butterflies.

I snapped my hand against my belly back and forth back and forth and tricked myself out. "You're crazy, Rebel," I smirked. "He's a distraction."

But even though I said so, I was talking to myself.Slowpokes did not make your heart palpitate when you thought about how their hands caressed around your waist, thighs, and gun as if they had the right to put their hands on something nobody would ever dare fantasize about.

He threatened because he looked at me.

Not the "mask." Not the facade. Me.

And that is the reason why I could not go.

I talked into the phone once more, issuing my caller a crisp command:

"Don't worry. I'll take care of it."

I hadn't explained. They didn't have to know. The fewer people who knew about Daniel's life, the safer. If the organisation got wind of the fact that he was besotted with me, they'd make a specimen of him. No questions asked. No argument.

And maybe. Maybe that would do me good too.

But I hadn't wished for it.

It angered me. I had never once thought about saving someone. My life had been about living, about ordering, about getting things done and melting away into the darkness without even glancing over my shoulder. But Daniel? Someone trying to kill him made me feel something, and all I could get tangled up in each other and hurt.

I leaned against the railing of the roof on one hand and looked out over cars that throbbed like veins across the city. "What in the devil's name are you doing to me, Daniel?" I growled.

There was a peaceful evening otherwise only disturbed by the growl of traffic far, far away.

I remained there until my wine was fully spent and finally the biting wind had penetrated to my bones. Before I arrived at my hideaway, my mind was made.

I must disappear.

At least for the time being.

The next day, the city was still recovering from the "tragic death" at the ball. The newspapers carried pictures of the old man I'd had taken out of play, with salacious headlines splashed across of cardiac arrest and stress collapse. Clean. Just as I'd said.

But beneath the spin doctoring, something else.

Whispers.

Rumours.

A billionaire dancing with a red head mystery woman. A woman nobody seemed to know.

I growled low in my throat as I flipped the pages. That was what men like Daniel did-assert dominance by appearing. And now, in proxy, so did I.

My phone rang again. Another call from my source.

"Reb. Whoever is stalking you-they don't give up. They have a bottomless budget."

It was him. Again. Always him.

Half of me just wanted to run. To destroy myself, to destroy myself before he yanked the string too tight and unraveled all that I'd created. But the other half of me-the blacker, wilder half-knew what was going to happen next. Wanted to know how far Daniel would go.

I remembered his promise, muttered under his breath as a curse on my flesh:

"I will make it impossible for you. I will take you. Swallow you and mold you. So I ask for a pardon in advance... Your days as a pariah are over."

I stood rigid, not out of fear, but because I was vigilant. Because he had not been joking.

And for the first time ever, I did not know if I would run away from the fires or approach them.

I was standing on a rooftop later, looking out over the city. The wine had been drunk, and there was only wind in my hair and the pressure of the gun against the skin of my leg. My heart still raced after the adventure at the gala.

I was deceiving myself. I was there for a briefing with the organisation. I was being prudent, I was deceiving myself. But life?

I waited.

Waiting to see if Daniel would appear once more, if his hand would extend even here, where I was in the dark.

The city pounded beneath me. My phone pounded in my fist. Another message.

This time only two words:

"Found you."