My Stories

Assassin (NSFW)

Ruderian perched on the windowsill, legs dangling off the edge. He sighed happily, letting the cold night air tickle his bare chest. It was a welcome relief after the relentless heat of the day. No wonder the locals wore simple white gowns, if they wore anything at all. This land was not made for foreigners like him.

He drank in the cold air like water, not worried about the multi-storey drop below. He was safe: the sill was wide and he had a strong sense of balance. The only real danger was if someone crept up behind him.

Glancing back at the sturdy wooden door, the bolt firmly secured, he thought again on the man’s words.

“Lock your door tight,” the soldier with the grubby face and narrow chin had whispered to him as he left the Great Hall. “His Lordship might favour you, but that doesn’t mean you’re loved here.”

The cryptic warning had been enough to make him unable to sleep. He was used to dealing with assassins, of course. But not ones who knew he was there to hunt them.

He rubbed his eyes, feeling the weight of fatigue. As soon as he stepped into that hall, he knew he’d entered a viper’s nest. Every face studied him carefully, from the guards to the serving men to the lord’s own daughter, a swarthy woman whose name was Melindra. She was already promised to another lord, so he was told, but she was a much stronger personality than her father, and she was determined to play the field.

Ruderian got the impression that much of the tension in the court stemmed from that.

He shook his head. This contract was barely worth it.

Others milled in the Great Hall over the course of the day, as was the custom in Yurmiris. The lord heard the cases of many folks, from noble to pauper, and others filed in and out as they pleased, watching the proceedings. As long as none stepped over the Rope, the sacred barrier that divided the lord’s space from his subjects’, they could do as they wanted.

He lingered at the back of the court for a whole day, studying those who came and went, as was part of his job. If there was an assassin amongst them, they were a true professional, because he saw no hint of suspicious behaviour all day. Nothing beyond the expected tension of a court whose heir is freely flirting with the soldiers and servants, anyway.

He thought again about the soldier who gave him the warning. Could he have been the assassin?

That thought, he dismissed out of hand. Unless he was overly confident, there would be no reason for the assassin to goad him like that. In his experience, assassins were more humble, unassuming figures, at least in public.

The bustle of the city below quietened as the night drifted on, patrons staggering home from the alehouses in fewer numbers. One by one, the many lights which danced in the hazy, hot air of the desert heat flickered out, and despite himself, he began to drift.

Before long, he was too tired to stay awake. With one last check of the locks, he climbed into bed and fell asleep.

But people of his profession, even when they slept, slept lightly, their senses heightened.

When he heard a footfall, he shot up.

He was too late: they were already in the room.

He heard the unmistakable click of a crossbow. The tip of a bolt glistened in the dark.

“Don’t move,” the voice said. It was soft, smooth. The voice of a woman, she spoke with the clipped consonants of a native.

He raised his hands. “Not moving.”

She came forward slowly, head low and eyes directly on his, like a stalking wolf. Moonlight shone in through the window, barely illuminating her black cloak, the long hair she’d tied into a bun, and her wide eyes that glinted like onyx.

“Who sent you?” he said.

She raised the weapon. “Hush,” she said with a whisper. “You don’t want to alert anyone. If you do, this bolt is going straight in your heart.” She crept closer. “Who sent me? Why, I did. I wanted to see my competition up close.”

“Who sent you after Melindra?”

The light hit her teeth, revealing the ghost of a smile. She said nothing.

“This is just a game to you, isn’t it?” he said.

He felt the mattress depress as she placed a hand on it. “No,” she said. “This is deadly serious. I don’t play games.”
The mattress sank further as she climbed up, resting on one knee.

He wriggled his hand in search of the knife at his belt, but she shot in quick, seizing his forearm.

He felt her breath on his cheek, slightly faster than a normal person’s breathing. He smelt the oil on the crossbow still aimed at his chest. Beneath that, though, there was another scent, the smell of exertion.

She tore his knife away.

“You’re playing with me,” he whispered.

“This isn’t a game.” Her warm breath stirred him, despite his best efforts. “I’m testing you. We are going to war, after all.”

“War?”

Her knee slid up his side, slowly, deliberately.

She leaned in closer, lips level with his.

“War, and the court is our battlefield.”

She rested her weight on her knees, straddling him. She slowly lifted the covers, a hand exploring beneath the fabric and creeping up his thigh.

He could think of no witty reply as her hand crept higher, and masterfully swept his belt aside.

Her fingers were cold on his flesh.

A grin flashed across her face. “You have strength. But already, I’m sensing some hidden… vulnerabilities.”

His eyes flickered closed as she gripped him gently and began to stroke.

“Always alert,” she taunted, “the assassin-hunter. But so vanilla.”

“Vanilla?”

“Normal. Simple. You locked your door, but you forgot the window.”

He glanced at the open window, the curtains blowing in the night breeze. It hadn’t even occurred to him. It was too high up.

“You lack imagination,” she said with a pout. “Such a shame.”

Her strokes went deeper and he fought to stop himself moving into her. The sharp bolt was still aiming directly at his chest, and he didn’t want to give her a reason to shoot it.

“I have plenty of imagination,” he grunted.

She teased his tip with her nails and he groaned.

A playful smirk spread across her lips. “I’m not so sure.”

He could no longer resist. He pushed forward, thrusting against her. She stopped, letting him use her hand. She narrowed her eyes.

“Go on, hunter,” she goaded. “Get it. Get it.”

He went faster, desperately seeking the sensation of her stroking him, but too proud to ask her to continue. It was all he could think about. He entered that tunnel-vision state which served him so well when he was on the job, when the adrenaline was pumping and he could chase down and stop any opponent.

This time, that state was his enemy. He was too focused on her hand. When she finally removed her fingers, a desperate gasp escaped him. He wanted to move his own hand down, but found he couldn’t.

She’d bound his wrists to the bed.

The crossbow lay discarded on the floor, but she had no need of it now. She was standing at the foot of the bed, looking at him the way a cat studied a mouse, and he realised the level of danger he was in.

“For a hunter, you aren’t very observant,” she said.

“It’s not fair, you tricked me.”

“There are no tricks here. Only results. If I get my target, that’s a result, it doesn’t matter how I get there.”

“And you’re happy with this victory?” he said, struggling against the binds.

“Not yet,” she said, and gripped the ends of the duvet. She yanked it away with one swift movement, leaving him exposed to the cool wind floating through the window.

She was back on the bed in seconds, crawling up him, grabbing handfuls of his breeches and tugging them down, exposing his legs.

He hardened again. There was nothing he could do. She had him.

Taking her time, she crept up his body, letting her hands fall back into place. She massaged him softly, a smile on her face which didn’t reach her eyes. Her eyes were deadly, and they watched him the whole time.

He knew she wouldn’t stop until she had what she wanted. This was about humiliation, he realised. She was toying with her prey.

He fought against her, resisting the urge to surrender. She clearly saw it, because she tilted her head and pursed her lips, a wordless disapproval.

She leant in and kissed his tip, her eyes still on his. Her lips opened and she took him inside, swirling her tongue.

The warmth was too much.

He could no longer hold her stare. He arched his head back and moaned, pushing against her mouth. Someone was bound to have heard that, but he no longer cared.

She sped up, taking him deeper as his hips buckled. Heat spread through him as his muscles spasmed, his whole body straining against the ropes. When he was finished he collapsed into the bed, breathing heavily.

She laughed. “I win.”

“I thought this wasn’t a game.”

She stood and crossed the room swiftly, her black cloak all but hiding her from view. Already, he could hear movement in the corridor outside. “It’s always a game,” she said.

She stepped onto the windowsill and vanished from sight, just as a key entered the lock of his door.

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