The Assassin's Wife Read online

  The Assassin’s Wife

  Book 1 of Angels and Assassins

  Nikita Slater

  Copyright © 2017 Nikita Slater

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  ISBN 978-0-9958624-6-3

  Contents

  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

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Acknowledgments

  Sneak Peek: Fire & Vice Book 7 – In His Sights

  Excerpt: Fire & Vice Book 5 – Fear in Her Eyes

  Excerpt: Driven by Desire

  Also by Nikita Slater

  Stay connected with Nikita!

  Chapter One

  Moscow

  She was an angel and he was an assassin.

  It would be impossible to keep her. Yet, with one look, David knew he had to have the dancing angel, no matter how difficult. No matter the cost. He didn’t know who she was, but he couldn’t look away from her. She was unbelievably perfect in both grace and beauty as she swept the stage. She moved with such perfection, such grace and speed she would often trick his practiced eye – not something many people could do. He would find himself watching her move only to have to search her out because she had flown across the stage in an instant. Emotions, normally foreign to him, swept over him, holding him in thrall. His muscles clenched with jealousy, knowing that men with more wealth were looking at her now, plotting ways to have her.

  Perhaps they had more money, but they did not have more power or skill than David. Russia was his birthplace, Moscow his playground. He owned these heavyweights. And he would own her. As soon as he’d taken care of business. The reason he was drawn to the Bolshoi for the evening. His eyes sharpened on a man in the audience; his prey. Unfamiliar fury washed over him as he watched the greedy soon-to-be dead man watching his dancer as she dipped and spun across the stage, her perfection impossible not to watch.

  Though it pained him to leave her, even for one night, he would. She would keep. A word in the correct ear and she would be tucked safely away, his to unwrap when he was ready.

  With one last, long look, he turned away from his angel and left the theatre to complete his job.

  “Do’svidanya, little dancer. Until we meet.”

  Tasha stared in open-mouthed astonishment at the director. He had always had a soft spot for her. Protected her from this sort of thing. Knowing that she had no connections in Moscow and that her family was poor and far away, he’d taken her under his wing and protected her from the wolves. Apparently, this was no longer true. He could be bought. Or at least intimidated.

  It was common for the dancers to be ‘bought’ by rich patrons of the Bolshoi. A disgusting practice, but one that many dancers actually embraced. They would vie for the attentions of the richest and most handsome. Unfortunately, there were a few, like Tasha, who saw the practice as little more than a form of slavery.

  She’d been lucky though. When she’d been a young, impressionable dancer, Sergei, the director, had taken her and kept her out of harm’s way as best he could. He’d made up a story that kept the predators at bay. He would tell them that she was already taken by a very powerful man who insisted she must remain untouched. There were often whispers amongst the other dancers, as well as the patrons, as to whom her mysterious benefactor could be. She was a lovely girl, not out of the ordinary, or so she thought, but something about the story must’ve rung true enough that no one dared question the integrity of his word. Until now.

  She stared up at Sergei, dismay written across her face. “But, sir!” she cried imploringly. “I-I… what shall I do? What shall I say to him? This cannot be. What is his name?”

  He shook his head sadly at her. She was one of his best dancers and he feared that he would soon lose her. There was something in the way the man spoke of her, when enquiring, that told him Tasha would soon be taken away for good. Sergei was not surprised. She was stunning. With her rich, dark reddish-brown hair, deep blue eyes and her small, graceful body, there was just something about her that was spell-binding. She told a story with the simple movement of a hand or her chin. When she danced, it was magic. What was amazing, was that it took someone this long to see through their weak story and scoop her up.

  “He calls himself David.”

  “Just… David?” she asked, frowning.

  “He is very powerful,” Sergei informed her with a shrug.

  “But I don’t understand, you don’t know anything about him?” she asked, confused. Sergei usually knew about everyone.

  “Not much,” Sergei acknowledged with a sigh. “But three of the most powerful men in Russia obviously do. And all three of them called me this morning to inform me that I was to hand over my prima ballerina to this man or suffer very severe consequences.”

  Tasha felt the breath rush from her lungs and heat suffuse her face. Her legs began to shake. She felt them collapse underneath her. Sergei grabbed her before she could hit the floor. He led her to a bench and eased her onto the surface, taking her icy hands in his and rubbing warmth into them. She looked up at him, desperation written across her features. It was happening to her, the thing she’d feared for so long. She had achieved her dream of dancing on the stage as principal only to have it dirtied by the dark, underbelly of the dancer’s flesh market. Why was life so unfair?

  “I h-hate this David, whoever he is!” she snapped, gulping back tears of misery.

  “Hush, child. Do not upset yourself,” Sergei said, stroking the back of her wrist. “I have done what I could to keep you safe over the years. It hasn’t been easy. You are a lovely young woman, talented and constantly in the spotlight. But I also have powerful friends… perhaps there is something I can do. I will do what I can to make sure you are safely returned to my theatre. Alright?”

  She nodded, sniffling. “Yes, sir.”

  “That’s a good girl. You must be patient and you must be very obedient to this man, Natasha. Do you hear me?” Sergei said sternly, taking her chin in his hand to make sure she was listening carefully. She nodded slowly. He hesitated, as if weighing his words carefully. “Though you have learned your place here, you still have a spark. You have passion in you, child, a temper. We can see it when you fly upon the stage, letting it loose for your audience. You must, at all costs, keep it hidden from this David. I have heard some things about him.” He weighed his words carefully, his worried eyes hovering over her features. “You must promise to keep yourself safe and not antagonize your new… this man.”

  Tasha nodded solem
nly. “Yes, sir, I promise.”

  Twenty felt very young all of a sudden. In dancing years, she was becoming mature, but as a woman, she still had many things to learn. Both Sergei and her time spent as a principal dancer at the Bolshoi had insulated her from the outside world. She leaned forward and gave him a quick hug. He had become like a father or an uncle to her when she’d left home at the age of fourteen. For six years now, she had been solely under his protection and guidance.

  Now, she was facing the terrifying prospect of being sold to a stranger.

  To David.

  Chapter Two

  Tasha tried not to stare around her in wide-eyed astonishment. She had never been to such a place before. She rarely ate in restaurants, but sometimes the dancers would go out on weekends if their workout schedules allowed. She glanced guiltily at the plate in front of her. She definitely never ate anything so rich as the seafood linguine that was tempting her to take a bite. She pushed it with her fork and stole another nervous glance sideways at the empty tables surrounding hers. It seemed very odd. The entire restaurant was filled with people, except for the tables all around theirs. Hers and… David’s.

  She took a breath and allowed her gaze to slowly roam from the white tablecloth toward the strong hand that rested next to his plate. David. That was as far as she would raise her eyes. His fingers were long, perfectly tapered and masculine. The nails were short, but not manicured as she might expect from a very rich man. His skin was tanned a few shades darker than hers. Not surprising considering Sergei’s gruelling schedule rarely allowed for his dancers to see the light of day. David’s hand was so much bigger than hers. He was so much bigger than Natasha. He was taller than the male dancers she had grown used to, but just as muscular. She could see the slabs of muscle as they bunched and released under the fine fabric of his suit. She was used to assessing such things. She needed to know if her partner could lift and carry her across a stage. She knew at a glance that this man could do whatever he wanted to her. The thought sent a shiver of fear slithering down her spine.

  She had yet to fully look into his face since he’d picked her up from the theatre and brought her to this restaurant. Partially because she was afraid and partially because he always seemed to be obscured by shadows. But she felt the heat of his gaze scorching her skin. He hadn’t removed his eyes from her since the moment he’d arrived to collect her, except to drive his fancy car.

  “You haven’t touched your food, Natasha,” he observed, his deep quiet voice sending another shiver down her spine.

  His flawless Russian told her he was likely native born, though she couldn’t place the region. She had been born and raised until the age of fourteen in a poor farming area. Sergei had insisted on speech lessons to perfect her dialect for city life and so she could learn other languages. She shook her head slightly, her hair swaying around her face with the action, and kept her eyes on David’s hand. For some reason, she felt safer knowing where his hands were.

  “Natasha,” he said patiently, his voice smooth and clipped. “You will eat your food and drink your wine.”

  She held her breath and refused to move for a moment, her eyes glued to his hand. When his fingers twitched she finally reached for her fork. He seemed to relax slightly. He picked up his own fork and when she wrapped a noodle around her utensil, he did the same. He watched every move she made, like some kind of predator, ready to strike if she made one wrong move. She chewed and swallowed, barely tasting, Sergei’s words echoing in her head – you must be very obedient with this man.

  She ate several more bites, feeling the burn of his gaze upon her flesh until finally she couldn’t continue. She let the fork fall to her plate and reached for the wine glass. He had chosen a red wine of some kind, she didn’t know what variety. She didn’t care. She took a big gulp. Fire burned down her throat and into her belly making her eyes water unbearably. She began coughing and spitting up wine.

  She reached for the napkin in her lap and slapped it against her mouth, gasping, “Yuck!” Involuntary tears welled up and began to spill over.

  David was beside her in an instant, making matters even worse. She stiffened in her chair as he crouched next to her, taking her fragile wrist in his large hand. He tugged her hand away and turned her face toward his until she was forced to look into his face for the first time. Deep blue eyes clashed with obsidian and the floor felt like it was dropping out from beneath her. She swayed in her chair. She blinked. Another tear escaped from her eye.

  He reached up and captured it on his fingertip. She sat, trapped helpless in his dark hold while he rubbed the tear between his fingers, watching her intently, a small crease between his eyebrows as though he were trying to figure out a puzzle. This thought frightened her because she didn’t think David liked puzzles. He seemed too much in control of himself and his surroundings. What if he didn’t like her? Would he return her safely to the Bolshoi and never look back? She hoped so.

  His hair was lighter than hers, ash brown and well-groomed. He had thick, darker brown eyebrows over eyes that were so dark they could easily be called black. Grooves were etched between and around his eyes, as though he frowned often in concentration. He had a serious face, with strong cheekbones, forehead and jaw. Scars marred his features. One across the bridge of his nose, ending just under his eye. Another bisecting his chin, and yet another next to his lips, which were hard and a little thin, as though he didn’t smile. Ever. He was not a handsome man, but definitely not ugly. She thought he might be around his mid-thirties. Maybe fourteen or fifteen years older than her.

  “You don’t like the wine?” he asked, concern lacing his quiet tones. His finger caressed her smooth cheek sending a shiver of sensation over her skin.

  She glanced down at her lap where her fingers twisted together. “I d-don’t think so. I’ve never tried it before. It hurt my throat.”

  He chuckled, putting lie to her thought that he never smiled, though it was a quick, barely-there smile. He eased back dropping his hand from her face. She heaved a tiny sigh of relief. Though his touch was not unpleasant, she preferred when he didn’t touch her. It made her think of the stories the other girls told of what the rich patrons expected the dancers to do when they got them alone. She desperately hoped David’s intentions were more honourable, though Sergei had told her to expect the worst.

  “Then I ordered the wrong variety of wine for your first time,” David told her. He turned to wave for their waiter.

  First time, first time… the words echoed ominously in her head as she thought of all the first times she was being subjected to by this man. First date, first time alone with a man, first sip of wine. Of the other ‘firsts’ he would possibly force upon her. She knotted her fingers in her lap and dropped her eyes, trying to calm her breathing while the waiter hurried to do David’s bidding.

  Her wine was quickly replaced with something else. At David’s urging she cautiously sipped the rich, amber liquid. This time it was much sweeter on her tongue, almost like honey. It slid easily down her throat. Instead of burning it made her feel pleasantly warm. She carefully placed the wineglass back on the table, glanced toward David’s hand and attempted a small smile.

  “It is much better, thank you,” she whispered.

  He drew in a sharp breath. The air around them seemed to thicken and the smile slowly slid from her lips. She sat stiffly under his perusal. She didn’t like it when he stared at her, and yet, that’s all he seemed to do. She wanted to frown and demand that he stop looking at her, but Sergei’s voice kept echoing through her head. She had no idea who this man was, or who his connections were. She could not get herself into trouble. She could never forget that she was vulnerable and lived in a place where she could easily disappear. No one would find her. No one would even know to search for her, except Sergei. And he knew better than to try.

  She picked at the rest of her meal, unable to actually stomach any more of the rich food. She knew she would just have to purge what she’d eate
n later anyway. This type of food could not stay in her stomach, corrupting her system. She couldn’t dance on such heavy food and she had a show tomorrow night. Competition among dancers was high. She had to look a certain way, act a certain way and dance a certain way. She had to be the best if she was to stay on top.

  She suspected David’s sharp eyes missed nothing as she pushed the food around her plate without touching another morsel to her lips. Yet he said nothing, eventually escorting her from the restaurant. She breathed easier when he took her straight back to her dormitory and escorted her to the front door. Perhaps she had been too boring for him! She was not sexy and experienced like many of the other dancers. She lived, ate and breathed the dance. Nothing more, nothing less. It did not make for good company. This, combined with Sergei’s advice to reign in her personality quirks may have put the man off. Good news!

  He took her hand in his and placed a quick kiss against the back of her wrist, his dark eyes on her face as he caressed her. Warmth flooded her cheeks and Natasha quickly snatched her hand back as soon as he released her. She could feel the burn where his lips had been. She kept her eyes averted, but the image of his thin, hard lips with the scar at the corner played in her imagination. She absently rubbed the tingle away with the fingers of her other hand.

  “Until tomorrow, little dancer,” he said quietly.