Misted (Team Zero #5) by Rina Kent

The three of them watch me as if I’ve grown two more heads. Maybe I have. I’m on the edge of breaking down.

“It’s not a rumour." Shadow swirls the liquid in the bottle. "Celeste is keeping Hades company and told me that he had a tip about who made Nero disappear. If he finds whoever that is, Hades will butcher them alive."

My knees buckle, and I fall like a dead weight on the chair.

A presence at the entrance pulls my attention. I raise my head and stare at Hawk.

Even without saying a word. Both of us must be thinking the same.

Our nightmare is back.





7





Hawk





I want you to feel as broken as I do. I need you to struggle with the mere effort of breathing so you know what’s it’s like to live but not be alive.



Whispers fill my head. Hushed, unintelligible, and fucking persistent.

My right hand tightens on the rifle as I screw my eyes shut.

I alternate breathing between my nose and my mouth, but the whispers continue slamming against the walls of my head, taunting, rising, driving me fucking crazy.

Maybe I am crazy.

That torture is ought to drive anyone towards the deadly edge of insanity. No strong will or childhood training could’ve saved me from that. It’s not the physical torture or the damn withdrawal that fucked up my head, it’s the slideshow that Hades kept showing me non-stop. Over and over again.

I could’ve endured the physical torture for eternity, but the mental one? It fucked me up.

I let go of the rifle and slide to the ground with my back against the half-built railing. The night’s cool air draw goosebumps over my sweaty arms and my nape.

After hours of running with Shadow, I still have so much fucking energy to spare. It pulses under my skin like a trapped animal growling and clawing its way out.

Usually, I’d be covered in Moondust in Afghanistan, Syria, or Yemen’s vast deserts as I take down an insurgent after the other like they’re pieces of chess. It wasn’t a perfect life, but it was my fucking life. The life I chose so I can breathe again. The Middle East’s harsh sand and its excruciating heat are less suffocating than the air here.

The whispers continue their assault as if about to explode my head from within. It’s become impossible to concentrate on a target. The moment I touch my rifle, these low murmurs drive me fucking nuts.

I pull my hands in front of my face and stare at the angry cuff marks on my wrists. Being a hitman — and a sniper at that — I did everything to protect my hands.

Until the torture ruined everything.

During my captivity in The Pit, I dangled from the ceiling for hours on end, my cuffed wrists the only thing holding me. The doctor I saw after I got out, one of the second generation assassins, said that my physical injuries aren’t handicapping. It’s only mental.

Does it matter if I already feel handicapped?

No way in fucking hell will I be able to shoot as efficiently again. My hands, my only asset, are becoming useless. The other day, I started helping Poison’s Team, but I missed, not once, but fucking twice. I had to get close and use a gun to finish the job.

That’s a first, but it won’t be the last.

I’m losing it all.

Everything.

As if that isn’t enough, Nero chose this particular fucking moment to announce his resurrection.

Not that he is alive, but if Hades finds out what happened that day, I’ll be hunted down and killed by The Pit’s horde of assassins. Worse, Hades will take me back and torture me all over again.

This time, I’ll lose whatever sanity I have left.

Still, I can’t fucking leave. Not anymore.

Not when she is here.

I position myself in a sitting position and stare through the hole of my rifle. The light in Mist’s room casts a shadow on the outline of her back as she leans towards the side table by her bed. Since I have a side view, I make out that she’s rummaging in the drawer.

Her breasts spill against the dark blue of her satin gown, creating a striking contrast against her pale flesh. My dick strains against the zipper of my jeans. I glare down at the bloody traitor. He never got the memo that I hate her. The more I focus on her breasts dangling like forbidden fruit, the more I harden like a teenage boy.

For this woman, I’ve become a stalker and a voyeur and… something else.

She sits on the edge of the bed, hugging what looks like a book to her chest. Her long bare legs stretch in front of her, the satin nightgown barely reaches the middle of her thighs.

Still holding the book to her chest, Mist reaches the other hand under her nightgown. My eyeball glues to the rifle’s hole as her hand moves beneath the cloth. I don’t see it, but it doesn’t take imagination to conclude what she’s doing.

My breathing deepens as she closes her eyes, her head tipping back and lips parting in a small ‘O’.

The raging hard-on becomes painful and my grip tightens on the railing.

Fuck it.

I undo the buttons of my jeans with quick, jerky movements and fist my throbbing cock.

My gaze remains on Mist who’s now lying on the bed, the book must’ve been thrown out of view. She sticks a forefinger in her mouth as her other hand works faster beneath her gown.

I strangle my cock and jerk it up and down in angry, harsh strokes. I don’t allow myself to feel the pleasure or to enjoy any of this. I might still want her, she might be the only woman who can get my dick as hard as a rock, but she’s also the same woman who destroyed everything.