The kiss before the kill
781 Words
The mansion was silent the morning after my father died—too silent. No condolences. No tears. Just hollow echoes bouncing off polished marble floors that once trembled with his voice.
They said it was a heart attack.
But I knew better.
So did Ronan.
He stood by the floor-to-ceiling window of the west wing like a statue carved from sin, backlit by the dying moonlight. His jaw was tight, one hand clutching a half-lit cigarette, the other clenched at his side like he was holding onto a truth he wasn’t ready to share.
“You were with him last night,” I whispered, my voice hoarse from crying—or screaming, I couldn’t remember which.
Ronan didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
“I was supposed to be,” he said finally. “But your father changed the plan. Said he needed space.”
“From you?”
“From everyone.”
I stepped closer, my robe falling open just enough to reveal the lace slip beneath. I didn’t fix it. Not this time. I didn’t want to be innocent. Not around him.
“Do you think he knew?” I asked.
Ronan turned then, slow, heavy, his eyes landing on me like a weapon trained and waiting.
“He knew he was going to die,” he said. “I just don’t think he expected to die that way.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat.
“What way?”
Ronan tossed the cigarette into a crystal ashtray. Walked toward me. Every step he took told me I wasn’t going to like the answer.
“They found traces of digitalin in his whiskey.”
My knees buckled.
Poison.
Someone had poisoned him.
“And the security footage?”
“Wiped. Clean.”
I stared at him. “You’re telling me someone murdered my father in his own home, in his own study, while you were on the property—and there’s no footage, no suspects, no nothing?”
“I’m telling you,” he said, voice low and lethal, “someone played us. And they’re not done.”
He closed the space between us. I could feel his breath on my lips, smell the faint trace of gun oil and cologne that clung to his skin. His hand brushed against mine—just barely—but it felt like a promise.
“I’m not going to let anything happen to you,” he said. “Even if it means burning this whole city down.”
That should’ve comforted me.
But the way he said it—so calm, so certain—made my blood turn to wildfire.
“I don’t need protection,” I snapped. “I need revenge.”
His eyes darkened.
“Then we’re the same.”
And just like that, I was in his arms. Pulled, pinned, devoured in one swift motion that left no room for breath. His lips crashed into mine, hot and punishing, like he was claiming what he knew he could never keep. I melted into him, fingers digging into his shirt, tasting danger and desperation in every kiss.
It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle.
It was war.
And I didn’t care who lost.
We broke apart when the door slammed open.
A tall woman stepped into the room wearing a velvet trench coat and stilettos like daggers. She was beautiful—dangerously so—with lips blood-red and a smirk that said she knew every secret we’d ever tried to bury.
“Sorry to interrupt your grief s*x,” she said casually. “But I believe I’m owed an introduction.”
Ronan stiffened.
“Isadora,” he said slowly, “meet—”
“Delphine,” the woman interrupted. “Ex-CIA. Also your father’s first wife.”
I blinked.
“What?”
Delphine smiled, sauntering closer. “Didn’t know, did you? Your daddy liked to keep secrets. Like the one where he married a government assassin and faked her death ten years ago.”
Ronan’s jaw locked. “What are you doing here?”
Delphine arched a brow. “I’m here to collect what’s mine. Starting with answers. Because your girl here?”—she nodded at me—“wasn’t the only one left in his will.”
A chill crept down my spine.
Ronan stepped in front of me instinctively, shielding me like a wall of muscle and fury.
But it was too late.
The game had begun.
Delphine tossed a manila envelope onto the coffee table. It slid across the glass and stopped at my feet. My name was written across the front in my father’s handwriting.
I stared at it.
Frozen.
It was sealed with wax.
Blood red.
- Writer
