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  Spectre

  I wasn’t even a man when I took a life for the first time, although you couldn’t say I was a child. If I’d ever had a childhood, it hadn’t lasted long. My father, may he rot in hell, had seen to that. I took his life as well and that, too, happened before I was old enough to be considered a grown man.

  I never regretted it for a second.

  That path almost led to my own grave, and would have, if I hadn’t stumbled across somebody who was as different from my father as day was from night. Sarge had seen the monster lurking inside, so he took control, gave me guidelines, rules, so I wouldn’t be the monster my father had planned.

  It worked. I restrained the worst of my rage and honed the skills that had been drilled into me—theft, stealth... assassination. The broken child ceased to exist and I became Spectre, an assassin spoken of in whispers, hired to take out the worst of humanity.

  Then I was sent to kill her...and my world came to a screeching halt.

  Tia

  It’s taken a long time, but I finally had a nice, steady routine. I stopped trying to conform to the neurotypicals of the world and found my own normal.

  Normal went out the window when I walked into my kitchen and found a strange (hot), dangerous looking man drugging my new dog. It probably wasn’t the smartest thing to leap at him like a banshee and attack, but that’s what I did.

  When my attempt to wreck the vehicle was averted, my kidnapper didn’t hurt or threaten me. In fact, he told me he wanted to protect me.

  He had to be crazy. But if he was crazy, what did that make me? Because I believed him. More, I found myself seeing something beyond the rigid, blank mask he wore. He kept trying to push me away, but I couldn’t keep my distance.

  He calls himself a monster...but when I look at him, that isn’t what I see. I just see him...and I know he’s meant to be mine.

  Warning:

  This isn’t a snuggly, comfy read. The male MC is hired killer, while the heroine is neuro-atypical. Some dark material is involved—the hero kidnaps the heroine. There’s also violence when he goes on a rampage against those who put a contract on her. Also references of abuse (not against the heroine). Also very graphic, erotic scenes with minor bondage play.

  You’re not ready...

  “Go.” His expression became colder, features harder, and words more clipped. “Get the fuck out of here unless you’re really ready to start playing by the rules of this game, Tia. And in case you haven’t figured it out yet—you’re not ready.”

  He practically wrenched himself away and turned back to the table.

  “You’re such a liar,” I said, the words coming out in harsh, ragged bursts. I leaned in and pressed my mouth to his back, then traced my lips over the hot, smooth surface of his skin, like silk stretched over steel. I breathed him in. “I think you are the one who isn’t ready, Casper.”

  Catching his hips and squeezing, I pressed myself more fully against him.

  A hard shudder racked through him, then he went still again—that strange, predatory stillness that made the hindbrain whisper, Be still, freeze, don’t move, don’t breathe...

  Only that message fell on deaf ears.

  In the past few minutes, I’d gone and turned into some brazen, ballsy hellbitch with no limits, no boundaries and no sense of self-preservation.

  Without thinking, I shoved between him and the table. There was barely enough room and the heat of him scorched me. Before he could jerk back, I grabbed the cheeks of his ass and hauled him against me. His cock was a brand against my belly and I moaned as the want rolled through me.

  An answering noise, too animalistic to describe, emanated from him.

  I couldn’t hold him where he didn’t want to be, and despite his pretenses otherwise, he most definitely wanted to be right there. He had no willpower when it came to me. There, at least, we were on equal footing.

  His chest crushed into my breasts and I could feel the rapid beat of his heart, the heavy, hard rush as he struggled to catch his breath.

  Tipping my head back, I stared at him.

  His eyes were too wide, too dark.

  “If this is just sex, why are you so concerned about anything other than fucking me, Casper?”

  He grabbed my head between his hands, staring at me wild-eyed.

  “Damn you,” he muttered. “Damn you for making me feel.”

  Spectre

  An Erotic Romantic Suspense

  Shiloh Walker

  Copyright

  Spectre

  © 2019 by Shiloh Walker

  All Rights Reserved.

  Cover designed by Angela Waters

  Sensitivity Read by Kim | Salt & Sage Books

  Editing by Pamela Campbell

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.

  This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people.

  Please note that if you purchased this from an auction site or blog, it’s stolen property. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. Your support is what makes it possible for authors to continue to provide the stories you enjoy.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Shiloh Walker

  Visit my website at http://shilohwalker.com

  ISBN: (ebook) 9781495639616

  Dedication

  Although it’s going to be a long time (possibly never, and I’m okay with that) before he reads this, my nephew, K, helped inspire a number of things about this story, including Tia’s occupation.

  So, while he isn’t going to read this any time soon (MAYBE EVER)... this book is in part dedicated to K.

  You are one of the loves of my life, little man.

  Every time I think of you, you make me smile.

  And although I haven’t told her, bits and pieces of Tia’s character from some of her physical features to her outspokenness were inspired by my niece, A.

  She probably WILL read this. Yikes.

  You’re also one of the loves of my life, sweetheart.

  Love and adore you. Keep writing and keep dreaming.

  A Special Thank You

  This book was made possible through the help of numerous patrons via my Patreon.

  I want to thank all of you...

  thanks for sticking with me, and for believing in me.

  Special Thanks

  Samantha & Tricia for being top tier sponsors.

  Natalie for her generous sponsorship.

  Additionally:

  Mikaela had her name drawn to be included in the work, so... THANK YOU!!

  And last but not least,

  a HUGE THANK YOU to my patrons:

  My Patrons

  Samantha Anne Karp Hauser

  Tricia M.

  Natalie H.

  A.J. Morrison

  Anna Mae N

  Candice

  Carla

  Cecilia R.

  Clare

  Debbie L.

  Diana S.

  Farah

  Heather

  Holly C.

  Jill Brown T.

  Julia F

  Kathy D

  Kerry

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; Suzanne C.

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  Acknowledgements

  I’d like to thank Kim from Salt & Sage Books for offering her insights on Tia’s character and that of the children she teaches. Your help was so appreciated... and thanks to Erin for reaching out.

  To Pam, AKA the WONDEROUS one, my long-time editor.

  To Angela Waters for such a gorgeous cover and for always working with me.

  Also, to the team at Inscribe Digital for putting up with my scattered self and doing so much to help me with my work, especially Kelly and David.

  Prologue

  Meric

  14 Years Old

  Hot blood gushed out under his hand as he collapsed against a wall. Meric Bach tried to find the energy to push himself upright, but he was fucking tired and the adrenaline that had fueled him for the past forty-eight hours was gone. It was as if all the epinephrine had pumped out along with the blood. He felt cold and he knew enough to know that was bad. He’d never been hurt this severely before, but cold wasn’t a good sign.

  Especially since it was July in Los Angeles and he’d been running for his life for more than thirty minutes.

  Had he lost them?

  Noise at the mouth of the alley caught his attention. Almost afraid to look, he clutched his weapon and squeezed his eyes closed in an attempt to clear them. It worked...briefly. When he lifted his lids, the dots dancing at the edges of his vision had eased and he darted one quick glance toward the source of the voice he’d heard.

  Low and soothing, rich, the kind of voice he’d heard coming out of dive bars and even some of the fancier ones that he’d once been forced to visit with his father. Meric had come to dread the sound of music, because showing up at a bar rarely turned out well for him. He never knew what kind of sick shit that old bastard had planned for him when they went to visit a friend.

  Still, this voice didn’t send prickles of warning down his spine or give him the urge to run. Maybe he was too close to dying for that. He didn’t know. The voice drew nearer.

  Meric tightened his grip on the pistol, a Sig Sauer P220 he’d stolen from his father. The man was dead now. Maybe that meant the weapon was his anyway. Could he inherit his father’s shit even though he’d murdered the man? Even though almost everything his father had owned had been obtained illegally?

  Focus! His father’s voice, harsh and angry, always angry, barked at him from the farthest edges of his mind. Your inability to concentrate will get you killed. You are useless, boy! Worthless!

  “You are dead, arschgesicht,” Meric said without realizing he’d spoken the words aloud.

  “No, son, I’m not. But if you don’t get some help, I think you’re going to be, and soon.”

  Meric jolted at the sound of the man’s voice—the speaker he’d heard. The one with the low, musical voice. Wheeling his head around, he stared at the big black man in front of him. “Get it over with, mistkerl.”

  “Mistkerl, huh?” The man cocked his head, then, without warning, broke into perfect, flawless German.

  Meric blinked, dazed. “Why does some American afterlecker from an LA gang speak German?”

  “I could ask why you, an American kid, keeps insulting me in perfect German, or are you a German kid who speaks perfect English?” His gaze dropped. “More to the point, why are we standing here while you’re bleeding and weaving on your feet? Let’s go get you some help.”

  He took a step toward Meric.

  Meric lifted the gun, a sudden influx of adrenaline lending him strength.

  “Whoa.” The man paused, holding up his hands. “Easy there. Easy, kid.”

  “Why are you fucking with me? Do it already.”

  Impossibly, the man’s eyes went—

  Meric frowned, because he couldn’t identify it. He’d only ever seen cruelty, lust, anger...emptiness.

  This big man with his broad face and broad shoulders and large hands had none of that in his eyes. In fact, if Meric had allowed himself to do so, he would almost have thought there was...gentleness. He’d experienced gentleness once, when he’d found a skinny, hungry young dog. He’d brought it home with him. Two days later, his father had found it and broke its neck in front of Meric. But in those two days, for that short period of time, Meric and the dog had each other and the dog had gazed at him with wide, soft eyes. It had been a stupid mutt, but a kind one.

  This man’s eyes had that same gentleness. But unlike that sweet, innocent, helpless dog, this man wasn’t stupid.

  “You’re not with them, are you?”

  “I’m not part of any gang, if that’s what you’re asking. Come on. I want to help. Let me take you to the hospital.”

  “No.” Meric reversed the Sig, pressed it to the underside of his chin. “No. If I go to the hospital, I’m dead. I’m dead anyway.”

  Meric never saw the man move. One moment, he held the gun. The next...the man held him, pinned against his body and Meric no longer had the weapon. The feel of somebody bigger and stronger than him stirred dark, ugly memories.

  “No...” Instinct took over and he panicked, driving his elbow back into a hard gut, then he drove his heel down on a vulnerable instep. Or it would have been vulnerable. Thick boots protected fragile bones. The panic screamed louder. “No...”

  “Relax, kid. I won’t hurt you. Fuck, son, somebody did a number on you. Relax.”

  Meric couldn’t. He’d die first.

  A thick, powerful arm clamped around his neck. Once more, blackness edged in. Just before he went under, he heard the man saying, “Sorry, son. This is the last thing you need.”

  THERE WERE CERTAIN constants in Meric’s life. Things like a hard, lumpy mattress, waking to darkness, usually with the air too tight and close. He’d grown used to the hard knot of hunger in his belly and had even accustomed himself to sleeping when it was far too hot or far too cold. Rest was never easy to come by so it was crucial to sleep whenever possible. Stale air, foul smells, sirens wailing in the streets nearby—none of that fazed him.

  He came awake in the blink of an eye, immediately on edge because none of that was present.

  Instead of sirens, he heard seagulls.

  Instead of the mold and damp of the hotel where he’d been crashing, he smelled the tang of salt air...and bacon. Frying bacon. And coffee.

  His belly rumbled.

  He went to cover the incriminating sound with his hand and encountered the thick, heavy padding of a bandage.

  “It’s about time you woke up.”

  The sound of that voice had him flinching and immediately he rolled out of bed, eyes searching for a weapon.

  As the big man came around the edge of a wall, Meric braced himself. He had no weapon, nothing but his fists. There was a lamp on the table, but it didn’t look heavy enough to do damage. Still—

  “Your Sig’s in the dresser drawer.” The big man nodded to the simple, utilitarian stand by the bed. “You look better.”

  Meric snarled instinctively. “Where the fuck am I, and who the fuck are you?”

  The big man cracked a smile. “You can call me Sarge. You got a name?”

  “No.”

  “Your name’s No?” Sarge’s teeth flashed white against his skin. “Seems like a mean thing to do to a kid. No, don’t do that. No, you can have some cookies.”

  The thought of his father giving Meric permission to have cookies was laughable. Only he didn’t laugh. Meric stared at this man who’d told him to call him Sarge.

  Sarge sighed and gestured to the dresser once more. “Like I said, your weapon is in there. It’s not loaded. Magazine’s next to it.”

  “Stupid of you,” Meric said, curling his lip. “Leaving my gun where I can load it and shoot you.”

  “Well, I’m not seeing where you benefit from shooting the man who got you out of LA before the Crips got their hands on you.” His brows rose over eyes that were a soft, translucent amber against deep-brown skin. “That is who you were
running from, isn’t it, kid?”

  Meric said nothing.

  “Hard to believe, kid like you taking out the head of a gang like that. How old are you? Sixteen? Can’t be much older. What did you use? Wasn’t the Sig. It’s a fine weapon—you’ve taken care of it. But it don’t have that kind of range. Last I heard, they’re thinking Alfonse Jordan was taken out at a range of about five hundred yards. Cops found a spot that might have been where the sniper took him out. And the weapon. No prints, though.”

  He looked Meric up and down skeptically and gave a half laugh. “If it wasn’t for the rumors I heard while I was doing what needed to be done to get you out of the city, I never would have believed it. Still not entirely sure I do. You’re tall enough and you got serious muscle on you, but you’re skinny as hell. And you took a man out at five hundred yards. At night.”

  “It isn’t complicated if you know what you are doing,” Meric said, annoyed by the dismissive tone.

  “That a fact?” He rocked back on his heels and crossed massive arms over his chest. The pose caused his biceps to bulge.

  Meric couldn’t help but think how easily the man could crush him.

  “Heard another rumor. Another sniper went down a few days ago. A close-quarters kill. Guy was something of a ghost. Worked as a mercenary after he was kicked out of the German Army for...authority issues.” He narrowed his eyes on Meric. “Any of this ringing a bell?”

  Much of it did not, but none of it surprised Meric. He remained silent.

  Sarge sighed. “This man...his fingerprints ID him as Walter Kramer, German citizen, wanted by his country and a shitload of others for various crimes. His ID pegs him as an American, but the social security number, the birth certificate? Fakes.” He shrugged. “Good fakes, according to my contact, but fakes, all the same. Kramer was something of a legend, though. As I said. Top-notch sniper, handy with bombs, and explosives, too. Not very picky about who he took out. Mean son of a bitch. Then he gets taken out in his fuckin’ hotel room. You know anything about that...Meric?”