Page 1 of How to Kill Your Rival

1

ELIZA

‘If only you weren’t such a monumental shit-bag, I wouldn’t have to do this, would I?’

My target can barely talk with the knife stuck in the side of his throat, but it’d be rude to let him die without knowing why he’s here, in a bland hotel, and taking his final breaths.

‘Do you know who paid me to kill you?’

His eyes are glazed, and he doesn’t answer me. How disappointing.

‘I’ll tell you, shall I? It was your wife. She couldn’t afford it, at first, but when I heard about what an absolute fuck-nugget you are, I gave her a steep, steep discount. To the point it won’t even register as a blip when the police investigate. The control, the abuse, the fact you seem to think being born with a dick gives you God-like rights shows me that it’s time for you to meet your maker. Not that he likely has any use for you. If heaven exists, I’d expect a boot in the arse and you to be yeeked into the fiery brimstone below.’ I kneel in front of him, screwing my nose up as blood splutters from his mouth. God, why are men so perpetually gross? It blows my mind that I’m attracted to some of them. If there were any choice in sexuality, I’d avoid them like the bloody plague. Alas, sometimes, especially after completing a contract, nothing will quite hit like a dose of D. ‘Despite my job, my family have a strict set of morals we abide by. We never kill anyone who hasn’t earned their death.’

A single tear rolls down his cheek.

‘I… have… kids,’ he blubs through the frothing blood.

‘Maybe you should’ve thought of them before being a grade-A tool. You brought this on yourself.’

A piece of red hair escapes from my dark wig, and I tuck it back in with a smile.

‘P-please?’ The plea in his cracked voice is almost enough to shift me to feel some level of emotion. I’m not completely heartless. But the flash of those images his wife sent flit back into my head, and I harden right up. My dad taught me that death is often the best solution for men like this. As ugly as it is, it’s the kindest course.

Some might say I deserve to die as much as this blubbing twat, and I guess it would be difficult to argue it. I’m twenty-five, and I have more notches on my kill count than on my bedpost. Which is saying something because I’m not exactly a stranger to the Devil’s horizontal tango.

Standing, I run my fingers delicately over the knife handle, delighting in the way he squirms against the cable ties holding him. He knows as well as I do that removing the knife will send a spray of blood across the room quickly enough that he’ll barely see another breath.

‘You know that there’s no going back, right?’ I say, tapping at the handle while his eyes widen. It pleases me that he feels at least a little of the fear he’s spread to others. ‘This is the end of your story, Alexander, and you’ve no one to blame but yourself. The hotel staff will find your body at some point, and I feel worse for them than you. They don’t deserve it.’

His eyes grow glassier, the trail of blood running from the wound failing to slow down his inevitable demise. I grip my fingers around the knife and sigh.

‘It’s no fun when you don’t suffer for what you’ve done,’ I say, before yanking it out and moving a step to the side, avoiding the fountain of red that spurts all over the wooden floors. At least he picked an upmarket hotel. They’ll be able to mop rather than tear up the carpet.

His body jerks until it doesn’t.

I take a seat on the bed, wiping the knife on the covers and pulling out my phone. The app we use is as secure as can be. Everything logged in code and encrypted up the wazoo. Finding my contract, I mark it as done to allow the tech guys to process the kill, organise the fee, and handle the untraceable movement of funds through the accounts behind the scenes. I don’t always go undercover, but with the rise of every fucking corner having cameras these days, it’s becoming more and more prevalent. So today, I’m wigged up as this hotel is bound to have cameras in every bloody nook and cranny.

Adrenaline courses through me as I tuck my phone away and set about cleaning up any traces of myself. First, packing my kit, then wiping any possible fingerprintable surface with a slew of baby wipes. There’s no point concealing Alexander’s identity – the hotel already has him registered – but hey ho, less snipping off fingertips or pulling teeth for me. That’s one of my least favourite parts of the job.

‘Well, Alexander, maybe you can learn to be less of a twat in your next life, assuming you don’t come back as a worm.’ A worm would be an improvement, honestly.

When the room’s spick and span, less the blood spray and dead body, I right my wig in the mirror, pull on my oversized coat and big shades, grab my kitbag and head for the rear stairs. My pulse quickens as I near the ground floor, adrenaline peaking. I’m glad that this contract is in London and fairly close to my apartment here. Nothing quite like your own shower to wash off the day job. Our family seat is in the Highlands, and I spend half of my time there, but my flat down here in England is my own little oasis away from everyone else. Not to mention a handy base for dealing with my kills down south. The cherry on the top is that it’s close to my sister, Maggie, and her fiancé, Roman.

By the time I hit the street, I’m practically buzzing. It’s a bugger of a thing. Adrenaline leaves me hornier than a teen who’s seen his first set of tits.

I tuck down a side alley that leads behind the hotel, thankfully camera-free; I’ve checked.

‘All right, Sweetheart?’

Closing my eyes, I stop and take a breath. ‘I’ve told you not to call me that,’ I say.

Turning on my heel, I face the shadowy figure lurking next to the dumpsters. James stands there, looking as cocky as ever, and I can’t deny the way he makes my thighs clench. All smoke-coloured eyes and dark hair with that sexy fucking scar through his lips. James is technically my step-brother now that our parents are married, but more than that, he’s the fucker I compete against. Who kills fastest. Who kills the most creatively. Who can find the more vicious way to taunt the other. We both thrive on it.

‘You going to do something to stop me?’ James pushes off the wall with a smirk that I’m tempted to slap right off his face. I detest the way he knows exactly how to wind me up. And the way he knows that I’m at my horniest after a kill.

‘Fuck you,’ I mutter, scowling at him.

‘Yes, please. I know how hot you are after a kill.’