Where Death Meets the Devil (Death and the Devil Book 1)

by L.J. Hayward

This wasn’t how a guy was supposed to celebrate his thirty-fifth birthday. He was supposed to be in a pub, listening to a drunken rendition of “Happy Birthday,” or at a BBQ being introduced to so-and-so’s cousin with the great personality, or out to dinner with a slice of wheat-free, dairy-free, taste-free cake.

“As you wish, Jack.”

“I’ll endeavour to make it as painless as possible,” he said, and Ethan closed his eyes in acceptance.

“There is always a choice.”

“Don’t worry, Jack,” he said. “I shall endeavour to make it as painless as possible.”

Blade moved with the nimble, sure-footed ease of an experienced outdoorsman. How could he not, with those lean legs, narrow hips, and strong arms? Crap. One sleepless night, a broken arm, and a piddly little stab wound and Jack was checking out the arse of an assassin with fuzzy-headed bemusement.

“The money is nice,” Blade said softly, not looking up from his meticulous work. “The freedom of choice is nicer, though.”

“Truly, Jack?” Now it was injured disbelief. “I went against twenty-five opponents, and that’s all you can say? Any gunman could have done that?”

“Hah! No. You’re just a weapon slut. There’s a difference. I’m a weapon monogamist.” He considered that, then added, “Well, maybe a very limited polygamist.” “You haven’t returned my Desert Eagle,” Blade noted dryly. “It’s lonely out here and I’m a man with needs.”

The day Ethan Blade did something straightforward would be the day the Devil started knitting.

Sitting back, Blade regarded him contemplatively for a long while, then nodded. “So? What was it?” Eyes narrowed, Blade recited, “‘I don’t understand you or why you haven’t killed me.’ Correct?” Jack stood and grinned. “Perfect. Night, Blade.” Sleeping bag around his shoulders, Jack went to bed. All the way, he felt those eyes on him.

have a sudden urge to salute.”—Jack didn’t like the conclusion he was drawing.

When Blade spoke, it was quiet and cold, but aching with pain. “They called it discipline.”

“I don’t like bare feet,” he murmured ruefully. With a snort, Jack divested him of his pants. “Fine. I’m not really interested in your toes, anyway.”

Which in turn scared Jack no end. He’d not thought “mine” in a long time, and if he was going to start again, the seventh-ranked assassin in the world was the wrong launching-off point.

Then he’d

Love grew out of hearts and minds, and those things were most eloquently, most purely, expressed with the lips. In the words a person spoke to show their thoughts, their opinions, their feelings; the way they smiled or pouted or grimaced; the subtle touch of a tongue to a lower lip; downturned at the corners often more expressive than a gesture or walkaway; a bitten lip to keep in a throaty groan. The mouth was the most intimate part of a person and, as with hands, the least guarded.

That night, Jack went home a Field Leader. He took a long, hot shower, then fell into his own bed and slept for ten hours. When he woke up, it was to the scent of strongly brewed tea.