He swirled his glass as he stared into the fire. He was resting from a recent contract, his body still bloodied and bruised from his work. It had been a rough but quick one. A couple extra guards that were unexpected but easily dealt with...
A knock on the door stirred him from his thoughts as he set his bourbon down and stood up. He sauntered to the door and could see the feminine shadow of his guest through the faded glass as he approached. Flipping the lock, he opened the door and took a breath. There stood Amora, also known as The Reaper in the assassin world, in a long dark coat, small heels, and her silver blonde hair in a clip.
"Amora," he greeted the small female, her head barely reached his shoulder. Her grey eyes gleamed as she smiled.
"Hello John. May I come in?"
"Of course." He motioned for her to enter and shut the door behind her. "May I get you a drink?" He reached to take her coat. As she shimmied it off her shoulders and let him take it, he tensed. The loose backed halter top shirt she had underneath was like silk, showing her toned curves of her body. The skirt she wore clung to her skin, showing off her muscular legs. She was lithe but powerful like a cobra reared for attack. He swallowed his groan.
"Sure. That'd be lovely." As her heels clicked as she walked down to the living room, she glanced around, unaware of his eyes tracking her every move. She was beautiful, but extremely deadly. The didn't call her the Reaper for no simple reason. "How have you been? Work been going well?"
He struggled to focus on pouring the glasses. "It's fine." It was best to keep simple sentences, not like he was much of a talker anyway, but she seemed to get more words out of him than most people. "Just returned from a contract last night."
"Oh yeah?" She sounded farther away. He heard her throw another log onto the fire. "Where'd this one take you?"
"Munich." He turned and walked back to the room. As he got close, he handed her the glass and her scent was just as intoxicating as the bourbon.
"Ah, I was wondering who took that one. Got your prize then?" She clinked her glass with his and held his gaze as she took a sip without flinching at the bite of the alcohol. He hesitated a second to take a sip himself, semi unnerved by her prowess.
"Always do." He motioned for her to sit down. As she did, she crossed her legs, and swirled her drink like he had. "Why are you here Reaper?" Her mood changed for a split second but she covered it quickly.
"Honestly, John... I'm here on business."
That was not what he expected to hear.
"Is that right?" He tensed up. "Who would be stupid enough to put a—" She raised her hand to stop him.
"Not that kind of business." She swallowed the rest of her drink, set it down, and stood. She stalked over to him, grabbed his glass and set it next to hers. She slowly climbed onto his lap, straddling his hips with her legs.
"Amora—" She gently placed a finger on his lips. His hands instinctively went to her waist. She ground her hips into his, enjoying his slight hiss and torturous pleasure.
"Don't say no. Not to me." He grabbed a fistful of hair and brought her close.
"Never." His mouth devoured hers in a balanced dominance that ignited years of tension and missed chances.
2 years earlier*
"How do you feel about dogs?" Amora purred over her martini. The BabaYaga himself had just wandered into the Continental bar for some well earned R .
"Excuse me?" His slight southern twang made her body shiver.
"You heard me...Boogy man." She chuckled at the Russian name he earned.
"What's it to you...Reaper?" She smiled like a Cheshire Cat would hearing her name on his lips.
"Just a fleeting curiosity of mine." She took a drag of her joint. It was one of the few things that helped her balance between her kills. "So?"
"I don't particularly care for them." He took a drink. "Or any animal for that matter."
"That's a shame." She fake pouted. "I think a beagle or a terrier would fit you best. Loyal but strong headed.. a lot like you, yes?"
The bartender walked up, embarrassed and submissive of the intrusion. "Pardon me Miss, but..." John tuned out of the conversation as he downed the last of his neat rye. He saw Reaper nod slightly and her whole demeanor changed.
"Good to see you John. Hopefully next time it'll be on happier terms." John silently raised his glass as he watched her slip a gold coin, nodded and walk away. She had bought his drink.
She was one sadistic soul if he ever met one. There wasn't a hunt she didn't enjoy. A contract she didn't deny. No blood she didn't relish shedding. Everyone feared the Reaper, for everyone's time was up eventually. She hunted the assassins that fled their...'revoked' status. The ones who broke the High Table's rules: an ancient tradition that, if disrespected, would bring hell on earth.
