His Stolen Kiss, Her Lethal Cure

"Let go."

Elia stared down at the large, pale hand clamped around her right ankle.

The alleyway in Lower Manhattan was a black artery of the city, choked with the smell of rotting cardboard and stale urine. Tonight, the heavy rain added a new scent.

Copper. Fresh, hot blood.

The icy downpour soaked through her cheap canvas hoodie, pasting the fabric to her skin. She pulled the brim of her cap lower, her eyes flat and devoid of any human warmth.

She just got off the bus from the Midwest. Her feral instincts, honed by years of surviving the unseen margins of the world, urged her to avoid the glaring streetlights of Broadway. She had slipped into the shadows, trusting her gut over the illuminated paths. She did not need this.

The fingers around her ankle tightened. The grip was weak, trembling, but fueled by a desperate, animalistic survival instinct.

Elia slowly lowered her gaze. Through the curtain of rain and the heavy shadows of the dumpster, she saw him.

He was wearing a bespoke suit, now ruined by mud and dark liquid. He was slumped against the wet brick wall. His face was the color of chalk. Black blood oozed from the corner of his lips, washing away in the rain.

His chest heaved, pulling in jagged, broken breaths that rattled in his throat.

It wasn't a gunshot wound. Elia's eyes narrowed. The erratic pulsing of the veins in his neck, the specific shade of the blood, the violent tremors wracking his large frame.

A genetic collapse. A rare, terminal blood mutation. He was dying right here in the garbage.

Elia's right hand twitched. Her fingers curled inward, a muscle memory from holding a surgical scalpel.

She wanted to step over him. She wanted to keep walking toward the Upper East Side.

Then, the sound of boots splashing in the puddles echoed from the mouth of the alley.

Click.

The distinct, metallic sound of a suppressor scraping against a tactical vest.

Three beams of harsh white light sliced through the darkness, sweeping over the overflowing trash cans. Low, guttural Russian voices drifted through the rain.

Assassins.

The man on the ground tried to push himself up. His muscles failed him. A low, agonizing groan vibrated in his chest, threatening to spill from his lips.

If he made a sound, the flashlights would find them. If the flashlights found them, Elia would have to kill three armed men in the middle of New York City.

Her jaw locked.

Elia dropped into a crouch. Her movements were completely silent, like a shadow detaching from the wall.

She reached into the inner pocket of her wet hoodie. Her fingers found the thin, leather case. She pulled out a single, hair-thin silver needle.

The man's eyes widened as she leaned over him. His pupils were blown wide, swallowing his irises.

Elia didn't hesitate. She didn't warn him.

She drove the silver needle directly into the side of his neck, hitting a microscopic nerve cluster hidden beneath the carotid artery.

The man's body went rigid. The violent tremors stopped instantly. The needle forced his collapsing blood vessels to constrict, trapping the pain and the noise inside his chest.

He stared at her, his chest frozen mid-heave. Shock radiated from him, mixing with the heat of his blood.

The heavy boots were closer now. Ten steps away.

The flashlight beams hit the wet bricks just inches from Elia's shoulder. There was nowhere to hide. The dumpster was too small to conceal them both.

A dark, violent spark ignited in the man's eyes.

Before Elia could pull back, his large hand shot up from the mud. He grabbed the front of her soaked hoodie.

With a sudden, terrifying surge of adrenaline-fueled strength, he yanked her forward.

Elia's knees hit the wet concrete. Her body crashed into his solid chest.

He spun them around, slamming her back against the freezing, slime-coated brick wall. His heavy wool trench coat flared out, completely enveloping her smaller frame, shielding her from the alley entrance.

Then, his head dropped.

His mouth crashed down on hers.

It wasn't a kiss. It was a collision.

His lips were freezing, coated in the metallic taste of his own dying blood and the bitter rainwater. He pressed his body flush against hers, his weight pinning her to the wall so tightly she couldn't expand her lungs.

Elia's stomach dropped. A violent jolt of pure, physiological shock shot down her spine.

Her right hand instantly formed a fist, aiming straight for his throat to crush his windpipe.

The flashlight beam swept over them.

The blinding light hit the back of the man's trench coat.

"Just some junkies," a thick Russian accent muttered in disgust. "Keep moving. Check the loading dock."

The light moved away. The heavy boots splashed past them, the sound fading toward the other end of the alley.

The man didn't stop. His mouth remained crushed against hers, his teeth scraping her bottom lip. His hand slid up her neck, his rough thumb pressing into the hollow of her throat.

Elia's blood ran cold.

She brought her knee up and drove it violently into his abdomen.

The man let out a sharp, breathless grunt. The impact broke his hold.

He stumbled back, his broad shoulders hitting the dumpster. The temporary strength from the adrenaline vanished. His legs gave out, and he slid down the metal side, splashing into the filthy puddle.

Elia wiped the back of her hand across her mouth, smearing his blood across her cheek.

Her chest rose and fell in slow, controlled measures. Her eyes were twin shards of ice.

"Touch me again, and I'll let you bleed out," she stated, her voice completely flat, devoid of any fluctuation.

The man didn't answer. The silver needle's suppression effect, combined with the extreme physical exertion, finally shut his brain down.

His head rolled to the side. He was completely unconscious.

But even as he passed out, the corner of his bloody mouth was curled upward in a dark, predatory smirk.

Elia stared at him for two seconds. She memorized the sharp line of his jaw, the straight nose, the dark hair plastered to his forehead.

She reached down and pressed two fingers against his carotid artery, right next to her needle.

The pulse was faint, but steady. He would survive the night.

She stood up, grabbing the strap of her worn canvas bag from the ground.

She turned to walk away. The cold wind whipped down the alley, biting at her wet skin.

Elia reached up to adjust the collar of her hoodie.

Her fingers brushed against her bare collarbone.

She stopped.

The skin where her necklace usually rested was exposed to the freezing rain.

The Cartier chain. The custom pendant engraved with the letters E-L-I-A. The only physical proof of her existence before the rust belt.

It was gone.

Her heart slammed against her ribs, a heavy, painful thud.

She spun around, her eyes darting to the unconscious man in the mud.

During the kiss. When his hand slid up her neck. The rough thumb pressing into her throat. He hadn't just been holding her. He had unclasped it.

Elia dropped her bag. She dropped to her knees beside him, her hands moving frantically over his ruined suit.

She checked his coat pockets. She checked his trousers. She ran her hands over the muddy ground around him.

Nothing.

The wail of NYPD sirens pierced the night air, growing louder by the second. The assassins had triggered a response.

Elia's fingers dug into the wet mud. Her knuckles turned white.

She looked at the man's face one last time. The smirk on his unconscious lips now felt like a physical slap.

He took it. He hid it.

Elia grabbed her bag. She pushed herself up, her wet sneakers hitting the pavement.

She merged into the shadows, disappearing into the heavy rain just as the flashing red and blue lights painted the brick walls.

She was going to find him. And when she did, she was going to dissect him alive.