Beauty and the Assassin
Copyright © 2022 by Hyun J Kyung
Kindle Edition
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any manner whatsoever without the prior written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews.
www.nadialee.net
Table of Contents
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Titles by Nadia Lee
About Nadia Lee
Beauty and the Assassin
Nadia Lee
Other Titles by Nadia Lee
Standalone Titles
Oops I Married a Rock Star
US :: UK :: Canada :: Australia
The Billionaire and the Runaway Bride
US :: UK :: Canada :: Australia
Flirting with the Rock Star Next Door
US :: UK :: Canada :: Australia
Mister Fake Fiancé
US :: UK :: Canada :: Australia
Marrying My Billionaire Hookup
US :: UK :: Canada :: Australia
Faking It with the Frenemy
US :: UK :: Canada :: Australia
Marrying My Billionaire Boss
US :: UK :: Canada :: Australia
Stealing the Bride
US :: UK :: Canada :: Australia
——
The Sins Trilogy
Book 1: Sins
US :: UK :: Canada :: Australia
Book 2: Secrets
US :: UK :: Canada :: Australia
Book 3: Mercy
US :: UK :: Canada :: Australia
——
The Billionaire’s Claim Duet
Book 1: Obsession
US :: UK :: Canada :: Australia
Book 2: Redemption
US :: UK :: Canada :: Australia
——
Sweet Darlings Inc. Series
Book 1: That Man Next Door
US :: UK :: Canada :: Australia
Book 2: That Sexy Stranger
US :: UK :: Canada :: Australia
Book 3: That Wild Player
US :: UK :: Canada :: Australia
——
Billionaires’ Brides of Convenience Series
Book 1: A Hollywood Deal
US :: UK :: Canada :: Australia
Book 2: A Hollywood Bride
US :: UK :: Canada :: Australia
Book 3: An Improper Deal
US :: UK :: Canada :: Australia
Book 4: An Improper Bride
US :: UK :: Canada :: Australia
Book 5: An Improper Ever After
US :: UK :: Canada :: Australia
Book 6: An Unlikely Deal
US :: UK :: Canada :: Australia
Book 7: An Unlikely Bride
US :: UK :: Canada :: Australia
Book 8: A Final Deal
US :: UK :: Canada :: Australia
——
The Pryce Family Series
Book 1: The Billionaire’s Counterfeit Girlfriend
US :: UK :: Canada :: Australia
Book 2: The Billionaire’s Inconvenient Obsession
US :: UK :: Canada :: Australia
Book 3: The Billionaire’s Secret Wife
US :: UK :: Canada :: Australia
Book 4: The Billionaire’s Forgotten Fiancée
US :: UK :: Canada :: Australia
Book 5: The Billionaire’s Forbidden Desire
US :: UK :: Canada :: Australia
Book 6: The Billionaire’s Holiday Bride
US :: UK :: Canada :: Australia
——
Seduced by the Billionaire Series
Book 1: The Billionaire’s Revenge
US :: UK :: Canada :: Australia
Book 2: The Billionaire’s Pursuit
US :: UK :: Canada :: Australia
Book 3: The Billionaire’s Baby
US :: UK :: Canada :: Australia
Book 3.5: The Millionaire’s Crush
US :: UK :: Canada :: Australia
Book 4: The Billionaire’s Secret
US :: UK :: Canada :: Australia
Book 5: The Billionaire’s Scandal
US :: UK :: Canada :: Australia
——
If you want to receive notices about my latest books, please join my VIP List at www.nadialee.net/vip!
To RoSaSa for making me laugh.
Chapter One
Angelika
When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.
It’s a great saying. Full of optimism and positive outlook.
But whoever came up with it assumed that life only has fresh lemons to hand out.
What if life gives you rotten lemons? Then what? What do you have to say to that, First Person Who Came up with the Saying?
Forget lemons. You need to take a break, my lungs whine. My muscles are screaming a chorus of pain and my feet are demanding a better pair of running shoes because pounding along a jogging trail—even a dirt one—is still hard on the joints.
I grit my teeth and push harder, sweat running in rivulets despite the cool morning air. My body’s complaining because it doesn’t quite grasp the implication of a wildlife documentary I saw once. In it, the narrator said, “You don’t have to be the fastest animal in the herd. You just have to be faster than the slowest one.”
But what about prey that doesn’t have a herd? Prey that has to run alone?
Prey like me.
I’ve been running for eight years now, while the damn universe keeps throwing one rotten lemon after another, hard enough to leave bruises. Soon it’s going to start lobbing lemons with razor blades embedded. Why settle for bruises when you can slice and dice?
Okay, stop with the negativity, please.
Fine, fine. I shake off my morose thoughts. I didn’t move to Los Angeles to bitch about my life, certainly not in my first month here. I’m in the City of Angels for a sign, something—anything—that says I’m going to be okay. That I�
��m going to be safe…that I can quit running and rest.
A guardian angel.
The universe owes me something half-decent by now. I’m not even looking for fresh lemons. Just some that aren’t totally rotted out yet, so I can turn them into the lemonade everyone’s always talking about.
I take in my new environment without slowing down. Cincinnati was such a lovely town. A place that could’ve kept me safe, or so I thought.
My wishful thinking lasted ten months and three days.
The universe gave me a sign that final morning. I was watching TV, and the news anchors were bursting with morbid excitement over a missing young woman who was found dead just three days earlier. The killer? Her ex-boyfriend.
What I heard was: My stepbrother Roy isn’t going to stop tormenting me. He’s going to keep going until he kills me.
It’s okay. I’ve been in Cincinnati for over ten months, and he still hasn’t found me. And that’s a new record. Maybe—just maybe—he’s gotten bored chasing me all around the country. Maybe he’s even dating, although I feel sorry for his girlfriend because she probably doesn’t know Roy’s a sociopath.
If Roy hadn’t done anything by my next birthday—which would be a big deal, since he always sends me a “gift” to make sure I know he hasn’t forgotten about me—maybe I could’ve thought about something beyond running. I might even have been able to make friends I could actually hang out with. Maybe started college.
When I turned TV off and exited my half-basement unit—which I rented from a nice old lady who was supplementing her social security with the wrinkled stack of cash I gave her every month—I saw a brown sedan coming down our residential road entirely too fast. My throat went tight as I saw old Mrs. Kowalski in the way. She saw the car but froze, like an actor caught in a slow-mo scene. I screamed at her to move, waving my arms.
The sedan didn’t stop. It plowed into her full speed, blowing her out of the way like a scarecrow in front of a tidal wave, then swerved around the corner and vanished. But this time it was me who was frozen as blood shot up to my head, then almost immediately drained away, leaving me dizzy and dazed.
The license plate. The same damn Georgia vanity plate that appears in every city and town I try to run off to.
RN IF U CN
When the police questioned me, I told them I hadn’t seen anything useful. I knew from experience that giving them the vanity plate wouldn’t lead to anything. The plate doesn’t officially exist. Roy had it made just to torment me, to let me know he’s found me.
Run if you can.
Now, running along the path, I can still feel his creepy artificial watermelon breath against my ear. I shiver, even as sweat pours down my body in the Los Angeles heat.
Universe, you gave me a sign in Cincinnati right before Roy’s car appeared. That means you feel like you owe me one after eight years of shitty luck, right? So come on. Give me something. A guardian angel to keep me safe. If that’s too much, then just a sign. Just direct me where I can find somebody who can do something about Roy.
A man jumps in front of me. Adrenaline spikes, scorching through me and expelling an unsteady breath from my lungs. Is this a sign? I squint, running my shirt around my forehead and eyebrows to get the sweat out of my eyes.
The air carries the smell of stale alcohol, and then the most incredible stench. His dark, greasy curls stick to his dirt-smudged face and hollow cheeks. Yellow crust lines bloodshot eyes. His long coat is a mysterious shade somewhere between dingy and grimy, and his calf-length athletic socks were white at some point in the past.
The man in front of me hasn’t been intimate with soap in days. And it’s been months for his clothes. But as awful as his body odor is, I don’t think it’s enough to kill Roy.
“Hey there, pretty girl.” He smiles, displaying crooked teeth a shade lighter than mocha.
My lungs are still demanding air, so I breathe through my mouth, wondering whether to go around this person or just turn and jog back the way I came.
His eyes twinkle. “Gonna show you something good.” He yanks the coat open.
“Agh!” I jump back, raising my hands to block the view, but it’s too late.
Rotten lemons, and now a disgustingly dirty sausage? Fuck you, universe! I seethe inside. If I didn’t have to screen out the sickening display, I’d be shaking my fists.
He laughs triumphantly, then starts walking toward me.
I step back, my heart beating hard for reasons that have nothing to do with the morning run. This isn’t the kind of torment my stepbrother enjoys, but he could’ve expanded his repertoire.
Please, for God’s sake. Let this guy be a random pervert freak!
I run my gaze down the man’s naked torso and legs. Just lots of filthy, hair-matted skin, no tats or writing mentioning Roy. Thank God.
Apparently Roy hasn’t found me yet, even though he has to know by now that I’m no longer in Cincinnati. That’s good. Very good.
Then I realize something else. The section of the huge park this freak and I are in is secluded. Lots of trees and nobody around. At least not anyone I can hear.
I need to either fight or run. I don’t want to run, but it’s the most logical option. No matter how unhygienic this man is, he’s taller and bigger than me. Probably stronger, too, although I doubt he’s fit enough to chase and catch me if I take off.
But suddenly I’m too full of rage at the world. I have to run from somebody as pathetic and fucked up as this? It’s unfair that a predator like him can thrive, while I have to hide, run and cower when I haven’t done anything wrong.
Is there anything I can swing at him? A branch? Or is he drunk and slow and stupid enough that a kick in the balls will work?
A piercing whistle cuts the air from behind me.
Someone’s here! Maybe I won’t have to run or deal with this pervert myself. If I’m lucky, the other person will be a cop who’ll arrest this disgusting subhuman and toss the jail cell key into the ocean.
I turn around, ready to call out for help, then stumble back and literally fall on my butt in surprise when three huge Dobermans rush up, their teeth fully bared. Their ears are clipped and pointed. Spiked collars encircle their necks. Obviously, they’re not cuddly pets who want to play.
There’s no time to get back to my feet. The canine paws eat up the ground at a pace I could never match. In any second, those fangs are going to rip into me. Tremors shoot through me, and my mouth is full of bitter sourness.
A flasher…and now hellhounds? Maybe the universe really wants me gone from Los Angeles.
The flasher lets out a small whimper and starts to stagger backward.
Don’t worry, perv. Given my luck, they’re after me. For all I know, they’re Roy’s dogs—
The dogs blow past me, two hundred pounds of canine determination. I stare after them, my face slack.
One of them jumps and pushes the flasher back. He lands with a thud. The others help the first keep him on the ground, looming over him, growling and snarling. One snaps at his dick, which shrivels faster than a balloon deflating.
Then the flasher pees in his non-pants.
So. Gross.
I stand up slowly, so as not to upset the dogs or get their attention. But they seem occupied with the filthy asshole on the ground. I try to get my breathing under control, my legs shaky. The Dobermans obviously aren’t after me, so that’s good. Maybe they’re trained to only attack perverts in the wild.
“Thanks,” I murmur, backing away. I don’t extend a hand for the Dobermans to sniff. I need my hands to start my job at the café. The manager’s probably not going to appreciate it if I c
all in hospitalized on my first day.
One of the dogs smacks the flasher’s crotch with its paw. The man lets out a pained whine, his body curling, despite the dogs on him. The dog that smacked him eyes the man’s ass like he wants to sink his teeth into it.
“Don’t do it,” I say. “You’re going to get lice or butt cooties or something.”
The dog saved my life. It deserves a cleaner ass than that to bite if it’s in the mood to chew on something—not that I’m volunteering my own. I tell myself I’m doing it a favor because mine is sweaty from the run.
“Stravinsky, no,” comes a firm, gravelly command.
The dog immediately stops sizing up the man’s buttocks and sits, its rump firmly on the ground and its mouth open and tongue hanging out in an “I’m waiting for your next command, aren’t I a good dog” pose.
It’s an instantaneous transformation. Holy cow. That’s some amazing training.
The dogs’ owner appears from between the trees. He’s tall—really tall. Broad shoulders and a lot of muscle, but not in a pretty-boy model way. They seem more utilitarian, developed on a farm rather than in a gym. He’s dressed in a white T-shirt and frayed blue jeans. Boots with soles that look hard. A pair of reflective sunglasses wrap around his eyes, and the only thing I can see is his wide forehead, thin nose, flat mouth and strong jaw. His thick, dark hair’s cropped—too short to grab, just like his dogs’ ears. His expression doesn’t change to reassure me that he’s a safe person, like most men do when they meet a woman for the first time.
“Thank you.” I give him a slightly nervous smile.
He doesn’t smile back. Instead, he approaches, his movements unhurried but precise. I can feel his eyes doing a quick scan of me behind the sunglasses. My pulse skitters, and the fine hair on the back of my neck bristles with something I’ve never felt before. If I have to put my finger on it, I’d say it’s a little bit like fear and a little bit like being buzzed. Whichever, it’s making it hard for me to breathe evenly.
Swallowing, I glance down and spot sweat, dirt and stains on my shirt and pants from the run and fall. I squirm as my face heats with embarrassment. My rescuer’s probably wondering if I’m friends with the flasher. We’re both filthy, although I’m certain I smell better despite my sweaty state.