Lady Assassin's Forbidden Desire for Her Target

Amelia POV

"Attention, all candidates," my voice echoed across the compound through the intercom system. "This is your beloved leader speaking—code name Dancer, for those who've forgotten. Today marks your final evaluation to become operatives for the Round Table. Prove you're worthy, or get out of my sight. Evaluation day begins now."

I drummed my fingers against the metal desk. On the screens before me, twelve drones captured every angle of the sprawling course—urban buildings, dense woodlands, and a mock river crossing that had claimed more than a few overconfident trainees.

"Subject 12 is almost through," reported one of my surveillance officers, pointing to the screens. The stocky Russian had been methodical, protecting his 'hostage'—another trainee playing the role of an unarmed civilian—while systematically eliminating threats.

I leaned forward, watching him navigate the final approach. Just fifty meters from the finish line. Then movement caught my eye—a figure dropping from the oak tree beside the path.

The 'enemy' landed behind Subject 12 silently, struck down the hostage, then used a swift takedown on the Russian. Within seconds, both were on the ground.

Subject 12 picked himself up, face flushed red with frustration and embarrassment. His voice, captured by the area microphones, carried clearly into our observation post.

"Bring him up here," I ordered, furrowing.

Minutes later, they escorted the agitated trainee into the control room. I stepped out to meet him, noting how his fellow students hung back.

"This was my last chance this year!" He was still ranting, though he'd switched to English when he saw me. "Damn it, if I'd known Nocturne would test something this ridiculous, I would have gone to another region. At least the other places have proper one-on-one combat trials!"

Round Table operated twelve regions worldwide, each with its own headquarters and unique selection methods. And once you were committed to a particular headquarters, that was where you had to prove yourself. You couldn't simply hop between regions when one test proved too challenging. Region 2, headquartered here in Russia under the cover of Nocturne Ballet Academy, specialized in hostage escort scenarios.

I recognized him now—one of last year's recruits. His file indicated promise but poor emotional control. Clearly, that assessment remained accurate.

"Oh, sweetheart," I said with a laugh, "your abilities are pathetic. You need a lifetime of training before you can even think about being worthy of this place."

He scoffed, his tone still laced with defiance despite the formal address. "Dancer, with all due respect, you should learn from the other regions. Real combat, that's what we Russians excel at. Who the hell takes hostage escort contracts anyway?"

"Aww, poor baby wants one-on-one combat?" I stepped closer, my voice dripping with mockery. "How adorable. I'm feeling generous today. I'll give you exactly what you want."

His eyes widened. I could see him processing what he was looking at—a seventeen-year-old girl, barely five-foot-six, suggesting she could take him down. His confusion was understandable. Most people assumed I'd earned my position as Nocturne's leader through exceptional marksmanship or strategic brilliance—anything but physical combat ability.

"You... you're serious?"

I smiled and gestured for him to approach. "Come on, big boy. Show me that Russian excellence you're so proud of."

He moved forward cautiously, telegraphing his intention to throw a haymaker. I slipped his punch easily, allowing him to commit to the swing before I spun into a perfect pirouette, my extended leg catching him in the solar plexus. He crumpled.

I placed my foot on his chest, applying just enough pressure to make my point. "Your failure had nothing to do with weapons. It was your lack of awareness—and that's fatal in any combat situation."

He wheezed an acknowledgment.

"Good boy. Get him medical attention, then resume the evaluation." I turned back toward the control room, but something nagged at me. "Who positioned the operative in that oak tree? That was excellent placement."

My staff exchanged glances. "No one assigned anyone there, Dancer," came the collective response. "We thought you had arranged it."

The unease in my stomach crystallized into alarm. I called up the drone footage, rewinding to show the tree in question. Empty branches swayed in the breeze. Fast-forwarding to the moment of contact, I watched the figure drop down, engage Subject 12, then—during the chaos of the Russian's outburst—sprint toward the perimeter.

"Shit."

Before I could utter another word, the archive alarm began shrieking.

I was moving before the sound fully registered, barking orders over the din. "Evaluation suspended. Lock down the compound. All personnel on high alert for unauthorized individuals."

The archive building came into view just as a black-clad figure launched himself from the roof. Even at this distance, I could see he'd taken down several guards. The intruder hit the ground running, using the trees for cover as he made for the cliffs.

One of my security officers raised his weapon, firing several shots that went wide. But the operative was already trapped—the only escape route led to the cliffs, a hundred-foot drop to the sea level.

I snatched the sniper rifle from another guard's hands and gave chase. Within minutes, I had a clear line of sight to the cliff edge where the figure had stopped.

I dropped to one knee, bringing the scope to my eye. The crosshairs found their target just as he turned to look back. Through the magnification, I could see his face clearly for the first time.

Extremely beautiful, cold green eyes.

I squeezed the trigger.

The bullet took him center mass, blood blooming across his chest as the impact spun him around before he toppled over the edge and vanished.

"Bullseye," I murmured with satisfaction, then barked to the arriving security team, "Search the water. Full sweep."

Thirty minutes later, they reported no body found.

My satisfaction evaporated into fury. "What the hell do you mean 'no body found'? I put an M-99 round center mass and watched him fall into the water. How does someone just disappear?"

The security team exchanged uncomfortable glances, unable to provide an answer.

I took a breath, forcing myself to think logically. Anyone capable of infiltrating Nocturne and stealing classified files wouldn't come unprepared. Of course he had backup. But the M-99 nanobullets were our latest technology—microscopic robots that would flood his bloodstream, gradually shutting down motor function. Even with extraction support, he'd need medical attention soon.

"What did he take?" I asked as we surveyed the archive.

"File BF1013," came the grim response. "The Black Friday encrypted records."

My jaw tightened. Black Friday had happened two years ago in Everdark City—a bioweapons research accident that had soured relations between the Round Table and the U.S. government. Only federal agencies in that city were still actively investigating the incident.

If someone had stolen those records, they were either from Everdark City or working for someone there. Which meant the best way to recover them was to go straight to the source. I needed to get that drive back before they could crack our encryption.

"Contact Auditor," I decided. "Tell her to return tomorrow to oversee evaluations. I'm going to Everdark City."

My security chief looked concerned. "Dancer, the Americans still have their prohibition in place. Round Table assassinations are still banned on U.S. soil."

I pulled out my American passport, the one that identified me as Amelia Colt rather than my operative designation. "I'm entering as a legal citizen. You got a problem with that?"

The next day, as soon as I received confirmation that Auditor had arrived at Nocturne, I was already making my way to the helicopter that would take me to the airport. I couldn't afford to waste time with briefings.

As the helicopter lifted off, I couldn't help but think about the last time I'd returned to Everdark City: all the family drama and unpleasantness of dealing with the Coltmans.

Please let this be quick. Otherwise...

The flight was mercifully uneventful. I managed to catch a few hours of sleep, waking as the plane began its descent.

My phone rang as I stepped off the plane.

"Dancer?" The voice was cheerful, excited. Alex White—code name Surgeon—one of the few people I genuinely considered a friend.

"Well, well, if it isn't my favorite back-alley doctor. What delicious news do you have for me, Alex?"

"Oh, you're going to love this," he said, and I could hear the grin in his voice. "You won't believe what just came into my clinic—a man with an M-99 nanobullet wound. You know those are only available to Round Table personnel, right? Please tell me the no-kill order in the U.S. has been lifted?"

My pulse quickened. This was exactly who I was looking for.

"Still in the same dingy little hole you call a clinic?" I asked, already heading for the exit.

"Haven't moved an inch. But Dancer—"

"Keep him there. I'm on my way."