HATE ME HARDER ( a dark revenge romance)

CHAPTER 1

RAVEN'S POV:

The silencer coughs once, a soft, almost child-like, like a suppressed sneeze in a quiet library, and the mark drops like a sack of wet cement, his body folding in on itself with an undignified thud.

His cheek smacks against the cold marble floor of his penthouse kitchen, the impact echoing slightly in the vast, open space, and blood starts pooling immediately, dark and viscous, spreading out in lazy, irregular fingers under the harsh, unforgiving glow of the pendant lights hanging like judgmental chandeliers above the island counter.

The river view through the floor to ceiling glass windows mocks the entire scene, Manhattan's skyline glittering indifferently in the distance, a million twinkling lights that seem to say, "Another life snuffed out in this city? Who gives a damn?" I step over him without a second glance, my boot narrowly avoiding the edge of the stain as it creeps toward the grout lines.

It is done, lingering on the dead is a luxury I can't afford, it's the living who pay the bills, and tonight's payout will keep me afloat for months.

I wipe the dagger on the hem of his silk robe Armani, by the feel of the smooth, expensive fabric, probably costing more than what most people make in a month and slide it back into the thigh holster strapped securely under my leather romper.

The material clings to me like a second skin, black and molded to every curve and muscle I've honed over years of this brutal life. It's practical for jobs like this, flexible enough for quick movements, tight enough to conceal the tools of my trade without restricting a sudden draw or twist.

The romper's zipper runs low, exposing just enough cleavage to distract if needed, but tonight it's all about efficiency, not seduction.

The knives at my waist shift with each deliberate step I take two slim throwing blades, balanced perfectly for a mid-air spin that could pin a fly to a wall from twenty feet, and one serrated beast for when things get up close and messy, the kind that tears flesh more than it slices clean.

They click faintly against my hips, a rhythmic, almost comforting reminder that I'm always armed, always ready. In this line of work, hesitation isn't just a mistake, it's death's open invitation, and I've danced with that bastard too many times to let him lead.

Placing a call across to my boss to inform him of a successful mission,i stepped out from the room.

No alarms blare through the building's speakers. No security team comes rushing in with guns drawn, I made sure of that earlier, the doorman downstairs took a fat envelope of crisp hundreds to develop a sudden case of selective blindness.

He didn't even blink when I slipped past him in the lobby, just nodded like we were old acquaintances sharing a dirty little secret. Money talks louder than loyalty in this city, especially when it's stacked high enough to