Loathe and Lust

Chapter 1

Copyright © by A. N (Lia) . All rights reserved.

Dedication: because she's just an amazing person who's so supportive of my stories!

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Anya watched him with uncertainty. He was sharpening his sword with his metal file. His eyes were dark and scrunched up under the floppy mess of pitch black hair on his forehead. The muscles on his arms flexed and twitched with each stroke he made with the filer and sword.

He wore a linen shirt opened a few buttons to reveal small chest hair. One of his legs was positioned upon the stool as he worked. And in this position he looked more deadly than he had been credited for.

She swallowed an ounce of fear and called in for courage and that anger that had gripped her moments ago before she was struck by his sight. Then she walked stormily at him.

"My father was a good man!" She shouted, startling him. He almost sliced his hands with the sword but he quickly stopped filing.

She looked at up at him with pressed lips and stormy angry eyes. She tried to not let his height nor masked nonchalant face intimidate her.

He was staring at her questioningly with a slight hint of curiosity and amusement.

He waited for her to say more but she did not and so they each had a stare off.

"Wench, I have a lot of work to do, what is it that you want?"

"Justice!" She glared at him, hating the fact that the nerves of her body were tuning up with awareness of his manliness. It was odd that a shot of desire for this man coursed through her body making her nerves shiver and thrill with anticipated lust.

"Justice?" He looked incredulous at her. "You have to specific here, who exactly was your father?"

She knew of his reputation and so it was not a surprise to her that he will forget the men he killed due to the king's orders. He was after all a skilled assassin. No one dared to touch him, no one dared to cross him and so she was aware of how her life at this moment was at stake.

But she did not care one bit. At this moment if she died then it would be relief. She just wanted him to feel the pain he caused; she wanted him to pay for his crimes. She hated him and hated how she was attracted to him.

"Henry der Bough!" she screeched. "The king's right hand servant. Of course you would not know him!" She began.

"Not many people paid attention to him, yes he was poor and it was very fortunate for the king to hire him and yes I understand the king was offended but it was never my father's fault but the king's own spite-less actions!"

She was poking her fingers at his chiselled chest now.

She took all the past three week's anger at him as the poking turned to punches on his chest. She was breaking now. She could feel it coming, sipping at the end of her own spectrum.

It had been inevitable at the beginning. But now as the small dam broke, she could not control it anymore. She crouched down into a ball and tears streaked endless on her face, she was whimpering sobs as she clutched her arms around her chest to repress the sudden emotion.

She was breaking right in front of the most dangerous skilled killer who lacked any emotions but icily coldness. She had a feeling he was looking at her as if she were some mentally disturbed patient whom had been released accidentally from the asylum.

But once the sobbing had seized, she felt strong arms engulfing her body and picking her up from the floor. She was too weak and drained to protest and so she let him carry her inside his home.