Black Winter Prequel: The Tempest

Prologue

Her eyes, the hue of the midnight sky, peered deep into his psyche. She was a mystery. A dangerously stunning enigma, and before he knew it, he was already ensnared in the trap which she'd set.

The devil won't come dressed in a red cape and pointy horns; she would come as everything you've ever wished for. And for him, he hoped he realized that sooner.

One moment he was in heaven; now, he's in hell as he stared at the ceiling, bleeding to death.

The moon poured down on him, showering him with beams of light.

Longingly, he glared at her face with disdain, wanting with all his heart that he could touch her one more time to run his fingers over her flawless cheekbones or beneath the feathers of her thick, black lashes. But he couldn't, and he continued to succumb to the endless torture of watching her without being able to touch her. 

She stood naked at the side of the window, calmly wearing her little red dress as she started smoking the cigarette she had rolled. She's aware of the scornful eyes loathing her— longing for her, at the same time. Nonetheless, she had long abandoned her feelings and no longer burdened herself with a conscience. The lustful wind sent shivers down her soft skin. Smoked poured from her sinful mouth and gently slipped an ashen snare.

"Your name isn't Odette, isn't it? Who are you? Who sent you?" his face closed in a grimace. Blood was slowly oozing out of the stabbed wound on his stomach.

The org gave her a name. The Tempest is now what they call her. In the years since she had started her life of espionage, she almost forgot what her mother used to call her. It was something short and pretty; she had loved the way it rolled from her mother's tongue. Her name was made of something heavenly sweet—Lazuli. Yes, her name was Lazuli. But the name, like her mother, was buried deep in the cemetery, and there was no bringing back either one of them.

"I'm the Tempest," her soft lips stretched into a smile that didn't quite reach her midnight-blue orbs.

"Hey, the police are on their way, ETA of 5 minutes. Wrap it up," the voice of her comptroller echoes on the tiny transceiver inside her ear.

"On it," she whispered.

He eyed the weapon with his dull gray eyes, his hunter's eyes framed in the frigid face of an executioner. He was dealing with assassins all of his life, but why didn't he realize that the woman she fell in love with was, in fact, one of them?

Her blunt hands were steady as she lifted the gun toward him. She's a professional; without blinking an eye or feeling any remorse, she pulled the trigger and ended his miseries.

"The Tempest, over and out."