HANS: Alliance Series Book Four

The soft scraping sound of my blade gliding over the whetstone fills me with a sense of calm.

It’s familiar.

My dearest friend.

Instinctually, my wrist twists to hold the metal against the stone at a fifteen-degree angle, five degrees shallower than most brand standards. A little sharper. A little more dangerous.

A little more my style.

Ahead of me, a yellow light blinks in the corner of one of my monitors.

I move my eyes up from my knife to the signaling screen and watch Cassandra, my neighbor, the bane of my existence, hop across the street from her driveway to mine.

Okay, so she’s not hopping. But in that strappy little tank top and shorts, she might as well be for how much every inch of her is fucking jiggling.

The work surface in front of me creaks as I lean forward, my fist gripping the knife handle, pressing the butt of it against the old wood.

Does she not realize what a fucking temptation she is?

Does she have no sense at all?

Her big tits bounce as she takes her next step, her flimsy flip-flops doing nothing to protect her feet from the cracked blacktop.

A girl like her should wear…

Nothing.

A girl like her should wear absolutely nothing, and she should spend her nights on her back with her thighs spread, her hands pinned, and her body heaving… underneath mine—where no one else can ever lay eyes on her.

I grind my teeth.

This world isn’t made for delicate creatures like her.

On the screen, Cassandra brushes one hand down the front of her purple top as she turns off my driveway and down the little brick pathway that leads to my front door.

My front door, which is one level up from my current spot in my basement.

My front door that I never answer.

Because I can’t talk to her.

I can’t let myself get that close to her.

The doorbell is inaudible through the reinforced walls of my hidden safe room, but I hear it clearly through my speakers.

Another screen shows a different view, and this one might be my favorite.

The camera is in the peephole, so it’s a perfect angle of her perfect face.

She bites her lip.

She shifts the glass container of badly made baked goods in her hands.

She reaches up and brushes her curly black hair away from her face.

I shove the air out of my lungs.

It’s almost time for her next haircut. Her bangs are a little long, hanging into her eyes, the curls even more apparent in the short strands, making her look just the right amount of unkempt.

I love them.

But I hate when they block my view of her soft brown irises, even if it’s only for a second.

Her tongue darts out, swiping across her plump bottom lip.

And I look to the ceiling.

The doorbell sounds again.

Maybe if I focus, I can slam my head forward, impaling my eye socket onto my blade, and put myself out of this fucking blue-ball misery.

“I thought you were home, Hans.” Her soft voice slides through my speakers, and I snap my eyes back up to the screen.

She almost always mutters something to herself when she stands at my door. But she never says my name.

My dick reacts, knowing exactly how her lips would’ve parted while she breathed out my name.

I’ll play the recording back when she’s gone. Watch the shape of those perfect pink lips as they open and close.

“Dammit, Butterfly.” I press my palm down over my growing erection.

Her exposed cleavage rises as she takes a big breath, then she dips down, setting the container on the worn welcome mat in front of my door.

It doesn’t actually say welcome. But it does have a sheet of carefully crafted explosives woven into the inner layer of the mat, so there’s that.

I keep pressing down on my dick as she straightens.

And I press harder when I watch her glance at my front window.

The curtains are closed, so there’s nothing for her to see, but I love that she tried.

Then I keep watching as she turns away from the tiny camera and hops back down the steps, the sunset causing her form to glow.

She’s so fucking thick. And soft. And beautiful. And the spark behind her eyes is so trusting and healthy and…

I let my fingers grip my length, squeezing until she’s crossed the dead-end street, skirted past her car—that she always leaves parked in the driveway—and closed her front door behind her.

I slouch back in my chair.

The only other time I’ve heard her say my name was the day we met.

I’d been out of town—out of the country. I was busy killing terrible men, so I hadn’t known my original across-the-street neighbor had died. She was a nice old lady who couldn’t hear for shit, couldn’t see past her front yard, and had an online poker habit that kept her away from the windows. She was perfect. But then she up and died, and her sister had a friend who had a daughter who was looking for a place, and by the time I got home, I had a new fucking neighbor.

Cassandra.

That was last summer. One year, one month, and two weeks ago.

I had just climbed out of my truck, and she had hurried across the street, already at my tailgate by the time I shut my door, and she thrust her hand out toward me.

Before I could stop myself, I placed my calloused palm in her smooth one while she said I’m Cassie, your new neighbor. And since my brain could come up with nothing better to say, I replied with Hans.

Just that. Just my name.

And then she repeated it back. Just as simple. Just once. Hans.

And I haven’t fucked anyone since.

If I don’t push her out of my brain soon, I’m going to lose it.

I reach out and tap the button to switch on more monitors.

Four across and two high, all eight screens flicker to life, their displays divided into four quadrants, giving me views of the whole cul-de-sac.

The house at the end is abandoned. And since some corporation bought the property for tax reasons, it’ll probably sit abandoned for the next twenty years. And if Cassandra hadn’t swooped in on 1304 Holly Court, I would’ve—I mean, that same corporation would have—bought that house too. And then they probably would’ve rented it out to Karmine, letting her use it as a sort of forward operating base for her self-built army.

But that didn’t happen, and I don’t have complete control of my little street because of Cassandra.

The curvy little vixen who just turned thirty, twelve days ago—making her nine years my junior and too young for me—and has been doing her best to kill me with food poisoning through her little deliveries.

Maybe it’s actually been working. Maybe she’s been microdosing me with some sort of secret government toxin. Maybe that’s why I can’t get her off my mind.

From the camera positioned on the top point of my garage, I watch her shadow move behind her thin living room drapes as she turns the lights off on her main floor.

Her form disappears, but then the windows on her upper floor light up, and I know she’s going to bed.