To Mate an Assassin: The Lost Alphars Series, Book 1

Love is her enemy…until his beast sets her free.

The Lost Alphars Series
, Book 1

Cymbeline Kendall’s life is quiet, solitary—until a letter appears in her P.O. box. Then she becomes an Incendiary, a human chosen at birth to be trained to strike like lightning to take out the most dangerous of the Werekind, then fade back into the shadows.

She is a weapon only to be used by the leader of North American shifters. But when she learns the Alphar was unseated three years ago, she sets out to find who’s been pulling her trigger.

Kerrick Masterson has borne the burden of leadership for only a short time, yet he already feels the Alphar power tempting his soul toward the insanity that destroyed his predecessor. He has no time for the woman who breaks into his compound claiming to be his Incendiary, but his beast insists he make the time—for his mate.

In one searing, soul-consuming breath, everything Cymbeline was taught to believe is ripped away. Yet the mystery of who’s been sending her orders remains…and finding the answer could lead to all-out war.

Warning: Contains an assassin who doesn’t tolerate those who hurt the weak, and a shifter leader determined to unlock his new mate’s repressed emotions—even if that puts his balls at risk. Explicit sex, violence, and references to abuse that could be rough on sensitive readers.

To Mate An Assassin

Ceri Grenelle

Dedication

To Jessica and Sean, I wish you both a life full of love and adventure.

Chapter One

“You’re a bitch. Anyone ever tell you that, baby doll?”

Cymbeline Kendall narrowed her eyes at the rude, annoying shifter, made slightly less annoying by the fact she had him tightly trussed up. He was her captive, and as such she could understand his attempt at grandstanding, needing to feel like he had control over something during this stressful time. Hell, she even admired him for it a little. But that attitude only served to piss her off on what was already an abnormal night.

Cymbeline’s line of work thrived on order and rules. She needed to trust in her instructions implicitly, especially those issuing the instructions in order to carry them out to the best of her abilities. A sliver of doubt or a gut instinct telling her something was wrong could throw a wrench into her fine-tuned methods, and tonight there was a damn sight more than a sliver of doubt coloring the proceedings. Her instructions for the evening were clear enough, take out Marcus Grinwald, threat to innocent shifters everywhere. But for some reason, she just couldn’t do it, no matter how endlessly obnoxious and chatty he was.

She tried not to be too annoyed with her current target’s state of distress. To be fair, this preternatural wasn’t supposed to be alive for much longer if she stuck to her directive, which was the cause of her mental grappling in the first place. She had doubts before but she’d never seriously deviated from the prescribed instructions. This time however, she couldn’t ignore the plain facts staring her in the face. She’d been trained to hunt and kill since she was a child, but she didn’t perform those tasks mindlessly or robotically.

Cymbeline Kendall was the Incendiary, the prime hunter of misbehaving Weres, commonly referred to as shifters, in North America. The proverbial bogeyman all shifters told their children and packs about to keep them in line. She knew most North American shifters didn’t think the Incendiary was even real. And if they did believe the stories, they most likely pictured a muscular man with stubble, dressed in black leather and toting pounds of weapons to go Terminator on the ass of those who stepped out of bounds or went rogue. At least that was the image Irisi conjured when she first heard the tale of the shifter trained to hunt it’s own from her classmates. Hell, she would probably be proud to report back to the other kids that she knew the Incendiary personally. But it was too dangerous to tell Irisi the truth about what she did on her stints away from home. And in all honesty, the masses were at least partially correct. Cymbeline tended to favor black leather.

Cymbeline was, however, most certainly not a tall,
buff dude
. And she definitely didn’t carry around a payday of weapons. She kept her exceptional weapons at home, neat and safe in her specialized gun closet, only to be brought out for playtime. In the field she used her claws, her skills, an occasional sniper rifle, and her stiletto knives. They were slim and sexy, and sharp enough to slice through even this idiot’s thick skull.

She looked over her captive, taking stock in his condition. There was a lump the size of a baseball forming on the side of his head where she’d hit him, ever so gently, with her fist. Her naturally fast-paced heart swelled with something sick at the sight of blood matting in his hair. A part of her liked it, was comforted by the knowledge she’d taken this man out, that she was the one with the power—she should probably consider a new career if that feeling sustained. Not that she’d ever had a choice in the matter.

The man she had tied up, a Fox shifter named Marcus, growled at her, making his chains rattle and snapping her out of her musings. She shook her head quickly to escape what could turn into an hour-long daydream if she let her mind wander. Her trainers had often accused her of a lack of concentration and dedication as a child. But these most recent targets were making her job far too easy, settling her into a sort of lackadaisical attitude when it came to assignments. She’d lately considered responding to that return P.O. Box where her assignments came from, informing her superiors of the peculiar and noncombative nature of her targets. Or maybe she’d go even crazier, and use the number she texted the kill confirmations to and call the ones giving her the targets. A highly radical thought for a trained assassin—deviating from instructions.

She’d first begun hunting on behalf of the shifters, more specifically the North American Were seat of power, after adjusting to her Turn. Before that she trained for twenty-five years as a human and one year as a Werewolf, preparing herself to battle the most vicious and sadistic creatures in shifter society. Shifters didn’t always handle having two spirits inside them very well. One man, one animal. The two sides would war within the person’s psyche until they cracked and went rogue, attacking their loved ones and any innocents unfortunate enough to be near. Then there were those who just had the misfortune of being inherently evil, the ones who didn’t deem it necessary to follow the rules. Which was, according to his file, the category Marcus fell under.

Cymbeline looked him over once more and frowned, ignoring the “keep a passive expression” edict from her training. She pulled a metal chair in front of the table and flipped it so her legs straddled the back. She leaned over the edge and stared at Marcus a little bit more intently, attempting to unnerve him. If this docile and shaking blockhead was an evil mastermind terrorizing innocent shifters, then she was a harmless human in search of world peace. The man had been coming out of a damn porn store when she’d cornered him, for goodness’ sake. Evil bastards who killed innocents didn’t go into seedy porn stores, it was just light-years out of the standard evil asshole modus operandi.

“Marcus.” She snapped in his face to get his attention. “You know who I am, Marcus?”

“Yeah, you’re my fucking Aunt Mildred.” That, like his earlier statement, was also annoying and unnecessary. She took a deep breath to calm her nerves before she totally lost it and snapped his neck out of spite. “No, I don’t know who the fuck you are! Or why you knocked me out! I had a busy evening planned.”

Cymbeline grinned and pulled the plastic bag off the floor, removing one of the DVDs he’d purchased.

“Yes, the
Horny Hunks of Hungary
would have missed you dearly had you not made your date.”

“They wouldn’t, but the guy I was gonna watch them with would’ve,” he grumbled, clearly not understanding the gravity of the situation he was in. “Can you just scratch my nose? I got a really annoying itch.”

“I have you chained up on an operating table, completely helpless, so far from civilization that if you shit there wouldn’t even be an animal nearby that could smell it—”

“Lovely image.”

“And you are asking me to scratch an itch?” She stood and ran her hands through her short, curly brown hair, forgetting the strands were pulled back into a small ponytail. Annoyed that she had allowed this man to frustrate her, she grabbed his file from where she’d dropped it on the floor and looked it over for the thousandth time. It was the standard MO for the type she hunted. Evil shifter, attempted pack takeover, the coup was unsuccessful so he decided to take out some innocent lives in revenge. She’d never heard of the pack but that wasn’t unusual, there were hundreds of shifter packs across the United States, and her hunting territory expanded beyond even that, stretching into Mexico and Canada, the North American territory. New packs established themselves sporadically as power hierarchies shifted through the decades.

“Marcus, how many innocents did you slaughter when you escaped from your pack three months ago?” she asked without looking up from the file.

“Slaughter? What? No—I’ve never killed anyone!” Now he looked panicked. His sweat began to pour freely down his temples as the pigments in his face turned red with nerves. She could scent his fear but not his lies. He was telling the truth.

“Why did you attempt to take over your pack?”

“I don’t have a pack! I’m a lone. I left my pack the second I turned sixteen. Didn’t kill anyone, just ran.” He struggled in the chains, his body lying facedown on the table with his arms and legs hogtied behind him. Marcus’s breathing began to heave erratically as his anxious state heightened. “Why can’t I shift? What did you do to me?”

“Calm down, the effects are temporary.” Cymbeline thought she’d noticed something bizarre with her more recent assignments. And although the last few times the men had been legitimately troublesome, some of them just weren’t of the caliber of evil she’d been used to hunting for the past thirty years. Also, there had been a notable lack of rogues in her tasks for three years. And by lack of, she meant absolutely none. Did the Alphar think she could no longer handle the rogues? Did he think the time was coming for her retirement? The idea was preposterous. She’d been successful in every mission she’d ever carried out. Well over three hundred jobs executed to perfection. It was what she had trained for since she could walk, what she had been chosen for.

And now what? Whoever the putzes were that sent her on these missions were fucking up and sending her profiles for innocents. Perhaps it was a test, to prove her loyalty to the Alphar of North America, the leader of all shifters in this territory. She’d heard the Alphar had gone a bit cuckoo over the years. There was a small possibility he could be fucking with her, having her kill people who’d pissed him off instead of sending her on actual missions. She removed that ridiculous thought from her head immediately. Even if the Alphar had gone insane to that extent, his two closest advisors would keep such orders from being issued. The Alphar may be the ruler of shifters in North America, but there were still checks and balances in place in case the Alphar power corrupted the leader, as had been known to happen in the past.

Whatever the reason, Marcus was clearly innocent.

“We have a problem, Marcus,” she said, coming back to sit on the chair.

“Oh, you think?”

“I believe you when you say you have never killed anyone and that you are a lone.”

“Well, halle-fucking-lujah”

“So here’s what we are going to do. I am going to take you back to your porn store. I am going to knock you out and you are going to say you were mugged when anyone asks about the lump on your head.”

“Fuck no, I’m not! I’m gonna find out who you are and what pack you’re from and report this shit to your alpha—” He cried indignantly when in a split second she jumped from her chair and pressed one of her pretty knives against his throat.

“You never saw me, this never happened.” She leaned in, letting her fangs lengthen and peek out of her mouth. She brushed her lips against his ear. “And if I hear any tales of you getting attacked and chained up by a woman, I will come back for you. I will play out the evening in the way I had originally intended.” She pressed the knife harder. “Understood?”

“Jesus Christ, woman, you need to do some yoga or something. Meditation.” He panted, the acrid smell of the chemical she’d used to dampen his shift tainting his sweat. “Yes. Yes. Fine.”

“Good,” she whispered, pulling back with a pleasant smile and patting him on the head. He looked at her like she was completely mad. This was most likely true. “Now, the drug I gave you to suppress the shift will wear off in two days.”

“Two days?” he spit at her, having gained some courage back once the knife had been removed from his throat.

“Want me to give you another dose and make it four?” He gaped at her threat in outrage but wisely snapped his mouth shut. “No? You sure?”

“Gods, woman, no!”

She shrugged, unlocking his chains and gently easing his limbs back down to the table. “Just checking. Give your arms and legs a bit to get the blood flowing properly.”

After a few moments Marcus groaned, laying his cheek on the cold metal table. “Ugh, I think I’m dead. You’ve killed me.”

“Quite the contrary in fact. You happen to be the luckiest shifter living under the rule of Alphar Riddan’s North America,” she said, helping Marcus to a standing position and propping him against the table. She pulled her fist back, preparing to knock him out.

“Riddan?” Marcus snarled as he rubbed his sore wrists. “That crazy fucker died three years ago, thank the Gods.”

“What?” she said, stopping mid-swing.

Marcus saw her fist and shrank back, scrabbling to get up on the table and away from her. “What the hell, I thought you were gonna take me to the porn shop before you knocked me out!”

“I can’t let you see where this place is located, I was going to knock you out when you weren’t expecting it, making the transfer process easier for me, and what the hell do you mean
Alphar Riddan is dead
?” She slammed her fist on the table near his groin when he hesitated, making the conscious choice to raise her voice and emote anger. When she pulled her hand away there was a dent in the table. “Answer me!”

“Riddan was defeated in a challenge for the Alphar seat of power. He’d gone crazy. His Captain challenged him for the position and won. The power transferred to the Captain, making him Alphar, since he was a potential and now he’s the new Alphar,” Marcus said rapidly, all the while staring at the dent she’d made mere centimeters away from his testicles.

Why hadn’t the new Alphar contacted her for a meeting? Upon first taking the position as Incendiary she’d met with the Alphar named Riddan, pledged an oath to serve him and protect the Weres of North America from the rogues and those too evil or corrupt to continue living. She’d been told if a new Alphar took the seat of power in the country she’d be contacted for an introductory meeting and a new set of pledges, if that Alphar decided to take her on. There was a small, core group of people who were supposed to legitimately know of her existence. The first was the Alphar, leader of all Weres in this territory. The second was the Alphar’s right-hand man, his Captain, and the third was usually the Lieutenant. The mate of the Alphar, if there was one, was also told. Then there were the men and women who actively searched for the human children with the potential to become Incendiaries and chose those who would train them. Cymbeline knew nothing about them, and when she asked her trainers about the mysterious group, she was simply reminded that it wasn’t her job to ask questions. Hearing the news that Riddan died three years ago made her regret listening to that particular edict.