The Truths That Deceive Special Edition - Hardback

My beautiful captive played the wrong hand when she tried to escape me…
My latest assignment should have been easy. Find ex-hacker/rogue CIA agent Calista Price and hand her over to the US government for treason. But Calista is nothing like the desk jockey I expected. She’s a wild card, fiery, seductive, and she feeds into every one of my primal play urges.

Chasing her is addictive. Wrong. She’s young enough to be my daughter, and my mission is to capture her, not ravage her.

None of that stops me from craving her at my deepest levels. Calista infects my blood. She’s got an appetite for the same dirty, twisted games that I do. And she loves being hunted.

But time is short with my shiny new toy. She’s a target for more than just the CIA and others are closing in fast. At the end of the line, there are only two outcomes for Calista.

Prison…or death.

As we fall deeper into our dark, depraved games, I know I can’t give her up. I want all of her - body, mind, and blackened soul that matches my own.

And I’ll destroy anyone who tries to take her from me.

Fans of dark billionaire, secret society, hate to love, and age gap tropes will devour book four in the OBSIDIAN KNIGHTS SECRET SOCIETY series by USA Today bestselling author Kristen Luciani!

The bullet whizzes by, the whine of its flight and burn of heat scorching my head, a blast of reality that pushes my adrenaline up high as I weave across the stone floor in the old Scottish castle. Shouts and footsteps behind me get louder, heavier.

Closer.

I dive behind an overturned heavy wooden table, slide out the empty clip of my Sig, and grab a new one, slamming it into place. 
One thing’s for sure. I’m not about to fucking die in Scotland while on a much-needed vacation.

“Got one,” a thick-accented voice yells out. “Another one of those fuckers went through here.”

Shit. There’s only me and Reaper inside the castle. 
If I have to go back and save his sorry ass…
My pocket buzzes exactly twice. 
Reaper’s down, but not for long. I don’t bother texting him back. There are girls in here, down in the dungeon slash sex video room. And I’d prefer to find them and pick off the Bolivian dickheads holding them captive—apart from their leader, who’ll no doubt be down with the girls—without having to arrange the rescue of someone Reaper’s size.
I count. 
Every step. 
My heart pounds, ears ringing from the cracking of bullets. 
I ignore the searing pain and the blood on my arm—super glue will take care of that. Instead, I slow my breathing. 
It won’t take them long to work out where I am, these fucking mafia wannabes who’ve been making major waves in the sex slave markets. 
The wrong sorts of waves. 
They’re upsetting UR Fantasies, one of my clients back in the States, so I’m here to take them out. And if I’m being honest, I fucking hate relaxing on vacation. I’d much prefer to let off steam by destroying the evil bastards who buy, sell, and torture innocent young women.
Reminds me of my old CIA days.
They’re not shooting. Yet. There are four of them in here by the sounds of it. The room’s huge, and since we caused a hell of a lot of carnage in here earlier, there are plenty of places to hide. 
So either they’re conserving bullets or they think I’m easy enough to find. 
I wait. Unmoving, gun in my outstretched hand, ready to fire. 
Glass crunches nearby and a single shot goes off. Someone hisses something in a Balto-Slavic dialect, something about being the son of a pig in shit. 
Reaper will pick off the ones in the back of the castle, the ones who might still be in hiding and waiting for a chance to escape. Then he’ll make his way back to me. I don’t know how many are outside this room, and since this is my last clip, I wait until they get closer to take my shot. 
I’m betting Reaper took a dive to play dead. An actual dive. In the moat. Because this place has a motherfucking moat. 
Ragged breathing gets closer. My finger tightens around the gun handle. 
I spring up from my spot and shoot the heavy breather behind me. Then I shift my arm and fire off another shot at the one directly behind him before slamming the gun’s butt into a third guy’s face. He groans and grapples with his gun and I turn him into a shield to take the bullet from the fourth dickhead who manages to squeeze off a couple of shots. 
Dropping the bullet-torn body, I hold out my gun, my finger ready to press the trigger when a bullet rips through his skull from the back, splattering the area in front of him with bits of face and brain matter. He crashes like a block of cement, smashing against the ground. 
Reaper grins at me.
Dripping wet. 
“You’re a psychopath,” I say.

He shrugs, snatching a gun from the now faceless dead guy. “I deal in death for money.” Then he stands up. “More mercenary with psychopathic tendencies.”

“All clear?”

“All that I could see.” Which means he cleared the grounds and rooms of human life. 
I grin. “Wanna rescue some girls and torture information out of a low-life scumbag?”

“Smith.” He puts a hand on his heart. “I thought you’d never ask.”

* * *

The adrenaline lingers. Days after and it still lingers. Maybe it’s fucked up to have a spring in my step because of a murder spree and a rescue done right. 
The only thing that still bothers me is the Bolivian leader of the cell we just took out. He managed to hide with some rich fucks who were rutting the young girls while Reaper and I massacred his crew. And when we finally got to him, the bastard had little to say. 
I sip my scotch and sit back in my seat at the modern low-lit bar that overlooks the glitter of new and old London. 
Well, he had a lot to say. Just not about the things I wanted. I didn’t go into that castle of death for my goddamn health. I went because I wanted information. And when I dropped the name of one of the assholes who was going to rape, use, and exploit my daughter after he kidnapped her, the leader clammed up fucking fast. 
That man’s long dead, but it makes me wonder about the sticky little threads of the Collectors. 
The sex trade arm of their operation. How far reaching it actually is. 
Rich, depraved assholes like the Collectors, people who are as rich as I am and even richer in some cases, they usually look for higher-end trophies. They don’t tangle with low-life brutes like the Bolivians in a deserted and remote Scottish castle. They like, as their name suggests, to collect things. 
Best of the best, rarest of the rare. And they’re sick and twisted in ways that not even a man like Reaper could be. He’s one of the few outlier Obsidian Knights. A loner. His appearances are few and far between at the Knight headquarters in New York, but he’s loyal, a man who’ll kill for any of his fellow Knights without blinking or asking why. 
Reaper likes to kill. I don’t know if he gets off on it or if he just likes the high that each contract killing gives. One thing I know is he’ll carry out a kill order for anyone, as long as they’re guilty by Knight standards. 
And also as long as he gets his paycheck. 
I’m sure a guy like Reaper has had his fair share of non-Knight ordered kills, too. He’s like Mercer Vale in that way. Holds many of his secrets close to his bones. 
I shift my thoughts in another direction, because Mercer makes me think of Orion, and Orion’s now tangled up with my daughter. 
Maybe I’ll extend this vacation and miss her wedding. Not that she wants me there, anyway. I could—
The shadow that falls over me stills and I tap my hand on the glass snifter, a conceit I like when it comes to expensive liquor. I don’t look up. “You’re late.”

“Had things to do.”

“Next time I’m here, we meet at the League’s club.”

Enver laughs. “Can’t stand that place.”

Of course he can’t. I knew him long before I became a Knight. Same with Reaper and Orion. Some worlds are pretty damn vast and tiny all at the same time. 
Enver hates the trappings and what they represent, the type of people who give places like the League the veneer of respectability. People who never worked a day in their lives. 
I like the League because it reeks of money, old money, the kind that comes drenched in with class and stained with secrets. 
In places like the League, secrets are discussed and aired, and all kinds of information is there for the taking. It’s a gold mine where I can find exactly what I’m looking for.

“I’m assuming this isn’t a social meetup?”
He sits down, steepling his fingers as the waitress in sleek black places a glass of rum in front of him. It’s white rum, artisan. Tinged with the taste of vanilla and fall apples, warming white pepper and a touch of lime. 
Sipping my single malt, I wait. 
Enver’s a man as dark and emotionless as Mercer. Meticulous. Equally deadly. But their methods are different. Enver sells and buys secrets. Yes, he kills like all of us, but this Knight’s been out in the field for a long time. 
He pulls an iPad from a black leather satchel and hands it to me.
I flip it open. “Doing so well you want to farm out jobs?”

“This is up your alley.”

“Yours, too.”
He ignores me. “It’s a simple job. An assisted trip back to the States, with all the hacker’s equipment.”

“What’s her story?”

“Calista Hendrix is CIA. She’s not in the field,” he says in a hushed voice. “The girl sits behind a desk and has apparently gone AWOL after her field agent did the same. Big Daddy wants to find out who’s selling what to who.”

“Could be anything.” I swipe the screen, continuing to read the brief. 
“Big Daddy,” as he refers to the CIA, is reluctant to put anything even close to worthwhile in the file so I need to rely on Enver for hidden details.

“Yeah, I know. There’s more fucking black on that screen than a goth party in a blackout. But the point is… she’s wanted. For questioning in Big Daddy’s campgrounds.”

Or in one of their prisons and holding places where, like Gitmo, people can disappear and be scrubbed from existence. Whatever this is… they think she’s selling information. 
“So why don’t they just pick her up?”

“Not your business or mine,” Enver says. “You’re interested.”

He doesn’t ask. Just states the obvious because he knows me.
“I’m on vacation.”

“You just went on a killing spree with Reaper in Scotland, blowing apart a Bolivian dirty little porn and slave ring. I know you, Smith. You’re not in any hurry to go back.”

“I let off some steam.”

“You’re hiding out here.”
“Don’t try to fucking psychoanalyze me. This job was handed to you, not me.”
“I’m giving you a reason to stay here. Doing you a favor to keep you here.” 
I bite my tongue and tap my foot as I stare at the city outside the large floor-to-ceiling windows. The leather armchair’s surprisingly comfortable, which is good. Because Enver takes his time with the next request. 
He takes a sip of his drink. “And I’m asking you for one at the same time.”

“So you’re offering me a chance to get out of the wedding by saving your ass from whatever it needs saving from?”

“We served in the CIA together,” Enver says, ignoring my question. “Got out and went into private intelligence work. We’re also Knights.”

“And?”

He sighs heavily and takes a swallow of his rum. “This kind of job puts me in the crosshairs of people I need to stay away from. Plus, I’m in the middle of something, and heading back stateside isn’t on my agenda right now.”
“You really think they’re going to lock up one of their own? Fuck me, she’s only twenty-four,” I scoff.
Her age sits uncomfortably close to that of my own kid, Dakota. A little older, but… 
It doesn’t matter I became a parent before I hit eighteen, a kid’s a kid and fucking babysitting in a soft kidnap job isn’t high on my list.

Even if it does keep me away from the wedding.

“She’s been naughty in Big Daddy’s ever-seeing eye.” Enver shrugs. “She’s an adult.”

“It’s soft fucking kidnapping.”

“She’s computer intel, a hacker. Calista dropped off the face of the planet because she knows she’s a target.” He pauses, reaches over, and swipes to the next page on the iPad. 
I follow the words on the page. It’s boring shit about her background. Calista “Hendrix” Price. Younger brother, Henry Xavier, is in the hands of Big Da—the CIA. 
“Under close protection” is their code for “watched and a prisoner at a moment’s notice.” 
I look back at Enver. “If you’re trying to tell me Calista’s all soft and basement bound, I’m not going to believe you. Daddy trains well and you fucking know it.
”
Last sighting was in Berlin. 
She’s young and she’s never been in the field. There’s a difference, Smith, between desk job and field agent, and you know it.”
“So she’s wet behind the ears, dropped off the planet, and Daddy can’t find her?” I shake my head. “Not buying it.”

“No one’s asking you to. Just to bring her in. All you have to do,” he says, reaching into his satchel and sliding a black leather folder that’ll have a backstory and passports, or my name isn’t Johannes Schmidt Jaeger, “is tell her she needs to report in at home and you’re taking her.”
“Why me?”
“Your blueblood Patrician mother had a hard-on for an American-born German man, Herr Jaeger. Live her fucking dream for her.”

“My mother was not—” I stop. There’s no point playing in that pool with him. The point he’s making is that I should go in because I’ve got a German name even though I’m very much American. I keep reading the brief. “Just bring her in, any means necessary to gain her cooperation?”
Then I flick to the last photo of the girl. Pink, blue, and purple-streaked ice-silver hair pinned up, showing an undercut.

Big eyes like looking into a stormy ocean. Gray and turbulent. 
And with that soft mouth and stubborn chin, she’s pretty, ridiculously so. 
She also looks about fifteen here. 
And yeah, it’s not like she’s an active field agent. She sits behind a desk for the CIA. So how fucking hard could it be to find her and bring her in? 
I’ve got contacts in Germany, both in the Bundesnachrichtendienst federal intelligence service, also known as BND, and outside the agency. 
I look at him. “When?”

He puts a burner down and on it is a first-class red-eye to Berlin. 
“Tonight.”