My Unwanted Wife Is A Top Assassin

The bed was the size of a small country, and it was empty.

On the second day of her marriage, Eliza woke up alone. Julian had not come back. A single text message was his only communication: "Urgent mission. Returned to base. Do not contact."

This is yet another escape.

Eliza deleted the message without a flicker of emotion.

She walked to the full-length mirror and took a long, hard look at the body she now inhabited. It was soft, undisciplined, and weak. The excess weight strained the seams of the borrowed pajamas. This was her prison. This was her greatest liability.

For Nyx, her body was her primary weapon. This one was a dull, broken blade.

It was time to re-forge it.

In the massive walk-in closet, she found a set of workout clothes, still with the tags on, clearly bought for a much smaller woman. In a drawer, she found a small sewing kit left by the estate's housekeeping staff. Using the tiny, sharp scissors within, she expertly sliced the seams, modifying the garments until they were wearable, if not comfortable.

The early morning mist was cool on her skin as she left the house. The Malone estate backed onto a private mountain range, a sprawling wilderness of trails and trees.

She started to run.

The first ten minutes were hell. Her lungs burned. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. The soft, unused muscles screamed in protest.

But her mind-Nyx's mind-was a cold, precise machine. She ignored the pain, focusing on her breathing, using the rhythmic techniques of special forces soldiers to regulate her heart rate and oxygen intake.

The estate's gardeners and security patrols watched her pass, their expressions a mixture of surprise and disbelief. The new Mrs. Malone, who they'd heard was lazy and slovenly, was running.

An hour later, she was deep in the mountains. Sweat soaked her clothes, but her stride was now steady, powerful. The body was learning. The mind was in control.

She found a sturdy tree branch and began a set of pull-ups, the motion strained but controlled. She found large rocks and used them for weighted lunges. This wasn't a morning jog. This was a reclamation.

At the top of a ridge, she paused to catch her breath, her eyes scanning the terrain. A sound drifted on the wind. A child's cry, thin and terrified.

Eliza moved toward the sound, her fatigue forgotten.

On the edge of a steep cliff, a small boy, maybe seven or eight, was clinging to a root, his feet dangling over a hundred-foot drop. A small drone lay smashed on a ledge just out of his reach. He had clearly gone after it and slipped.

His screams were choked with panic.

Nyx's brain went into combat mode. Distance: fifty yards. Wind: negligible. Optimal route: direct descent down the shale slope.

There was no time to go around. She planted her heels and slid down the steep incline, using her hands to control the descent, a textbook military maneuver.

Just as the boy's fingers started to slip, she reached the edge. She lunged forward, her hand shooting out and clamping around his wrist.

Her strength, forged in the fire of her training and now being reawakened, was shocking. With a single, explosive pull, she hauled the boy back onto solid ground.

A woman, the boy's mother, came scrambling up the path, her face streaked with tears. "Timmy! Oh, my God, Timmy!"

She saw her son, safe, and collapsed in a heap of gratitude, thanking Eliza over and over. The woman was Wanda Kowalski, wife of a business associate of Harrison's, who had been invited for a weekend stay. Her perception of the new Malone bride was being rewritten in real-time.

"Watch your son," Eliza said, her voice flat. She turned to leave.

But then she saw it. Not the toy drone, but another one, professional-grade, was hovering silently high above, its camera lens pointed directly at them. Its markings were unfamiliar. Not commercial, not estate security. It was observing. Recording. Her rescue was now actionable intelligence for an unknown party. That footage could not be allowed to exist.

Without breaking stride, her hand dipped down and her fingers closed around a smooth, flat stone. In one fluid motion, she spun, her arm whipping forward. Her fingers uncurled, and the stone flew, a dark speck against the bright sky.

There was a faint 'tink' sound that was lost in the rustle of the wind through the pines. One of the drone's four rotors shattered. The machine, small and dark against the vast sky, wobbled, spun out of control, and plummeted into the dense forest far below.

The entire sequence took less than a second. Wanda was on her knees, clutching her son, her face buried in his hair, her own sobs muffling any sound of the distant crash in the dense undergrowth. They saw nothing.

Eliza turned her back on them and started the long run home. Her body ached, but it was a good ache. It was the feeling of a weapon being sharpened.

Nyx was taking back control. One painful step at a time.