Page 19 of Pretty Little Assassin

“Didn’t that message just say the exact opposite? We’re supposed to be enemies now.”

My damn cat lifts his head at exactly the right moment to hiss at me, as if he understands and disagrees with what I’ve said.

“I do not think so.”

Viktor steps closer, and my hand reflexively pats Mercy.

“Your stepfather becomes Director of the Primacy, and suddenly we are handed mirror contracts to take each other out.” Viktor tilts his head, watching me the way Mr. Pickles watches a moth he hasn’t decided to eat yet. “Which brings me to a question.”

“Only one? You’re improving.”

“Why does your stepfather want you dead badly enough to risk starting a war?” He sneezes, wipes his eyes with the back of his hand, and keeps watching me the entire time, which is honestly impressive multitasking. “Men like Johnson do not spend two million dollars on sentiment. You are inconvenient to him. Why?”

I could lie. I’m very good at it. I’ve built an entire career on it.

But he asks with flat curiosity, completely unbothered by the fact that I would want him dead. It makes me want to tell him the truth just to watch his reaction.

“Because I’m the one who put him in prison.”

Viktor’s hand stops halfway through a stroke down my cat’s back. “I read his file. The police called it a business dispute gone wrong.”

“Something like that.” I rub my thumb over the worn curve of Mercy’s hilt. “For a murder he didn’t commit.”

“You framed him?”

“He tried to sell me. I was sixteen, in my first heat, all wrapped up in a red dress for some business partner of his who liked them young and untouched. Step-daddy dearest thought I was leverage. The perfect little virgin omega nobody would miss.

“So the business partner ended up with his throat cut the night before the sale,” I continue. “Tragic, really. And wouldn’t you know it, the police found the most damning little trail of breadcrumbs pointing straight back to my stepfather. A Coke bottle with his prints. A pair of gloves in his car. A very convincing timeline.”

“You planted it.”

“You’d be amazed what you learn about evidence when you have nothing better to do than hide in your room and pray your stepfather forgets you exist.”

Viktor studies me. “They tried to make you prey. You made them evidence.”

Then he laughs. It’s not the almost-smile or the feral grin from the warehouse. It’s a real laugh, low and rough, dragged up from somewhere I don’t think he uses often. It cracks his face open, and for a second the Wraith looks almost human.

“You were sixteen,” he says.

“I was resourceful.”

“You framed a grown alpha for murder, walked the evidence past a police department, and sat through his trial.” He shakes his head slowly, still grinning, and Mr. Pickles rolls onto his back in his lap in a shameless display of belly. “Most people your age couldn’t parallel park.”

“I had motivation.”

“Clearly.” His mouth curves, and this time it’s genuine, warm at the edges in a way that makes my stomach do something traitorous. “Do you know how rare it is to surprise me, little assassin?”

“I didn’t frame my stepfather to impress you. I did it to solve a problem.”

He sets Mr. Pickles down on the floor, ignoring the offended chirp my cat makes at the interruption of his massage, and rises from the chair, still looking at me in a way I’m trying to ignore while the scent of leather wafts towards me. His nostrils flare so imperceptibly I don’t know if he even realizes as he continues. “The last person to genuinely impress me is dead. I killed him myself, which, in retrospect, was rather a waste.”

“Charming.”

“You framed the man who tried to sell you, put him away for fifteen years.” He takes a step toward me, and black pepper mixes with the hints of leather. I don’t reach for Mercy this time. I want to know where this is going. “You made a career of killing men exactly like him.”

I don’t answer. Something in his black eyes—not the flat, dead nothing from his file photo, but something sharp, alive, and focused entirely on me. The spicy black pepper and masculine leather combination grows stronger. It makes my skin feel too tight, so instead I deflect.

“But why would my stepdad want to kill you? You’re one of the best there is.”