Page 22 of Pretty Little Assassin

Fuck. So much for not letting myself get disarmed.

8

VIKTOR

She is in my bedroom, unpacking the bag I recovered from her warehouse as if she has already decided which parts of my home belong to her.

The hierarchy of my world has remained stable since the underworld first decided what to call me. A bad name at first, then a worse one, and finally a clever one.

Men like categories. They make the world easier to control. Alphas belong at the top, betas fill the space beneath them, and omegas remain at the bottom, where biology supposedly placed them.

I never questioned the arrangement until Valentina.

By all logic, she should be the easiest variable in the room: smaller, younger, and an omega among men who believe they own women like her.

Underestimating her is their downfall. And now she is folding her own clothes into my drawers.

“You brought this stuff here for me?” Valentina asks, lifting the sweater made for her ridiculous cat as if I have failed the calculated-killer test.

Mr. Pickles saunters past us like he already owns the place and jumps onto the bed. The cloud of orange hair he leaves behind triggers a sneeze so violent it makes my eardrums itch.

Valentina lets the sweater fall beside the bag, and the bastard immediately lies on top of it. The look in her eyes makes me want to go back to her warehouse and grab more cat sweaters.

“Simple necessities, nothing more,” I say. “We will likely be here for some time. You require clothes and…”

My attention catches on what she pulls from the bag.

Heat suppressants. Intimate, yes, but also necessary. Without them, most omegas cycle every three months. Her schedule is none of my concern.

I have stood within arm’s reach of omegas in full heat without my pulse rising above sixty. Scent is chemical information, nothing more, and control is what separates disciplined men from animals.

Yet my attention remains on the bottle in her hand and the omega holding it.

“Did you raid my bathroom before or after you rendered me unconscious?”

“Neither. I packed the bag before you returned.”

Instead of pressing me, she keeps unpacking.

“And these?” She pulls out a pair of stilettos and lets them dangle from her fingertips. “Is there a logistical reason I might need stilettos while trapped inside your little safe house with you?”

“I can think of several, little assassin.”

There is no legitimate reason I took them. I saw the line of them by the door, and I thought they might soften the loss of her warehouse. I could have chosen anything else.

I chose the heels.

Valentina pulls the boot from one foot and replaces it with a stiletto. She extends her leg, giving me an unobstructed view of a perfectly manicured foot, a delicate ankle, and a cherry-red heel that could become a weapon in the correct hands.

In hers, everything is a weapon.

My attention lingers on the shoe's red curve longer than any tactical assessment requires. Jasmine and vanilla rise, mingling in the air.

“Do those heels usually get you what you want?”

“Yes, actually.” She tilts her ankle, letting the light move over the glossy leather.

She is teasing me.