Page 51 of Pretty Little Assassin

“I think my father was trying to leave me with something that would take root inside me. Something I could call on when I needed it.”

I could lightly tease her about being a ruthless assassin with a humming security blanket, or I could acknowledge the intimacy of what’s happening here at this table over sandwiches.

I opt for neither.

Valentina finishes her sandwich and pushes her chair back without either of us saying another word. Sometimes, words aren’t adequate. Not even the ones from great writers like Dostoevsky.

“Come on,” she waves to Mr. Pickles to go back to bed with her.

That cat is lazy as fuck. He barely opens an eye. Doesn’t twitch a whisker. Lays there on my sofa like an immovable orange stain.

“Fine, stay there then, traitor.”

With that, the red menace heads back to bed. This time she leaves the bedroom door open. An invitation for the cat when his majesty decides to trade up from the couch.

Decidedly not an invitation to me.

My cock does not get that memo.

I ignore my cock and turn to the fastidious feline.

“Guess it’s you and me now, huh?”

Mr. Pickles looks at me with the same lack of urgency he gave Valentina. Apparently, no more cheese is an affront to his value system.

Still, it’s my couch.

I push him over. He climbs right back onto my lap. Then we sit there like a mismatched pair of socks. It takes less than thirty seconds for the sneezing to start.

For a while, I sit there petting Mr. Pickles and still thinking about how stupid and undignified his name is. Eventually, he jumps down and wanders back toward the bedroom.

The door does not close behind him.

I think about her delicious panties from the warehouse.

Better if I think about her lethal skills that match my own.

She is the first person I have met who is my equal, and three days of discovering that has frightened me considerably more than dying ever has.

Unfortunately, the thought of my equal excites me in a way nothing else compares to. Not even when I killed that senator and made it look like an accident, and the whole government he was negotiating with toppled.

I look at the door again. Someone should really close it. I don’t want the cat planting itself on my face. I can practically feel the allergic response already.

I creep toward the door. I don’t want to wake her. I’ll just gently pull the doorknob⁠—

Before I can blink, I’m inside, pressed against the door, a knife held to my throat.

Again.

My blood sings.

“Thought you could sneak up on me?” she purrs. “I can smell you.”

“Nice footwork. And good use of elbow.”

“I learned a few tricks to maneuver large alphas.”

It’s dark, but there is no question the blade is holding me hostage.