Page 68 of Pretty Little Assassin

For a second, I reach for Mercy.

If this place has been compromised. If something has happened to Viktor, then I⁠—

Mr. Pickles walks past me in the hallway. He’s wearing his “I’d kill for cuddles” sweater. Viktor must have put it on him.

Since my cat appears entirely unbothered, that’s as good a sign as any that the place is just fine.

I reach down to pick up Mr. Pickles. Surprisingly, he doesn’t protest this time as I carry him down the hall toward the light streaming out of Viktor’s room. The room I’ve been staying in this whole time.

“Don’t bring that thing in here,” he says as soon as I appear in the doorway. “Damn cat has already deposited pounds of hair all over this room.”

He gives Mr. Pickles a sideways glance. But he also took the time to put a cat sweater on my feline.

“I’ll let you get some rest. I was just searching around for another shirt in here.”

His eyes trail down the front of my body. His shirt that I’m wearing is so oversized that it hangs too low on my chest. The tops of my breasts are impossible to hide, but at least my nipples have secured coverage. The bottom of it touches me mid-thigh, right where Mercy would be if I had her strapped to me right now instead of lying beside the red dress on the bathroom floor.

Mr. Pickles doesn’t take the direction well, as evidenced by how he jumps out of my arms and heads straight for the bed.

At least some things still feel normal, even if everything else has hit a seismic shift.

“Fucking cat.”

He reaches for a tissue, muscles flexing in the dim light, before heading toward the doorway to leave. The scent emanating off his shirtless skin is overwhelming. And something else shifts now too.

I’m not so sure I want him to leave tonight.

21

VIKTOR

She’s grieving, and she is standing in my bedroom doorway not crying about it, which is worse.

Physical scars are one thing. I’ve got plenty. I collect them like most alphas collect notches on their bedposts. Emotional ones are different. I have those, too. And they cut deeper.

Hers are now easy to see. It’s like her grief has burned through all of her defences and left her bare and raw and unable to keep her persona up.

Valentina is hurting. And it affects me.

The damn cat looks much too comfortable in my bed. Back to the couch for me, even though my cock is starting to feel like a lead weight in my pants, seeing Valentina wearing my shirt after her bath.

She needs rest because the whole thing isn’t over.

Her stepfather is still on the loose, still hunting omegas, still hunting her. That part still needs taking care of. And now there are new layers to this dance between us—the scent match, the mate bond. Matters that aren’t as easily solved as navigating a double mirrored contract.

Killing is easy.

Teaming up is doable.

Feeling the shit that keeps happening is the hard part.

Literally hard.

I walk past her, ready to let her sleep and close the door behind me. The rest of the chaos will still be here to deal with in the morning, and for tonight we’re safe. She’s safe because I won’t let anything happen to her.

When her hand reaches for me and touches my shoulder before I’ve made it through the door, my instincts light on fire.

As soon as I turn around, I see it in her eyes—not adrenaline, not some chemical surplus looking for an outlet this time. Not like the kiss that served as a place to put the kinetic energy before it burst inside.