I wander into the living room again while sipping from my coffee mug.
As I do, the “fuck you” glare hits like sunshine, warming my soul.
I add another log to the fire before dismantling the wood stack. When nothing turns up, I move on to the rest of the room.
“Any cameras I should know about? Wouldn’t want to destroy delicate electronics.” I cut open a throw pillow from the couch, extract the stuffing, and shuffle over to the next one.
In the ensuing silence, continue to ransack the room.
Finally, her voice spills out from the bedroom. “Dozens.”
So…none. She’s acting like a teenager by not bothering to hide her snark. Which means I can’t believe anything she says. She knows that I know that.
Hanging glass shelves, complete with steel hardware and filled with books, line one wall. They could be there for appearance’s sake, or to hide things within the pages. I find no knickknacks, no photos, no personal touches other than these books. The house is a stage.
Even the Kozlov safe houses have more personality. This could be a model home, designed to show off but not comfortable enough to live in.
I pull the first shelf off the wall and dump it. Nothing important shakes loose from the books, and there are no obvious hidden panels or unmarked buttons.
A noise resembling a growl comes from her bedroom.
“You like books?”
“No.” The still-present snarl in her words almost overpowers her petulance.
Guess that means she loves books. She probably spends hours here reading, losing herself in stories that aren’t about revenge and murder and her life-consuming mission. Watching me dump them on the floor in a heap must infuriate her.
Vanya’s significant other, Paige, is the same way. She’d skin me alive if she saw what I was doing. Even Roman has started taking better care of his books since she came to the compound.
Thrilled to have found a pressure point, I put the shelf back and grab the next one, emptying the contents on top of the first.
“You asshole! What the hell is wrong with you?” The bed squeaks for the first time as she throws herself against her bindings.
I say nothing as I lean over to meet her eyes through the open doorway.
Even from this distance, the cold fury in those dark depths burns. Her hands clench above her head, blood flow pinkening her arms.
As I flick my fingers over the spines, more books crash to the floor. The pile at my feet grows.
She’s rigid on the bed, every muscle taut, her breathing shallow.
This is almost as fun as last night.
Almost.
I meander over to the side table near the couch. A small fob for her truck sits on the glass. I pick up the keys and jingle them twice, then pocket them, ensuring she sees me. “Look at that. Another thing in my pants you want to get your hands on.”
She growls again.
I laugh, genuine amusement curling in my chest. I haven’t had this much fun tormenting someone in ages. “Where do you keep the guns?”
“There are guns everywhere. You’ll find the next one pressed to the back of your head soon enough.”
Disdain practically drips from her words. Come to think of it, in all this time, she never pulled a gun on me. Maybe she doesn’t like them. Strange for an assassin, but not unheard of. You don’t keep weapons on hand that you’re not comfortable with, and she’s had plenty of opportunities to put mine to use after she stole my duffel.
I guess she’s a more hands-on murderer. I can respect that.
After a quick pause for a second cup of coffee, I advance down a short hallway I haven’t explored yet and open the first of three doors, which leads to another bedroom.
