“Couldn’t you have stabbed yourself with a smaller knife?” I point at the one he impaled his hand on.
“I’m not a pussy.”
“Yeah. Pussies only stab themselves with small knives.” Dean smiles while I tie the napkin properly around his hand. “There are probably traces of Saxitoxin on the knife. Go help yourself from the bag. Take one of those with 4-A labels on them.”
Dean nods, but then grabs my wrist and stops me.
“Labeled? You have more than one poison on hand, don’t you?”
Before I can answer, Atlas snatches my wrist out of Dean’s grasp.
“Honey—” He starts again, but I shush him with my palm over his lips.
“Shopping for poisons on the black market is quite addictive, you know.” I should’ve probably gone with a simpleyes.
I head for the kitchen, while everyone resumes their gun hunt, but Connor’s voice stops me.
“If I eat the rest of the cake and inject myself with whatever you have in that bag, would I be okay? I mean, I loved that dog. And I eat when I’m stressed, too. Or angry. Plus, it’s a shame for it to go to waste.”
Marching back to the table, I grab the plate and let the cake slide to the ground, because I don’t trust that Connor won’t eat it, and there’s already nobody there but Link, who’s still recovering, to stop him.
“Oh, Principessa, you really think I wouldn’t eat the cake from the ground?”
“Don’t!” I wave a warning finger like I’m scolding a child.
Connor raises his hands in surrender. How is it that he always riles me up the way Milo did?
Resuming my stride for the kitchen, Atlas follows me step for step.
“What other option was there for me to save you?”
“Leave it to me to save myself. I told you I can handle it, didn’t I? I was just biding my time.” Well, mostly. I was just hoping Mason wouldn’t shoot me before the toxin kicked in.
Taking my 9mm Wilson Combat—the same one Atlas gave me months ago—out of the bag, I start putting a suppressor on it.
“How was I supposed to know? You should’ve signaled me somehow.”
“Tap Morse code on your leg or straight up use the bat signal? Just asking for next time.”
I shove the gun into the back of my jeans, struggling to wedge it in with the silencer attached, before I tug my top down to hide it. Mr. Wilson Combat presses so awkwardly between my butt cheeks, like it’s getting way too familiar with my ass.
“We can take out his men outside easily,” Dean says, when everyone is back in the room.
“I have a plan,” I interrupt. “Could you all please sit down for a couple of minutes? I’ll be right back.”
“Do you mind filling us in?” Dean’s demanding tone wouldn’t let anyone with the option not to elaborate further. But he’ll have to wait.
“No time for that. He won’t last that long.” I flick my hand back at Mason.
“Isn’t that the point?” Jacob says with a gun dangerously shaky in his hand, but I leave his question hanging in the air.
I reach into the duffel, pull out a butterfly knife, and slip it into my back pocket, covering it with my shirt again. Rummaging through the bag of endless murderous treasures, I fish out the wide-rimmed glasses I wore when I first started playing games with Atlas.
For what I’m about to do, I need whatever disguise I can get, but the glasses and my new hair color are where the options end. Can’t exactly slap on a fake mustache, can I?
“What are you up to, baby?” Atlas asks, grabbing the Glock I left on the counter.
“I’m taking care of the situation, baby,” I answer, bitterness still lacing my tone.
