Which one do I want to play?
Ultimately, what do I want from my darling little dove? What will bring us closer and create romantic flags in our future?
The answer is practically obvious, so I use the inconvenient numkeys on the flip phone to tap out my message:
Me:c if u cn d8 him
I chuckle.
Date me, Azalea. Date me to kill me. Get closer for the sake of your crime. And if youactuallyfall in love along the way…? Well, in murder, there’s obviously going to be casualties.
I’ve finished my entire first slice of pizza before she responds, ever proper:
Darling Dove:Pardon?
Filling my chest, I begin “Junction’s” positively foolproof explanation.
Me:wud lk u 2 get closer 2 him, more ops 2 take him out if hes takin u out
Time passes. I finish my second slice of pizza and tidy up before sinking into my ebony couch in the main downstairs living area of my two-floor penthouse apartment. Finally, as I’m resigning to sort through messages on my personal phone, the burner buzzes.
Darling Dove:There’s no conceivable way to achieve this. We are not remotely involved in such a manner.
Me:seduce him
Darling Dove:Impossible.
Me:try
With that, I toss the phone onto my loveseat—where no one, least of all “Junction,” can hear her protests—and head upstairs to text Ivy…about his secret wedding of a Flag Day ball.
Chapter Three
?
I might throw up.
Azalea
Let it be known: assassin people—or at the very least the people whohirethe assassin people—areuseless. Last night, Junction seriously told me toseduceMalcolm. That’sallhe gave me to work with. Instead of providing drugs or weapons, he opted to provide stupidity. Because I, Azalea Pastella, haveneverseduced anyone in my life.
After receiving that harrowing message, I spent my entire evening playing R-rated dating sims—which, for the record, I have never touched before. My go-tos are softer, sweeter. Full of fantasy and princes and gentle moments. Many of them don’t even have kissing on-screen that’s how tame I prefer my romantic fiction to be.
The whirlwind of dark romance that consumed my evening has left me jittery, scarred, and—for the first time since I agreed to murder—doubtful. If assassination as a woman involvesseduction, I don’t think I’m cut out for it.
According to my highly educational research, there’s an awful lot oftouchinginvolved in seduction, and I do notdotouch. I have neverdonetouch. Every last accidental brush in my life has resulted in my being stuck in the bathroom, scrubbing my skin off in a panic. Which is why I now wear gloves. Everywhere except my home. Always.
My research led me to a simple conclusion: seduction is filthy.
Andfilthyis not on my resume.
“Azalea.”
I squeak, whirling upright at my desk, where I was absolutelynotcounting how many pairs of backup white gloves I have in an effort to calculate how many I might need to burn after a seduction effort.
Per usual, Malcolm stands before me in his jet-black attire with his fingers in his hair—which is one of the dirtiest parts of the body. The only reason I have so much is because I can’t tolerate getting it cut or not being able toseeit. If my hair falls in my food, I need it to be two-feet long and glaringly obvious that it’s there.
I don’t even want to think about how much hair Malcolm has eaten in his lifetime, because the short strands aren’t even segregated to the top of his head. They’re on his face. Trim and neat butthere. An ever-present collection of stubble shadowing his jawline.
