I step forward, ready to sprint after him, even if it means having to use my own leg as a doorjamb. Something swishes, pain erupts in my calf, and I fall, my feet cut from under me.
I drop the gun with a yelp, frantic to save my face from smashing into the concrete. I flap my arm, trying to hold onto the wall, but it’s Sevastyan who grabs my wrist in a steel grip.
I cry out in pain, because before I even comprehend what’s happening, he’s slamming me into the floor, knee on my back.
This is bad.
So bad.
Chapter 2
Sevastyan
Theboyistwitchinglike an eel pulled out of water, but he’s no match for my strength. I might no longer be in the business, but until all my enemies lie dead, my body needs to remain an efficient killing machine.
As far as assassins go, this boy is a particularly poor specimen. Thin, with small hands meant for playing music rather than smashing faces and pulling triggers. Whoever sent him after me wanted him dead, but his problems are not mine.
I enter the torture room by pulling a lever hidden inside a vase of artificial flowers. While the would-be assassin is hanging off my shoulder and witnessed how I made the wall retreat, it’s not as if he will be leaving my home to tell the tale.
Like most of the rooms, this one is minimalist. Granted, the interior designer did not get to tell me where the chair should go in relation to the cupboard with knives and pliers, but I’ve never cared much for torture, so it’s not like I need this space to be perfectly aligned with the rules of Feng Shui.
“Here we are,” I say, dropping him into the leather-upholstered chair. He lets out a high-pitched yelp and immediately attempts to roll off, but this isn’t my first rodeo, and I pull the mid-section strap shut, trapping him.
In the bright light, his intensely green eyes meet mine from behind a balaclava that’s too tight on him. “I-I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” he utters, his breath so ragged I’m getting a feeling that breaking him will take no time. “Please. My leg. I’m bleeding.”
Like he didn’t try to order me around and waved his gun at me. ‘On your knees’. In his dreams.
I’m far too experienced to be fooled by pretty eyes and squeaky pleas, so instead of doing as he asks, I strap down his legs too, and then his shoulders. I’ve already zip-tied his hands back, and he’s not going anywhere.
“So I see. Too bad you didn’t worry about the consequencesbeforeyou broke into my home.”
To be fair, ‘breaking’ is not an accurate description of the way I lured him in by leaving the gate partially open, but who cares about semantics when the end result is the same?
He entered my home. Without asking. And pointed a gun at me.
His heavy breathing is music to my ears. It’s been a while since I’ve had some live prey. Usually they end up dead before I get to question them.
“I shouldn’t have come here. I’m sorry,” he’s quick to say. “I didn’t steal anything.”
I can’t stop the laugh pushing at my throat. “Yet,” I answer and switch on the medical lamp, which I then adjust so it points at my victim. Something as simple as blindingly bright light can be an unexpectedly effective tool.
The stranger flinches, and his brown lashes twitch against freckled skin.
Huh. A rare specimen. Perhaps I could leave him alive for a bit longer?
I rip the balaclava off, and waves of orange hair spill over the gray upholstery as if he’s already posing for a painting and hasn’t come here to kill me. I stall, enchanted by his rare coloring while he pants, squirming in front of me.
No one would call him perfect. His nose is a bit off-center, one of his eyelids is droopy, his full lips are on the dry side, and freckles dot his pale face as if someone took a paintbrush and just spattered them on.
But when I look at him, I’m amazed by all the irregularities. Most of the men who are sent to kill me are typical soldier types with crew cuts, or goons past their prime.
This guy? He’s something else.
I just don’t know what.
And those eyes, expressive as if they contain hidden prisms. His pupils have blown wide with fear, but I can still see the intense green of his eyes.
“No! I wouldn’t have stolen anything!”
