Page 33 of Venomous Games

“No. And truth be told, I wasn’t sure if I should turn you in or keep you,” he confesses.

“I get paid to kill,” I finally admit. I watch for his reaction. His fingers pause in the process of buttoning up his shirt, and he lifts his head, his slate-gray eyes finding mine.

“You’re a hitwoman?”

I roll my eyes. “I prefer assassin; it has a better ring to it.”

“How long have you been doing it?”

I shrug, smiling. “Years. And I’m good at it.”

“I caught you,” he reminds me as he finishes with his shirt, then puts his boots back on.

“That was a mistake. I shouldn’t have let my emotions get the better of me,” I say, bristling.

“I know. I sent that video to you,” he says, and my mouth falls open. “What? I knew you were hiding something behind that annoying-girl act. I just had to see what it was. I was pleasantly surprised as I watched you break into his house. You’re quite gifted.” I can hear the pride in his voice. “Which tells me you do it often. But how often is the question.

“I assumed you liked to rob people, but as I watched you kill Marcus, I knew you were more than just a thief.” His eyes narrow. “You stopped killing with venom many years ago, didn’t you, Venom?”

I freeze. Hearing that name is like ice sliding across my spine.

“Venom. That name ring a bell?”

My stomach drops. My heels press into the floor harder than they should. My hands clench at my sides, and I blink. “You … you know?” My voice comes out tight, more breath than words.

He doesn’t answer immediately, just tilts his head with the faintest smirk on his lips. “You think I wouldn’t?”

My chest tightens. My jaw aches from clenching. That name is supposed to be buried. And yet, here he is, tossing it at me like a knife.

My hands curl into fists, nails biting into my palms. My mind races, and I realize how exposed I feel under the intensity of his attention. He sees too fucking much.

“Why use venom?” he asks softly, almost casually, but I feel the weight behind it. Every word presses hard against my skin.

I shrug and force a laugh, sharp and brittle. “Hate getting blood on my heels.”

He steps closer, and it’s impossible to ignore the heat of him, the way his presence fills the room, the way my pulse quickens without my permission. His gaze doesn’t waver, and I catch the faintest edge of amusement there, like he senses the storm raging inside me.

“You’re good,” he murmurs. “Better than I thought. Smarter too.”

I swallow hard, the room suddenly too small. I want to reach for something, anything, but there’s nothing. Nothing but him and the truth he’s holding over me.

And somewhere deep inside, a reckless part of me thrills at it. Thrills at the danger, the challenge, the fact that he knows and I can’t hide from him. But I don’t want to think about that right now, so I abruptly change the subject.

“Red ones.”

“What?”

I lick my suddenly dry lips. “I like to wear red heels to hide the blood stains.” Where most men would cower or shrink back in revulsion, Boston does the opposite. He looks at me like I’m something precious. Something fascinating. His gaze trails from my eyes to my mouth, down my body, toward my feet. And I feel it like it’s a physical caress.

“But since it’s our wedding day, darling, you can buy me a nice new pair of black heels to match my trapped and withering soul.”

“I’ll be back. Start getting ready.” He walks past me.

“Where are you going?”

“Work. But I’ll be back.”

“You don’t work here,” I say to his back.