Page 20 of Pretty Little Assassin

“I am the best there is.”

“That’s still unproven.” I smile my sweet omega smile, and then let it turn feral. This man likes my violent tendencies. I don’t have to hide my true self from this alpha. “Until one of us kills the other and decides it. Fine. Best or one of the best. Either way, why wouldn’t he keep you around as his lead dog? And even if he wanted to push you out, why not handle it himself instead of bothering with the mirror contracts?”

His expression goes cold.

“I am nobody’s dog. The Primacy hires me. It has never owned me.”

“Then maybe he knows he can’t control you.”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps your father is hiding behind the contracts because there are larger plans at play, and he does not want to show his hand.”

“He is not my father. He is the bastard who married my mother.”

Viktor’s chin dips once. “Apologies, xорошенькая убийца.”

There’s no mockery in his voice.

“What does that even fucking mean?”

“Pretty little assassin.”

“The last man who called me ‘pretty’ isn’t calling anyone anything anymore.”

“You are little.”

“That doesn’t mean I can’t put a blade through your ribs before you can blink.”

I pull Mercy into my hand quickly. I don’t intend to use her, not right now at least. I need to feel the blade’s solid weight, a reminder that his ego isn’t the only weapon in the room.

Before Mercy reaches chest height, Viktor grabs my wrist.

I twist into his grip instead of fighting it, driving my shoulder toward his sternum as I hook my foot behind his ankle. He shifts his weight before I can sweep his leg, but the movement forces him back a step. He gives ground.

His grip tightens. I bring my free hand toward his throat, and he catches that wrist too.

For one suspended second, we’re locked together, my arms trapped between us, his face close enough that I can see the darker ring around his irises. Neither of us moves. Neither of us is willing to give ground first. The smell of leather envelops me. The notes of black pepper are sharp and potent.

Then Viktor turns Mercy toward himself.

He draws my hand close to his face and lowers the edge to the thin scar decorating his neck. Instead of taking the knife away, he presses it against his skin until a single drop of blood forms on the steel.

Viktor isn’t just an assassin. He’s a fucking psychopath.

And yet he’s also giving me the choice. One push and the contract is finished.

“I propose an alliance,” he says.

“An alliance? You broke into my warehouse, threatened my cat, and kidnapped me. Now you’re holding my knife to your own throat, and you want a deal?”

Mercy stays right where she is. If this is another trap, I’m already standing close enough to finish it.

Viktor’s mouth curves, but he doesn’t let go of my wrist.

Even Mr. Pickles seems roused enough by the argument to look up and stay silent for a change.

“On the grounds of mutually guaranteed survival. Johnson wants you dead, and he wants me dead. We can continue trying to kill each other and make your stepfather’s work easier, or we can make him pay.”

“You expect me to trust you?”