Page 21 of Pretty Little Assassin

“No.” The answer comes immediately. “I expect you to be practical.”

That lands harder than it should, mostly because it’s exactly what I would have said to him.

I press Mercy a fraction deeper. The bead of blood slips down the side of his neck, but he doesn’t flinch, loosen his hold, or look away.

Working with him is logical. Trusting him would be suicidal. Fortunately, he hasn’t asked me to trust him.

“Temporary. Until we find out who set us up.”

“Agreed.”

“You don’t touch my cat without permission.”

Mr. Pickles rubs his body against his leg, the little traitor.

“He does not appear to share your objection.”

“And you never use that pressure-point bullshit on me again.”

“Then do not become distracted.”

I try to wrench my wrists free, but he holds me for one more beat before releasing both at once and stepping back. It’s a concession, although the smug look in his eyes makes me want to punch him again.

“Also,” he adds, “I’m starting to like having the cat around.”

“You’re infuriating.”

I’m so unsettled I want to yank Mercy away from his neck and hold her at my side. An alliance. War. The man I was contracted to kill standing in front of me as my ally. Instead, I lean forward and lick his neck as I withdraw Mercy’s blade.

The contradictory urge to kiss him battles the need to gut him for throwing my world off its axis. The best I can do is try to unsettle him, too. Unfortunately, he looks pleased, not unsettled.

“Stop that.”

“Stop what?” he asks, knowing exactly what I mean.

“Smiling at me like that.”

“You kissed me after saying the same thing last time.”

“That was adrenaline.”

“Of course.”

My phone lights up on the table again. I can’t see the message from here, but I can see that it’s from Donnie. Mr. Pickles swats the device away in annoyance.

“I took the liberty of doing something,” Viktor says.

“Of course you fucking did.”

“Follow me. There is something I want to show you.”

I walk behind him as he heads down the hallway, keeping Mercy firmly in hand while I count the doors, the windows, and the distance back to the exit. I can agree to a temporary alliance because it serves a mutual purpose, but I do not have to let Viktor Petrov disarm me.

We reach the second doorway at the end of the hall, and he pushes it open with his massive hand, then steps aside so I can look inside.

There, on the bed, is one of my bags, stuffed with my things. Clothes, toiletries, and a small black sweater, sized for a cat, with the words I’d kill for cuddles neatly knitted across the front.

Zero made it last winter, then threatened to garrote me if I ever told anyone she knits in her downtime.