Page 37 of Pretty Little Assassin

I think about how I want to kill him and kiss him. Which is the lie?

Considering I accidentally brushed way more than I bargained for when retrieving Mr. Pickles last night, Viktor might be lying to himself, too. But his body told the truth.

“What business do you have reading the works of such a high-level realist?” I’m lashing out. I revealed too much. He quoted back to me. I’m getting dizzy. Damn leather and pine. It’s mixing with my scent.

He grins. That fucking grin again. He still doesn’t look at me. He grins at the goddam hotel. The man is a machine. Donnie will be delighted when I confirm. “All top-tier assassins are high-level realists, маленькая убийца.”

I can’t tell if that smile is patronizing. “What, don’t you think I’m capable of understanding psychological depth? Is it the sweet smile or the delicate frame that makes you underestimate me?”

“No.” He doesn’t look over. Of course he doesn’t. “I do not underestimate you at all. In fact, I think you are rather unusual. You don’t fit the normal omega mould. You don’t want to shack up and nest with the first alpha who looks your way. You are not looking for a protector or a family; you’re looking for your next kill.”

An insult or a compliment? I can’t tell. I can’t figure out how to take it either. And I’m definitely not doing this in a parked car with Viktor Petrov. So, I decide to change the subject.

“What other books do you read?”

“You are asking me about my TBR while sitting stuffed into a sedan together on a stakeout?”

“Yeah, I guess I am. What the hell else are we supposed to do to pass the time?”

Fuck, as soon as I say that, my mind starts to wander into places it shouldn’t.

“I also like Dante, although not all of his work. Only a select few pieces. Like The Inferno. Makes me feel comfortable reading it.” He grins. “Like a worn-in chair that still remembers the imprint of your ass cheeks.”

I may have checked out his ass cheeks more than once. Sue me. They’re practically at eye level.

“That’s fitting, a bloodthirsty assassin enjoying a book about the nine circles of Hell.”

“Takes one to know one. If you haven’t read Dante, that’s probably why I have an advantage over you.”

“You have no advantage over me, Wraith. The thing I need to focus on now is not failing to protect the omegas that my stepdad has apparently decided to use as leverage against me.” My words have an edge.

“Yes, that’s what we’re doing, маленькая кукла.”

His words have an edge, too. And I think he used different words just now. Same accent, same Russian, but the ending is different.

“What does that mean?” I ask.

“It means little doll.”

“Since when did you go from calling me a killer to a doll?” I ask, feeling annoyed. “I am not something fragile, if that’s where you’re heading with this. You should know that by now.”

“Indeed, I do.” There’s the grin again. Not at me. At the goddam building. “It just felt appropriate to say in the moment.”

“Well, it wasn’t,” I bite back. “Stop grinning about me and calling me cute names and looking so happy when my hand touches your⁠—”

Full stop. I stop myself before I blurt out something that I will regret saying in about three seconds.

“I am not going to swoon over you like my goddamn cat has decided to do.”

“Speaking of the poorly named feline. How did you come to acquire Mr. Pickles?” he asks. The grin is gone.

“Are you asking me to tell you my cat’s origin story?”

“Unless you have something better to talk about.”

“I do, actually.” I cannot believe what is coming out of my mouth. I blame the scent of pine. Combined with the scent of leather, the combination of high alertness and cozy comfort is making me want to get to know him better. Who am I? I ignore my dignity and shamelessly pry.

“So how did you get into the assassin business?” I ask. He already knows my origin story. If he doesn’t want to answer, we’ll go right back to Mr. Pickles. I’m a professional.