Page 48 of Pretty Little Assassin

Wrong is not the whole reason, and I know that too.

The whole reason is standing eleven feet away in Donnie’s kitchen arguing with a woman in a tutu about what a waiter’s jacket does to his shoulders.

I can go in there right now, and complete the contract, cleanly, in under four seconds. Viktor fucking Petrov can handle my knives when he sees me coming—when I let him.

Something in me has already decided not to do the job, and made that call without asking me first.

I put the phone in my pocket. I don’t reply to the message, and I leave Madam, who has taken me in, unanswered.

Tomorrow night I walk into a ballroom my stepfather has already filled, in a dress he would have chosen, to collect omegas he only took because he knew I would come for them.

He has never once been wrong about that.

15

VIKTOR

Door closed. The cat is presumably curled up in my bed with Valentina. At least that keeps the affectionate allergen away from my nasal cavities.

The kitchen table is littered with weapons. I deal with each one in slow, deliberate order. Clean weapons mean no failing mechanics. Failure is not allowed on a job. Especially not this job. Redundancy, when the stakes are high, is a careful practice.

While she rests, I still work.

I’m used to quiet. Stillness. Being alone with my thoughts.

I’m not used to a door creaking in my own safehouse.

“Jesus Christ, put the fucking gun down, Viktor.”

Valentina stands in front of me in an oversized graphic tee and nothing else. My hand is already holding a gun to her head.

I didn’t mean to startle her, actually. It’s habit. Nothing sneaks up on me.

“What are you doing awake and looking like you borrowed one of your nerdy friend’s shirts to sleep in?”

“I’m awake because I couldn’t sleep,” she says as I lower the gun and set it back down on the table. “And I did borrow this shirt from Donnie. You didn’t pack me pyjamas in the go-bag when you kidnapped me from my apartment.”

I didn’t. And hasn’t that thought been torturing me the last few nights while I slept on the couch.

The oversized T-shirt is cute, too. Another thing to imagine on my couch while she is in my bed.

“I didn’t kidnap you,” I say patiently. “I saved you.”

“No, you didn’t,” she argues. “You put your sneaky fingers on my neck and switched me off like a lamp and then carried me off like some sort of thug with more ink than square footage on his skin. I could have saved myself.”

She’s not wrong.

“Why can’t you sleep?” I ask just as Mr. Pickles saunters down the hall, tail swishing behind him as he uses the hallway as a feline runway.

“Eh, hungry, I guess.”

“I’ll make you some food.”

Before her look catches me off guard, I clarify.

“I was going to cook something anyway because I’m hungry too.”

Valentina sits down at the table and runs her fingers over a hunting knife that I had just finished polishing. I don’t make a habit of letting anyone touch my things. Ever.