Page 75 of Pretty Little Assassin

I pull the tactical fabric over my thighs. No cocktail dresses. No synthetic perfume, or lowered lashes, or pretty little pout. Tonight I’m the killer I was born to be. Tonight is the night I kill my stepdad.

I strap Mercy to my thigh first, then push a dagger into each boot. Garrote headband, check. Garrote bracelet, in place.

Behind me, Viktor moves through the safehouse, coordinating with Donnie

Seventy-eight minutes left.

Nineteen of those seventy-eight are the drive.

I take a breath and mentally prepare to go to an address that I haven’t been to since I was sixteen.

An address that I never wanted to fucking see again.

The call ends.

Mr. Pickles stretches on the couch, then places one leg kicked out behind him, completely indifferent to the operational chaos unfolding around him. He blinks at me once, slowly, and looks away. Even my cat has decided this is beneath his concern.

Mercy feels like she’s vibrating against my thigh, and I’m ready to go. I’m sick of waiting around.

“If you die, Valentina, I will follow you into hell and drag you back. Even the devil knows better than to keep what is mine.”

My eyes shoot up to meet his. “Do you expect me to die?” I ask sweetly.

It feels good to feel confident again.

I expect some clever retort. But his black eyes absorb all the light. No glint of fun as he lifts my chin with his hand.

“I don’t care where you are. I’ll still be coming.”

That look almost undoes me.

“Save the omegas, Viktor. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

He slides his hand up my jaw, holding the tip of my chin between his thumb and forefinger.

“I know you will be, маленькая убийца.”

He pulls me to him as I rise to meet him. Our kiss tastes of adrenaline and anticipation. His strong pine scent mixes with my notes of copper. There is no softness. Only the edge and itch of two assassins coming fiercely together before they go off to rampage separately.

I look behind me at my cat before we walk out the door together. Viktor heads off in one direction. I go in the other.

***

The gates are open when I get there.

I stand on the pavement outside and look at them. Wrought iron, tall, the kind that is meant to keep people out but works just as well to keep them in. They were always locked when I lived here. My stepfather liked locks. On doors, on cabinets, on people.

The fact that they’re standing open now means Stepdaddy Dearest is expecting me. He’s been waiting for this. Maybe longer than I have.

I walk through, scanning the upper windows and roofline for movement.

The house sits back from the street, behind an overgrown stretch of lawn that looks like it hasn't been mowed since he went to prison. The garden my mother tended in the first year, before the bottles took over, is gone, replaced by weeds.

The house is smaller than I remember, but that's what happens. You grow up, and the things that loomed over you shrink back to their actual size.

What trap will Stepfather lay for me?

A captured omega?