Page 9 of Pretty Little Assassin

The most dangerous alpha assassin on the planet is allergic to my cat, but he picks up Mr. Pickles anyway.

He’s clearly miserable, eyes streaming, nose running, sneezing every few seconds, and he’s still cradling my cat against his chest. Mr. Pickles is purring. I can’t hear it through the camera feed, but I know that purr. It’s his “I’ve claimed you, you’re mine now” purr, the one he usually reserves for me and the heating vent.

“Traitor,” I whisper. “Twelve pounds of ungrateful, backstabbing⁠—”

Viktor looks directly at the camera.

The alpha isn’t stupid. He knows where the lenses are. He’d shredded the exterior sensors but left my internal network intact—not a mistake, a calculation. An invitation. He wanted me to watch my sanctuary be dismantled, and the sheer arrogance of it makes my blood boil.

He smiles.

It’s the kind of smile that makes you understand, on a biological level, why prey animals freeze.

“What a nice pussy,” he says, loud enough for the microphone to pick up. Then, in Russian: “Krasivaya koshechka. That means nice kitty, little assassin. In case you were wondering.”

Mr. Pickles purrs harder.

Viktor sneezes.

I’m ending this son of a bitch. Payout be damned. He’s invading my sanctuary, threatening my cat, treating my home like a social call. I’m going to personally ensure Mercy finds the center of his chest with enough force to pierce his spine.

The audacity.

I’m reaching for the nearest throwable object, which happens to be a five-hundred-dollar bottle of dead man’s champagne, when Viktor speaks again.

He’s settled onto my couch now. Mr. Pickles is in his lap, kneading his thigh with orange paws. Viktor’s eyes are red and swollen. He looks ridiculous. He also looks like he could kill everyone in a three-block radius without breaking a sweat.

“I know you’re tuned in, Asset 13.” His delivery is flat, a deadpan rasp with a sharp edge of Russian accent. He lifts Mr. Pickles toward the lens, and my traitorous orange furball just hangs there in mid-air, completely unruffled and purring like a goddamn engine.

“One hour.” He pauses. Looks at the cat. Looks back at the camera. “Or the cat learns to fly.”

The feeds go dark. All three. Simultaneously.

I stare at the black screens, my pulse hammering.

My stepfather is out of prison and hunting me. The most dangerous alpha alive is sitting on my couch, holding my cat hostage. I have a two-million-dollar contract I can’t ignore and a dead man decomposing two floors below me.

I drag on black tactical pants and a fitted sweater, strap Mercy to my thigh, and shove my feet into boots.

The clock is ticking, and I’ve got fifty-eight minutes to unfuck my life.

Mr. Pickles better be alive when I get there, or I’m going to skin this motherfucker alive.

4

VIKTOR

And now, I wait.

Waiting is a skill like any other, one that I have refined to perfection. It’s no different or less lethal than a kill strike when used properly. Waiting is the difference between catching and being caught. And I am never the prey.

While I wait, I enjoy one thing and tolerate a second.

I enjoy looking around the space, noticing the details that others would dismiss as unimportant. Ignoring details means missing things—like the perfect spots to plant the micro-cameras I pull out of my pocket.

One goes at the base of the half-dead plant on the windowsill. Clearly, she has no nurturing instincts, or this pathetic greenery wouldn’t be gasping for life. It’s surprising that her cat is as well-fed as it is.

The other on the bookshelf nestled between the spines of⁠—