As his deep voice filled the bar, I froze.
“We need to talk.”
Mentally, I cursed.
He’d lured me here. And I’d fallen for it.Dammit.
I slid my hand under my jacket, where my favorite knives were sheathed. I had several custom sheaths designed especially for me, so I could conceal my knives. This one was lightweight and worn across my body. I had others for concealing on my belt, my wrists, my thigh.
I pulled a blade out.
The hilt was cool and familiar in my palm. It was my favorite set of knives, crafted just for me by a master bladesmith. I’d designed the daggers myself, based on the iconic Fairbairn–Sykes fighting knife used by British commandos and SAS in World War II. I’d given the old knife style a modern update.
They were made from tough, high-carbon blade steel with a black oxide finish. That meant no glare when I was sneaking up on a target. The sculpted hilts were made from G10—a high-strength, durable composite material made from woven fiberglass and epoxy resin. The toughest of fiberglass laminates.
I was missing a knife from my set, though. The one I’d left lodged in Bastian’s shoulder last week.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said.
I swallowed a scoff. There was no way he could hurt me. His reputation preceded him, but he was retired. He was going soft. I still trained every day and took active jobs.
I didn’t sit around in my fancy casino all day, making money and fucking leggy blondes.
Although his body didn’t look soft.
I silently moved closer.
“Come on, little bird.”
I didn’t respond to the nickname. He’d first called me that when I was twelve. I’d daydreamed about it for weeks.
I didn’t speak. I didn’t make a sound. Inching closer, I kept my eye on him. Then, once I was close enough, I launched myself from behind a table, straight at him.
He spun and caught me midair. I tried to stab him, but a strong hand caught my wrist.
He spun, but I moved, wrapping my leg around his waist, upending his balance.
I trained constantly to use my body as a weapon, as a way to gain the upper hand. I was well aware I was always smaller than ninety-five percent of the people I hunted.
We crashed to the floor. I tried to roll, and he tried to pin me. I kicked out, my foot connecting with his hard stomach. He grunted, then squeezed my wrist.
Ow. I winced, feeling my bones creak. I dropped my knife.
“I hate the purple hair, Lark. It doesn’t suit you.”
With a grunt, I tried to get free of his hold. I felt a tug on the wig as he ripped it off.
I got free, rolled, snatched up my knife, and leaped to my feet.
When I spun, he was rising in one, lithe move.
He held his hands up. “I just want to talk.”
“No talking. You killed Ed. Now, I’m going to kill you.”
Bastian sighed. “Lark?—”
I tossed two knives in quick succession.
