Page 14 of Pretty Little Assassin

“Two on the left flank,” I call.

“Stop talking.”

“You missed one.”

“I did not.” She spins, blade raised, but the sixth man is already there, closer than she clocked, his gun coming up.

I put a bullet through his wrist.

Blood spatters her cheek and hair. Her chest heaves, and her eyes are wild with fury.

“I had him,” she says.

“You would’ve had him second. I prefer first.”

The seventh man comes at my back with a knife. I catch his wrist without looking, break it, and drive him to his knees.

Behind Valentina, the fifth man pushes himself off the floor.

Her garrote flashes from the sheath at her wrist. She catches him around the throat and twists, strangling the life out of him with a vicious grin. Her scent sharpens as she tightens the wire, and she could stop the moment the bastard goes limp.

She doesn’t.

She takes his head clean off while muttering about him ruining her warehouse.

The sixth man is still clutching his ruined wrist. I kick his gun away, haul him upright, and drag him beside the seventh.

“Who sent you?” I ask, closing one hand around each man’s throat. I ease the pressure just enough to let them answer.

They drag in ragged breaths but say nothing.

“Was it Robert Johnson?” Valentina appears beside me and closes one hand around the nearest man’s balls.

Even with my hand around his throat, he manages a pained yelp. Valentina doesn’t flinch. She only tightens her grip, her expression cold and expectant.

Ruthless. Efficient. Impressive.

When neither of them answers, my patience runs out.

I crack their skulls together. Bone gives with a wet thunderclap, and blood sprays across both of us before their bodies go limp.

Seven dead in less than five minutes.

Not bad, although I can’t take all the credit this time. Apparently, she and I make a lethal pair.

Mr. Pickles emerges from beneath the bookcase, hissing furiously. I can see why Valentina and her cat get along so well. Same temperament.

The warehouse has gone silent except for our breathing and the slow drip of blood hitting the floor.

Blood streaks her cheek, and her hair clings to her skin. Her scent cuts through the blood and gunpowder, vanilla and white jasmine sharpened by adrenaline. Beneath it, one I recognize instantly. Arousal.

Real omega scent has never compromised my control, and Valentina isn’t even in heat. Yet I have to fight the urge to reach for her.

“What are you doing?” Her brows pinch as she asks, but she doesn’t step away. Her heartbeat pounds loudly enough for me to hear.

“Looking.”

“Well, stop it.” Her voice is sharp. “Stop looking at me like that.”