Page 16 of Pretty Little Assassin

“You know this doesn’t change anything,” I say.

“I’m counting on it.”

“When I kill you, I’ll make it quick.”

“When I kill you,” she says against my mouth, “I’ll take my time.”

She kisses me again as if she’s sealing the threat. It makes me think of her taking her time with me in all sorts of ways.

A siren wails somewhere in the distance. The warehouse is compromised, and the Primacy won’t have sent only one team.

Time to go.

While her attention is still on my mouth, I slide my hand to the base of her neck and find the point with my thumb. Two seconds of pressure. That is all it takes on anyone, and she is not anyone, so I give it three.

Her tongue stops moving against mine. Her lips fall slack, and her eyes begin to glaze over.

“Viktor fucking Petrov,” she whispers, her voice strained. “What the fuck have you…”

The sentence dies as her legs give out. I catch her against me and lift her into my arms.

“Спи крепко, маленькая убийца.” Sleep tight, little assassin.

Behind me, Mr. Pickles has gone from hissing to meowing. I speak six languages fluently. Cat is not one of them.

“Yeah, you’re fucking coming too.”

I balance Valentina against my chest, scoop up the orange monster, and settle him across my shoulder. He plants his claws into my flesh and loudly objects to his sudden distance from the ground.

“If you want to come, you need to shut up. Otherwise, it’s back to the couch for you.”

The cat settles against my shoulder as if he understands me. His fluffy orange tail curls across my mouth, preventing me from insulting him further.

The biggest sneeze of my life makes Valentina’s head bob against my chest. I tighten my grip on her and start toward the warehouse exit.

My eyes are burning, my shoulder is shredded with claw marks, and I’m carrying the woman I was sent to eliminate.

Christ.

7

VALENTINA

Even before my eyes open, I already know that I’m going to wake up fucking furious.

When I find myself tied up in some unfamiliar place, that only makes me even more enraged.

I wrestle against my restraints and try to reach toward my inner thigh for Mercy, but I’m tied too tightly. My hands are bound behind my back, my feet are tied, and I’m wriggling on the floor like a hooked fish.

At least Mercy is still strapped to me. Viktor either didn’t find her, which I doubt, or left her there because he’s arrogant enough to believe I’ll never reach her.

As soon as I look up, I see him.

He’s in a chair, staring at me while petting my fucking cat. I swear to God, Mr. Pickles and I are going to have a come-to-Jesus meeting about all of this later.

“You look ridiculous,” I spit at Viktor.

And he does, sitting there with a pile of used tissues and eyes as red as that mulberry crayon colour they discontinued years ago. He is losing the allergy war. It might be the only fight Viktor Petrov has lost to date, but he’s still refusing to surrender.