Page 17 of Pretty Little Assassin

“Where the fuck am I?”

“You are safe.” He doesn’t interrupt the steady rhythm of his hand against Mr. Pickles’ back. “This is my home.”

“Your home?” I snort. “This isn’t a social call, Petrov. Untie me.”

He doesn’t move.

That’s when something else catches my attention. A bowl on the floor a few feet away from where he’s sitting.

“What the fuck is that?” I ask, looking at an entire rotisserie chicken stuffed into a bowl on the floor. Skin, wings, trussing string, and all. A whole supermarket bird, still faintly warm.

“Cat food,” he says plainly, as if I ought to know this basic fact. “Although clearly this cat could use a diet.”

“Don’t fat-shame my cat. Mr. Pickles is a domestic animal, not a rabid canine like you.”

The corner of his mouth lifts as if I’ve paid him a compliment.

That fucking almost-smile.

“I’ll untie you once I know you’ll be civil.”

I don’t like being told what to do or how to act. It pisses me off in exactly the same way it did when my stepfather told me to behave. Luckily, pretending is in my skill set too.

“Of course I’ll behave,” I say. “What choice do I have now that you’ve brought me here?”

As expected, he stands and comes closer to untie me.

They all come closer.

I swear, he’s no different from the rest of them. All that power, and he still can’t see the knife I’m about to become.

Viktor takes out a switchblade and cuts the bindings on my feet first, then the ones around my wrists. He remains too close as I get to my feet and punch him in the face.

His head snaps to the side. Then Viktor slowly turns back to me, touches his jaw with his fingertips, and grins.

Not the scary grin from before. This one is sharper, almost feral, as if the violence has finally made the evening interesting.

“Is that what you call behaving?”

I drive my knee toward his ribs before he finishes. He blocks it with his forearm, catches my thigh, and uses my own momentum to spin me around. My back hits his chest, but before he can secure my wrists, I slam my heel down on his instep and throw my head back toward his nose.

He avoids the blow by less than an inch.

His breath is hot against my ear. “You are proving my point.”

I wrench one arm free and reach for Mercy, but Viktor releases me before I can draw her. He steps back, hands loose at his sides, inviting me to try again.

Every instinct I have tells me to do it. Another part of me, the one I trust to keep me alive, wants to know why he isn’t trying to hurt me.

“Before you try that again, understand this: I brought you here because your warehouse is compromised. Primacy sent that team. More were coming. It was not safe.”

“How do you know it was Primacy?”

“I observe. Plus it would make sense with Johnson being the one who sent them.”

He returns to his chair, resuming his position as cat masseuse and sneezing his fucking brains out.

“How did you put me to sleep?” I ask. I don’t like it when someone gets the upper hand on me. It rarely happens, and it certainly won’t happen the same way twice.