Page 33 of Pretty Little Assassin

“That’s quite an admission from an assassin as good as you are,” I remark. “Not seeing what’s in your environment could be dangerous.”

“Are you lecturing me now, Wraith?”

I watch her without answering. She’s restless. Irritable. Her body heat is warmer than it was a few minutes ago. I can smell it on her.

“I think being close to me makes you a bit careless. Reckless," I say, lounging on the couch with her orange furball lounging on top of me.

“You’re imagining shit.”

“Then why is your breathing ragged now?”

I can see the rise and fall of her chest pick up pace, the colour in her cheeks flush, and her lips part slightly, as if she needs to open her mouth to breathe more.

She ignores me and continues to stalk over. Now it’s her turn to loom.

She looks down at me, scornful but also breathless. I’m thinking about her stilettos again. Her scent reaches me. It prompts me to push further, and I reach out my hand and touch my thumb to her chin.

To my exultation and complete lack of surprise, she’s instantly holding that blade of hers to my throat.

“Watch the cat,” I whisper.

It takes her a second, maybe even a second and a half, to jump backward.

“What the hell are you doing? Don’t fucking touch me.”

I remove my hand. Her scent may be telling me something, but the omega with the blade at my throat has the deciding vote.

I sneeze, barely avoiding the blade.

The cat jumps, which inevitably lets loose another larger floof of fur. I sneeze again.

When Valentina reaches to grab Mr. Pickle’s back in the midst of allergy Armageddon, her hand accidentally brushes the front of my pants.

Both of us freeze.

This grin can’t be contained even if I tried.

“If you want to touch me there again, you’re going to have to earn it,” I tease her.

“Fuck you.”

“You’ll have to earn that, too.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. You can’t be a good cook, a lethal assassin, and a Casanova, Viktor. Not even the Wraith has that big of an ego.” Along with her derisive tone, I scent jasmine and vanilla.

“I wasn’t referring to my ego. You already discovered that.”

She thinks I’m a good cook. My grin stays locked. My cock stays hard. And Valentina—flustered, tucks an audibly protesting feline under her arm and storms off. That cat likes me. Just like I told her.

She stomps toward the room she’s staying in. My room. The only room with a bed.

“I will disembowel you if you try to touch me again,” she calls over her shoulder in a half-hearted threat.

“I look forward to you trying, sweetheart,” I call back. “What if you touch me again?” I ask the door as it slams.

I can practically hear her in there cussing me out still. The vibration of my phone going off in my pocket doesn’t help.

When I reach for it—a new message from the Primacy.