Page 38 of Pretty Little Assassin

I’m shocked when he actually answers my question. Sort of.

First he goes quiet, and I wonder if I offended him. Asking curious questions of the Wraith could be hazardous to my health. I feel like my jasmine and vanilla is combining with his pine and black pepper, and I feel almost faint.

He tugs at his seatbelt and runs a finger under the collar of his black shirt.

“I wasn’t always quite as bloodthirsty as I am now.” He sounds…unguarded. Unsettled.

I know that tone. I’ve felt it before. I felt it when I realized my mom wasn’t coming back and that she had left me with my stepdad.

It’s the tone of loss.

“It takes one to know one,” I quip back at him lightly. “Tell me,” I say, framing it deliberately as not a question.

“My little sister. It happened a long time ago.” He clears his throat. “I failed to protect her.”

I sit quietly and give that failure the respect it deserves.

“That sort of failure never truly leaves your bones,” he says softly.

I look out the windshield at the venue.

I know that one. I couldn’t get my mother out of the bottom of a bottle.

There was nothing I could have done. That has never once helped.

“Sometimes, there’s only so much you can do,” I murmur, watching the hotel staff through the windows. I make a mental note of the entry vulnerabilities and possible sniper positions. “Sometimes shit just happens, and you’re left to deal with it.”

“It sounds like you might know what I’m talking about,” he says. He pulls at his seatbelt again, shifting in his seat. The Wraith, notorious for waiting motionlessly, is restless. “Did you fail to protect someone you loved, too?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

I don’t want to think about my mom right now.

“Mr. Pickles was a stray,” I say. “I took him in; he took to me, and he’s been with me ever since.”

“Do you make a habit of rescuing strays off the street?” He asks it lightly, and then he waits, a little tensely, fidgeting. Odd. The Wraith doesn’t fidget.

“Are you psychoanalyzing me?” I ask, feigning offence while I observe him out of the corner of my eye. He’s still staring at the building. But he’s jittery. Agitated.

He shifts again in the driver’s seat. He looks ready to get out of the car.

“No. I’m just trying to find out about your cat. Since he seems to be the most amicable new guest staying at my place right now.” His tone is right. His body language is off. I think I see a bead of sweat drip down his temple.

“Mr. Pickles is an awesome cat.” We both want to talk about the cat instead of our feelings, so we’ll talk about the cat. Even though the fucking Wraith is starting to look like a shuddering Scooby Doo. I’m going to ignore it if he does. “And, aside from his most recent transgression of getting in bed with you, he remains the only male that I don’t want to disembowel with my dagger.”

“He climbed into my bed. He didn’t climb into bed with me.”

Thanks for the reminder that I slept in your bed with my cat, Viktor fucking Petrov.

“It was a figure of speech, Viktor, for fuck’s sake.”

He starts to answer. I watch him yank the seatbelt away from his body and let it snap back. Then he rips it away from himself. He unbuckles and throws the belt back. His black eyes widen.

“Viktor?” I ask, watching his muscles tense and his posture tighten.

His breathing speeds up. I can hear his heart pounding against his chest. His eyes are wide and frozen, and he’s grabbing the steering wheel as if he’s white-knuckling a high-speed car chase.

I look out the windows to see if something outside has his defences up, but there isn't.