Page 44 of Pretty Little Assassin

VALENTINA

The Valentine’s Day Gala.

Fuck does this bring back memories of my adolescence that I would rather bury in a very deep grave.

At least I do still have my heels with me, courtesy of Viktor shoving them into a go-bag alongside Mr. Pickle’s favourite cat sweater. Now all I need is a nice, new cocktail dress and the perfect heat perfumes, and I’ll be ready to go.

“Shopping?” Viktor asks if the word doesn’t appear in any of the languages he’s fluent in. “Now?”

“Yes, shopping. What the hell am I supposed to wear to the gala if I don’t get a new cocktail dress? My combat boots? One of your shirts?”

“I’ll come.”

“I don’t need an escort to go shopping. You should already know by now that I’m not that easy a target. Besides, my stepdad wants me at the gala, not murdered inside a dress boutique the day before.”

“Trust me, little assassin, I know you’re not fragile. I’m still coming. After your shopping spree, I want to be in on the meeting that you have with your little crew of misfits. A plan doesn’t work unless all of its moving parts are in sync with each other.”

“I thought you normally worked alone,” I remind him.

“Yeah, so did I.”

A few blocks down, a row of boutiques sits side by side. Viktor stands at the door like a fucking Cerberus again while I try on dresses. It doesn’t take me long. I know what I want and what looks good on me.

It’s a Valentine’s Day gala, after all. Love it or hate it, red is my colour.

I find the dress, look at myself in the dressing room mirror, and decide to test just exactly how immune the Wraith is to synthetics. The file says he is, but let’s see what happens in the field.

When I step out of the dressing room, a red cocktail dress hugging my small frame so tightly it pushes my breasts up into a prime, plumped position, I carry my heels dangling from my finger and go to put them on in the middle of the boutique.

Viktor’s eyes are on me like sweat on a hot day.

So far so good.

I slip the heels on and reach into my purse for a few of the heat perfumes I brought with me.

“Do you want help finding some accessories for that dress?” the saleswoman asks.

“No, thank you, I’ve got it. I’m just trying it on for a moment to make sure I like it.”

She wrinkles her nose at me. I couldn’t fucking care less.

Viktor watches as I select the heat signature that complements the moment. Can’t fully try on the dress without the synthetics to match. A sexy red cocktail dress, a stiff-as-hell boutique environment, and an alpha standing at the door watching me as if he hasn’t had anything to eat in years.

Operatives stay on suppressants. Madam’s rule, and the only one of hers I’ve never argued with—a heat in the field is a liability with a scent trail.

“Can you help me zip this all the way up?” I ask as I walk over to Viktor. “I just want to make sure it fits perfectly before committing my credit card to it.”

I turn around to give him my back. I lift my hair so the heat perfume I just spritzed on myself diffuses, and I wait for alpha nature to do its job.

Two alphas on opposite sides of the store swivel toward me, nostrils flaring, and my mouth curves with satisfaction.

I’m most acutely aware of the alpha I’m standing in front of.

Viktor zips up the back of the dress, and I feel his fingers against my skin more than I probably should. He inhales deeply; I can hear his breath. I can feel him release it against the back of my neck too.

And when he leans his mouth closer to my ear, something in me freezes.

“If you’re trying to taunt me, it’s not entirely ineffective,” he whispers. “But trust that it has nothing to do with the synthetic garbage you just spritzed on your neck. I can smell that shit from a mile away, and it does nothing to me.”