Page 49 of Pretty Little Assassin

But I feel that touch as if she ran her hands over one of my limbs.

“Why do you keep them so clean when they’re just going to get bloodied up anyway?”

“Because I enjoy being civilized as well as ruthless. It separates me from the rest of the monsters.”

Her head tips to the side at my answer as if she’s trying to figure me out.

“You want people to think that you’re a monster, but yet you don’t want to think of yourself as one? Explain that.”

“You’re a bit demanding for such a small creature, aren’t you?”

Valentina frowns. It’s so easy to tease her about her size. The woman can carve anyone up any time she feels like it; I would think she would know I know her height isn't a disadvantage. If anything, she has put it to good use in her career.

“You can explain how it is that you have immunity to my synthetic heat perfumes too, while you’re at it.”

“I’ll tell you what. I’ll answer your questions, but then you have to answer one of mine.”

“Which one?”

“I want to know why you hum a stupid tune when you get stressed. I’ve heard you do it. Same tune, and it's not a melody befitting a ruthless assassin. Sounds like some stupid jingle or⁠—”

Her glare makes me stop talking. It would appear I’ve hit a hotspot. That makes me even more interested in the answer now.

“You first, Viktor.”

Before I answer her, I slice a tomato. Whip a sauce together in a small dish. I pull a few chunks of meat off a slab I already marinated. Sandwiches, good sandwiches, it feels like the right meal for the moment. And I look forward to annoying my pretty little assassin with my superior culinary skills.

I set the plates down on the table, then sit to join her. Mr. Pickles is on the couch again but lifts his nose to the air.

“He likes cheese,” she says without looking over her shoulder.

I yank a slice of cheese out of my own sandwich and toss it to him. The cat is a damn good catch. One paw in the air, one claw stabs the cheese like a tiny pitchfork, and the cheese disappears in three seconds flat.

“You can start with the second question—what makes you immune to my arsenal of pheromones?”

“Do you know what a wraith actually is, little assassin?”

“Yeah, an apparition.”

Valentina’s definition is technically correct but lacks the most important nuance.

“A wraith is the spectre that a man sees right before death comes for him.”

“Are you trying to scare me?” Her nose wrinkles. “Because it won’t work. I’ve faced alphas tougher than you.”

“No, you haven’t. And your lying doesn’t work on me either. I don’t need to make myself sound scarier than I actually am,” I tell her as I watch Valentina take a satisfying bite out of her sandwich. “I’m already scary.”

“Oh yeah? Because right now, you seem to be dodging the question. That doesn’t exactly scream terrifying monster vibes to me.”

I take a bite of my sandwich first. Not because I’m dodging. Because I’m hungry. And because the sandwich is excellent.

“I’m immune to synthetics because I’ve been conditioned to become numb to their effects.”

“Numb? If alphas could simply train their way out of it, then how come you’re the only one I know that isn’t affected by them? Every other alpha hasn’t stood a chance. What makes you so special?”

“Torture.”

I say it quietly, and Valentina looks up from her sandwich and puts it down on the plate. She gives me her full attention.