Page 38 of Queen of Spades

Or a trophy.

That’s probably more accurate.

I slam the underwear in my hand back into the box and shove the lid on as I take in the multitude of pictures of me. They go all the way back to when I first got to Vegas. It’s a little surreal that I never even sensed I was in danger.

“Come on,” Grady says from behind me. “Come talk to me.”

“What’s there to say?” I ask, spinning around. “You’ve got a prisoner in a cell in your guest bedroom!”

“Yeah, well, you come with a lot of enemies.” His muscular shoulder stretches his T-shirt to capacity as he shrugs. “Don’t you, Sparrow?”

My vision goes hazy as I stagger forward, moving past him and out into the living room as I try to determine if he really just called me that.

God.

Fuck.

Holy fuck.

I got stuck on the fact that he’s a stalker and completely forgot to question how deeply his deceit goes.

Those tattoos on his neck taunt me with my own stupidity.

I am a foolish girl.

I spin to face him. He’s still in the doorway. He didn’t try to stop me when I needed to get out of that room, but I don’t know what to think.

“Who hired you?”

“Lucien Andretti,” he says with a heavy sigh. “I don’t take contracts for women, but he had me dead to rights. I owed him a marker. I’m not sure if I would have completed the job, but I caught your scent, and it became irrelevant, anyway. I faked my own death so that we could be together.”

I’m screwed up.

That much is obvious, based on the fact my system lights up at his words.

I still can’t let myself be distracted by my hormones. “You’ve been lying to me since we met.”

“Hey,” he says calmly. “That goes both ways. How many times have I asked you what you were running from? You’ve lied to me at least as many times as I’ve lied to you. In my estimation, they cancel each other out.”

“I’m extremely uncomfortable right now,” I whisper, blinking like a fool.

“Why? Because you thought you were playing me, but I’ve known who you were since day one? And on top of all of that, you thought you were going to come over here and catch me doing something shady.”

“Yeah,” I agree.

All of that has me feeling some type of way.

I’m strangely grateful he’s not cheating on me, and I know that makes me a different level of screwed up.

He’s a freaking professional killer…

And I’m relieved.

I think that says something about me as a person.

“I really should spank your ass for accusing me of something so out of character,” he says.

“You think cheating is worse than killing people?” I ask, but even as I say the words, I know I do.

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