Page 60 of The Wages of Sin

Of course, they’d be hidden.

I turned my head toward the closet. It was as likely a place as any. I rushed inside and started rifling through his sock and unswear drawers.

Nothing.

Shit.

“Kiera.”

Hearing my name, I froze. A cold shiver ran up my spine as the door hinges rattled as he tried to turn the locked knob.

“Kiera, open the door.”

No way in hell. Not after what I’d just heard. Not until I had something to defend myself with.

I moved faster, indiscriminately grabbing boxes from the top shelf and tossing them on the floor. Hats, neckties, and scarves floated down around me, but nothing helpful.

Until—clang.

One of the boxes hit the floor with far more force than the others. Its top flew off on impact, spilling out a treasure trove of heavy tools—crowbar, wrench, the nastiest looking set of rusty pliers I’d ever seen…and one long serrated hunting knife.

Deep down, I’d been hoping for a gun—the kind of weapon that would allow me to keep a comfortable distance from Dorian while I made my escape—but when the door busted open a second later, I decided the knife would work just fine.

“Kiera.”

I scooped it up off the floor and, extending it out in front of me like a fencing foil, stepped out of the closet.

I found Dorian standing in the center of the door frame. His eyes flashed from my face to the knife. “Put that down, Kiera.”

No way in hell. I shook my head.

“You don’t have to be scared,” he said, his shoulders broad enough to block the whole doorway. “Sal is gone. He’s not going to hurt you.”

“He’s not the one I’m afraid of,” I said, my voice shaking as violently as my hands.

The lines around Dorian’s eyes deepened. The muscles along his jaw tightened as he swallowed down hard. “You’re… You’re afraid of me?”

How could he sound so hurt and surprised? He was an assassin, for God’s sake.

I gestured at him with the knife. “Get out of my way, Dorian. I’m leaving.”

He didn’t move an inch. He didn’t even act as if he’d heard what I’d said. His look of confusion only deepened. “Why would you be afraid of me? I haven’t hurt you. I would never hurt you.”

“You killed Carlo. You just admitted it.”

“I killed him for you.”

“Don’t say that.” I shook my head violently, desperately trying to shake off any of the blame. “Don’t drag me into this.”

“Drag you?” He gave a sharp, bitter laugh. “My love, you dove headlong into this the first day we met. You’re the one who couldn’t stop staring, remember?”

“I didn’t know you were a professional killer.”

“Bullshit.” He tossed the curse down like a gauntlet at my feet, challenging my comforting denial. “You might not have known the specifics, but you knew what I was the moment you looked at me—the second you saw these scars.”

To further prove his point, he peeled off his shirt and dropped it to the floor.

My mouth fell open, but I couldn’t deny it. The proof of his violent life was carved all over his body—just like it had always been.

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