Page 19 of Scorpion

“Eight. Seven on duty. One coming off. Two gardeners and a maid.”

“Of those eight, how many of them were women?”

“None.”

“How many of them can blend into a crowd?”

“Zero.”

“I have fifty-nine men on my roster. Over half of them have a military background—marines, special ops, rangers. All men. All with the subtlety of a neon sign. If anyone were to be taken out first, it’d be the men in suits. They’re the first and only line of defense I’d have. Then there’s you.” His lips twist into a grin. “You could be on my arm, in a twenty-thousand-dollar dress, and no one would know that you could take them out in seconds. Beautiful. Violent. Deadly.”

I don’t deserve to be called beautiful. I most definitely haven’t felt that way for years. Gaya, Amy, and I would go out whenever I was back, and we’d all get dolled up before dinner or hitting the town. But come morning, I was back to dressing like a woman my mother would never approve of.

These past two years I’ve been avoiding looking in the mirror because I don’t want to see a ghost stare back at me—whether it’s Gaya’s, TJ’s, or my own.

Mathijs inches closer until we’re a foot apart, and I have to crane my neck to look up at him. There’s too much reverence in his voice when he speaks. It curls around my stomach and makes me feel weaker than I’ve ever felt.

I want to lean in and place my head against his chest to absorb his warmth. I want to breathe in his scent, and believe his words, and feel less alone.

“I don’t want a soldier. I want you. Anyone can pick up a gun. You? You don’t need a weapon to become one.” A soft smile curves his lips. “Although, I hear you’re exceptional with one.” He winks. “I take credit for it, of course.”

My breath hitches when he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. My eyes shut for the briefest moment, relishing in the slightest brush of his fingers against my skin. It sparks electricity through my veins and dies when it hits the shadows inside my soul.

The way he looks at me… like he’s seen every part of me and I really am exactly what he said. Beautiful. With my busted lip, swollen eyes, and broken soul.

“My little Lieverd.” He appraises me with a beaming smile. “The best female sniper the world has ever seen.”

His proximity makes me hyperaware of every inch of our skin and how easy it would be for him to touch me. I’m reminded that human touch can come without pain.

I shift my weight as I look over his shoulder. Anywhere but at him. “Not the best. She died a while back.”

Mathijs’s chuckle skitters down my spine and flushes my body with a warmth that I forgot existed. “So it’s settled then. You’ll stay,” he says, backing away toward the exit.

Cockiness oozes from his pores as I glare at him. “I never—”

“The physio will stop by at ten a.m. Enjoy your dinner, Zal.”

He shuts the door behind him before I get the chance to say another word.

Prick.

Chapter 6

MATHIJS

There are many ways to identify a counterfeit banknote.

The weight. The embedded security thread. Color. Paper texture. Ink. Watermarks.

This particular Franklin has all of those down pat, and more specifically, microprints. The small characters printed on banknotes that can only be seen beneath a magnifying glass.

I hold the note up to the fluorescent light.

Art. That’s the only way to describe this masterpiece. It’s beautiful. Truly.

The equipment needed to pull this off would have cost a fortune and several counts of armed robbery.

“I suggest you start singing, Mr. Ofsoski,” I chime.

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