Page 58 of Black Heart

Layla’s scent is still on my fingers, a soft, delicious overlay to the tinny stench of blood. But it’s a fatalistic distraction. I’ll never see killing in the same way now that her name is forever etched upon it.

A muffled explosion reverberates through the house, shattering my contemplation.

I’m moving before the sound fades, taking the stairs, a knife in one hand, gun in the other.

A telltale sizzle of circuitry fills the air as I step ontothe second floor. I round the corner, taking in the scene in an instant, and note the broken lock on Layla’s door, still smoking after the charge used to destroy it.

Layla’s set up her phone to act as a spotlight and blind the assassin’s night vision goggles. That assassin’s now on the floor, goggles flung off and his body convulsing. Layla’s backed against the side wall, dressed in an oversized sweater hitting her mid-thigh. I zero in on the wires trailing from the damaged lock to a battery pack in her hand.

Clever.

Layla must have tampered with the battery-powered lock to give a jolt of electricity to anyone who tried to sabotage it. And this guy was the lucky recipient of her surprise.

The tension in her body relaxes when she spots me.

“Scythe,” she breathes out, her voice ragged as she drops the battery pack onto the floor with a loud thunk.

Her hands are shaking, but her gaze is deadly calm, a distinction that sparks pride as I assess her for any injury.

I nod at her, an acknowledgment of a job well done. She’d surprised me when she rammed her forehead into Bonesaw’s nose, keeping her sense of self-protection despite her terror. Now, she’s downright impressed me.

“Are you all right?”

My voice comes out rougher than intended, my concern seeping through.

Layla opens her mouth to respond, but in that split second, the intruder recovers, and with a wet growl, he lunges at Layla.

On instinct, I start forward, my gun already lifting. But Layla is moving as well.

With a merciless grace she shouldn’t possess, she sidesteps his reckless charge, using his momentum to shove him face-first into her bedroom wall. He grunts in surprise andpain as she wrenches the arm he’d used to reach for her up behind his back.

My steps falter in disbelief.

And then ...

Then she swings.

In the span of a heartbeat, she slams her laptop into his face with a well-aimedcrunchof bone against aluminum. The blow sends the assassin sprawling, his body going limp.

For a moment, there’s only the sound of Layla panting, her chest palpitating with exertion. Then she’s lowering the laptop to her side and looking at me with wide eyes.

“I’m ... I’m okay,” she says, her voice wobbling.

I can’t hold back my grin beneath the mask.

“Nice swing.”

Gently taking the laptop from her, I guide her to sit on the edge of the bed. She allows this without protest, her gaze never leaving me.

I turn my attention back to our uninvited guest.

This guy isn’t going anywhere soon, but if he and his friends knew about the power outage and wanted to take advantage, there are bound to be others. We need information—fast.

I cross the room and drop my knee into the assassin’s back to secure his wrists in handcuffs.

As I pat him down for weapons, Layla asks, “Aren’t you going to kill him?”

I glance up at her question. When I do, I realize I’ve made a grave error, for I’m incapable of averting my eyes from this woman who is so much more than she appears.

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