Page 63 of Vow of Silence

“I know what to say.” The man returns his firm stare to her, the movement of his jaw drawing focus to a pinched scar on his neck. “I’m not sure if I should.”

“Why not?” Her attention drops to where he still flexes his fingers around the embedded blade. “Do you want to take the secret to your grave?”

“Wouldn’t you?”

“Depends how loyal I was to the other party,” she responds readily. “What benefit is it to you to keep the name secret? It helps them, sure, but how does it help you?”

He leers at her assessment of the situation. “I’m dead anyway if I tell.”

“Better odds at living, though, don’t you think?” She points the blade toward herself. “I’m here, but they aren’t. Who do you think would kill you first?”

“You wouldn’t kill me.” He chuckles.

I push off the wall. The woman at my feet shuffles sideways to put distance between us.

“Are you sure about that?” Stas turns and, to my surprise, sets the gun down on the table. Near me.

“Baby girl, you don’t look like you could kill a fly.”

“Shouldn’t judge a book by its cover.” Nastasya spins back to the jerk.

He lifts his hand from the injured shoulder to protect himself, fending her off while he raises one leg to put an obstacle between them. I step forward, my hand raised slightly and ready to lift the loaded weapon she left on the table. Stas struggles at first, but she eventually gets hold of his wrist as intended and bends his arm back and high, on an awkward angle. The guy grunts, pushing back against her, but she has the weight advantage as she pushes down on him where he sits.

The tip of my blade pierces his shirt in the matching spot to the other side, a malicious grin spreading across her pretty lips.

“What are you doing?” the woman on the floor whines. “Let him go!”

“I don’t think so.” Stas pushes a little harder. But it’s the way the man attempts to fight back that angles his arm for greater injury. He pushes forward against her hold, and the knife digs in. “You don’t deserve mercy.”

“Hey, buddy.” The asshole peers around Stas toward me. “You need to get your woman under control.”

I shrug, clasping my hands before me.She already is under control—hers.

“Who paid you to kill me?” my girl hollers.

His wide eyes return to Stas. “You’ve got to know, right?”

Another quarter inch in the flesh. “Would I be here if I did?”

“This is fucking insane.” His voice cracks as he attempts to lift his left arm—the one I immobilized. Shock renders his eyes wide when his hand refuses to rise.

He’d need a working tendon to do that.

“Man, you’ve got to stop!” His voice gains an octave.

The bitch to my left joins in, wailing with both hands flat on the floor to hold herself up.

God, I love this sound: realization. When the mark understands that they have no way out of the situation other than to push through.

“Who fucking paid you?” Stas hollers. Her loose sections of hair hang wild in her face, the color of the irises a crisp spring green with the rush of adrenalin.

I don’t know if she’s ever done anything like this. I assumed not, but she’s fallen into the role so easily—as though she’s waited for this moment.

An opportunity to prove herself.

“Askhim.” The man uses the index finger of his trapped hand to point across to me. “He should fucking know.”

The discarded Glock slides against my palm, the barrel to his temple before I bother to blink.

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