Page 32 of Vengeful Lies

“If you kill me now, you won’t ever get your guns back.”

My jaw falls open. How did he know that’s what I was thinking? He pushes off the doorframe. “It’s written all over your face, Kitten. You might be good with a gun, but subtlety is not your forte.” He turns his back to me. “Come, let’s eat. I made us dinner.”

I scoff, grumbling under my breath, “Come, let’s eat in my evil lair.”

He turns, appearing offended. “What is it with everyone mimicking me lately? I don’t even sound like that.”

I flick my hair over my shoulder. “Have you heard your own voice? You’re kind of fucking annoying.”

He turns again, trying his best to hide the smile. “Someone is sensitive about their guns being taken.”

My fingers curl into my palms until his previous words finally hit me. “Wait? You cook?”

“I do. Now, fucking move,” he grumbles and reaches for my hand. I pull away from him. This motherfucker might have me here willingly, but that doesn’t mean he has permission to touch me. Especially when I’m fucking furious.

Remind me why I haven’t killed this motherfucker yet.

Oh, that’s right, because my client still wants him alive.

That makes this asshole one lucky bastard.

It’s the fragrant aroma that hits me first as we enter the kitchen, and I try not to show my surprise.Is this guy just good at fucking everything?

“Sit,” he instructs, without so much as looking in my direction. I bite my tongue to keep from grumbling under my breath again.

I take a seat at the island, sweeping my gaze around the grand kitchen. I hadn’t made it this far the last time I broke in. I’d only crept up to his bedroom. I hate the fact his home is beautiful. But it also feels empty. Probably because of the soulless asshole who owns it.

I wonder if my guns are hidden here somewhere.

I twist and look over my shoulder, trying to peer out the doorway that seems to lead into a dining space.

“Your guns aren’t here if that’s what you’re looking for,” he states casually as he plates up what looks to be chicken smothered in a cream sauce and vegetables on the side. Well, don’t we have a fucking Michelin chef in here.

“You get that out of a box?” I snidely remark.

“In my family and heritage, you say thank you when someone serves you food.”

“In my upbringing, you don’t steal,” I snap back.

He pauses mid-scoop with one eyebrow raised, that scar splitting through it. It’s disgustingly beautiful to see this deadly god of a man do something so fucking mundane while still well-dressed and perfectly put together.

“You stole my watches first.”

I go to speak but immediately close my mouth.

Fuck.

He has a point.

I have to look away when his arrogant smirk kicks up again.

Fucking asshole.

“If you want your watches back so badly, I’ll even spit polish them before I return them. Just give me my guns back,” I say, getting irritated. One of them was my father’s. I should kill him now, fuck the contract. Those guns are my life, and nothing can replace them.

“You seem to really care about your weapons. Let me guess… a gift from your father?” The aroma of the food wafts under mynose, and I have to give credit when it’s due; it smells fucking amazing, which only pisses me off more. He called me over for what? Fucking dinner? At my silence, he seems proud of himself. “Okay, so I did hit home. Maybe they were your father’s.”

“I hate you,” I mumble. The corner of his mouth tilts up at that as he carries the plates toward the dining room, where a pre-lit candle stands in the center of the table.

---