Page 27 of Ruthless King
Beautiful.
Dangerous.
Unsettling.
Psychotic.
She has that knife raised high before I even have the sense to pivot out of her reach. Undeterred, she swipes for me anyway, her eyes blazing, teeth bared.
Laughing, I grab her wrist, and she recoils, stumbling into a sideboard in her haste to wrench away from me.
“You aren’t a professional,” I deduce, sizing her up with a glance. Disappointment melds with the effects of my last whiskey, and my shoulders slump in defeat. So much for my good boy sending a naughty toy my way. “Sexually or otherwise,” I suspect, sounding like a child denied a treat. “Not a part of my gift, it seems.”
What a damn shame.
A second glance makes it more obvious that she’s no whore. She’s far too slight for one, no hint of muscle in sight. Her skin is paler than the style these days, and her hair looks to be a natural shade in between blond and brown—no hint of highlights or some shit most escorts adorn themselves with. But her hands give her away—slim, pale, struggling to grip the knife she holds.
She’s no assassin, either.
“Revenge, is it?” I ask as she whirls to face me, blade drawn. “Which loved one of yours did I kill? A beloved daddy? A brother? It can’t be your mother,” I add, easily parrying her next attempt to slash my throat. “I don’t kill women.”
Her eyes flash at that, and she lunges again, flailing more wildly with her blade.
“So, your mother then,” I deduce while twisting on my heel to avoid her attack. Unguarded, she doesn’t even try to stop me from gripping her waist, tugging her against me. It’s only as her eyes meet mine for a split-second that I realize I’ve fucked up.
Pain lances through my side, drawing a hiss as I buck out of her range. Shit. I don’t even have to look down to know she got me. I can feel the blood already starting to pool beneath this godforsaken suit. Fuck it. What a way to end the night. Hissing in irritation, I swipe at the wound without bothering to inspect it in full.
“So, you are trained, after all,” I rasp. “Fuck, playing games, then.”
I snatch a handful of her hair, using the grip for leverage to shove her away. Only when I let go, do I realize how rough I’ve been. She’s so thin that in theory, she could go right through the wall. At the last minute, she catches herself with her free hand, already spinning to come at me again.
Even as I brace myself for her next blow, I’m impressed. Someone trained her well.
But her skill eliminates about ten potential motherfuckers off the list of who her employer—or avenged family member—might be. None of those sons of bitches would ever have the balls to train a woman.
“So, I offended your mother,” I say, trying and failing to maintain eye contact. Her gaze is a viper, darting around the room in search of an exit. I barely manage to shift my stance enough to keep her from lunging for the door. “Did I fuck her?” I ask, raking my gaze over her body from head to toe. “Don’t tell me you’re my long-lost daughter.”
It’s sick, but as my eyes fall over the small breasts peeking beneath the neckline of her dress, I pray to God she’s not. Though, fuck. At least then, I’d have a daughter to carry on my legacy in addition to Vin.
Her cheeks flush with fury at the suggestion, her chest heaving. Wrong answer.
“Did I fuck you?” I sound as skeptical as I feel, and the answer seems to be a definitive no. I would remember her. Those eyes. Those lips. Her smell—one inhale and I’m high on the stench—roses.
“Did I hurt you?” I ask, noting the shift in my pitch. I sound damn near genuine. “If I did fuck you and never call, trust me—put the knife down, and I will be more than willing to make it up to you. I was probably drunk.”
Very,verydrunk, I decide as my gaze descends her shapely legs. Piss drunk. Vin had probably snuck something into my drink as a prank—it wouldn’t be the first time. His way of trying to convince me to stay sober.
But her eyes narrow, and more color floods her cheeks. Rather than peg her issue, I’ve insulted her.
And she comes for me again, eyes blazing.
For a heartbeat, she transforms into someone else. Someone even smaller, scrawnier, her honey-colored hair in pigtails, her expression so feral she resembled a stray mutt more than a little girl.
I’m almost startled into saying her name out loud. Almost…
But she’s dead. I know because I hand-delivered her to her killer.
Fire slices through the meat of my cheek, drawing my attention to an outstretched pale hand lashing through the air. The little bitch is quick, reaching me before I have the chance to block. She lands a good punch to my chest, already maneuvering her knife to go again.
