Page 46 of Silent Schemes
Then aims at my chest, finger on the trigger.
“Do it,” I say, wrapping my hand around hers, staring into her eyes.
It’s fascinating what I find there.
Flickers of admiration. Flashes of hatred. And a long flame of lust.
She holds the sight for a long time, then lowers the gun.
“Why didn’t you?” she asks.
“Why didn’tyou?” I counter.
She shrugs. “I like the game.”
I lean closer, voice a raspy murmur. “New game. First one to lose control loses everything.”
She meets my gaze, raising her chin. “I don’t lose.”
I believe her.
But I’m betting she’s wrong.
CHAPTER SIX
Sienna
The abandoned warehouse smells like rust and rain, with undertones of machine oil that remind me of my father's kill rooms.
Vincent chose it, of course.
He always picks places that echo violence, as if the ghosts of past murders might keep me in line.
I've been living in Varrick's penthouse for a week now.
Seven days of circling each other like wolves, testing boundaries, drawing invisible battle lines across marble floors and silk sheets.
Seven days of him watching me with those knowing eyes, letting me keep my weapons, letting me pretend I'm not a prisoner.
Seven days of my body betraying everything my father trained into me.
The drive here took thirty minutes through Vancouver's rain-slicked streets.
I counted every turn, memorized every street light, cataloged every possible escape route.
Old habits.
The kind that keeps assassins alive longer than their expiration dates.
My hands haven't stopped shaking since I left Varrick's penthouse, and I tell myself it's from the cold, not from the way he looked at me this morning over coffee—like I'm something precious instead of poisonous.
Vincent is already there when I arrive, cigarette dangling from his lips, the cherry glowing like a tiny eye in the darkness.
His cheap cologne can't mask the scent of death that clings to him—it never could.
He's killed three men since I last saw him. I can tell by the way he rolls his shoulders, working out the tension that comes from wielding a baseball bat for hours.
There's a spot of blood on his collar he missed, and his knuckles are freshly scabbed.
