Page 66 of Silent Schemes
In the bathroom, I avoid my reflection at first, brushing my teeth, splashing cold water on my face, going through the motions of normalcy.
But eventually, I have to look.
The woman in the mirror is a stranger—soft where I should be sharp, warm where I should be cold.
My eyes have lost that dead quality my father cultivated so carefully over years of training, years of killing, years of being nothing but a weapon in designer clothing.
I look alive.
I look like a woman in?—
No. I can't even think it. Can't give it that power.
But the word echoes anyway: Love.
I'm in love with Varrick Bane.
The man I'm supposed to kill.
The man whose death will either free my sister or condemn us both.
The man who knows exactly what I am and wants me anyway.
In the kitchen, I make coffee with mechanical precision, trying to rebuild walls that Varrick tears down with every touch, every knowing look, every "ruin" that rolls off his tongue like a prayer.
The espresso machine—probably worth more than most people's cars—hisses and steams, filling the penthouse with the smell of expensive coffee beans.
I've gotten used to luxury these three weeks.
Gotten used to Egyptian cotton sheets and marble countertops, and views that stretch to the mountains.
Gotten used to being treated like I matter.
That's the most dangerous thing of all.
The city sprawls below, Vancouver waking up to another day of legitimate business layered over criminal enterprise.
I can see the port from here, where Varrick's shipments come in under cover of darkness.
The financial district where he launders money through shell companies.
The clubs that serve as fronts for darker dealings.
An empire built on blood and brutality, and somehow I've ended up at the center of it.
Somewhere out there, my father is waiting for news of Varrick's death.
Three weeks without a kill—it's unprecedented for me.
The longest I've ever taken was six days, and that was only because the target was in witness protection.
Father must be getting impatient, suspicious.
Or worse—he's planning something.
Somewhere, Maya is probably in training, learning to be what I am.
The thought makes me sick.
