Page 69 of Silent Schemes
"Non-negotiable." His voice is steel. "Three hours, girl."
The parking garage is a concrete tomb, all shadows and echoes and the smell of old car oil and decay.
Level three is mostly empty at this time of day—a few scattered cars belonging to early morning shoppers or overnight workers.
Bastian is already there, leaning against a black sedan, smoking one of those imported cigarettes he thinks makes him look sophisticated.
He's trying too hard, as always—expensive suit that doesn't quite fit right, too much product in his hair, cologne that announces his presence before he enters a room.
He's my father’s nephew, my cousin by blood, though family means nothing in our world except shared sins and potential betrayals.
He's younger than me by two years, but acts like he owns the world.
And, on top of it all, my father has been grooming him to take over parts of the operation, and he's eager to prove himself.
Too eager.
Desperate men make mistakes, but they also make messes.
"Cousin," he greets, flicking ash at my feet in a gesture meant to show disrespect. "You look...different."
"Three weeks undercover will do that."
He pushes off from the car, circles me slowly like a predator that doesn't realize it's prey.
I force myself to stand still, to show no weakness, no emotion, no indication that I'm anything other than my father’s perfect soldier.
But inside, my mind is calculating angles, distances, the three different ways I could kill him before he could scream.
"You smell like him," Bastian comments, stopping too close, invading my personal space deliberately.
"I'm supposed to," I defend, keeping my voice level. "It's part of the cover, remember?"
"No." He leans in, inhales near my neck, and I suppress the urge to break his nose.
His breath is hot and smells like cigarettes and the whiskey he probably needed for courage. "You smellofhim. Like youbelong to him. Like he's marked his territory. Like you're his whore instead of Daddy’s perfect little weapon."
"Don't be dramatic, Bastian. It doesn’t suit you."
"Your father’s worried you're in too deep, that you’re going to flip. Three weeks, no kill. That's not like you, Sienna." His hand comes up to touch my face, fingers trailing along my jaw, and I let him even though my skin crawls. "The famous Cross killer, reduced to playing house with the enemy. What would your mother think?"
The mention of my mother is a calculated way of hurting me.
She died when I was twelve—Father’s bullet in her head when he found out about her hunger games, about the way she was abusing us… but our father abused us both in different ways.
Bastian knows this. He's trying to provoke me.
"My mother is dead," I say flatly. "Her opinions are irrelevant."
"True. But your father's opinions? Very relevant. And he thinks you've forgotten what you are."
"I knowexactlywhat I am."
"Do you? Because from where I'm standing, you look like a woman who's been fucked into compliance. Varrick Bane must be very talented to turn Theodore's best killer into his pet."
The slap comes from nowhere—his hand connecting with my cheek hard enough to snap my head to the side.
I taste blood where my teeth cut the inside of my mouth.
