Page 162 of Sweetheart: Part Two

I caught his scent in the air: confirmation that he was everything I was hunting. But right now, it was gross old wheatgrass with only the faintest hint of fear.

Not quite what I’d wanted.

Easily hearing each of his movements upstairs, I made myself at home.

I set my bag down in his living room. It was spacious, with an old-style arm chair—appropriately dramatic, I thought—and hardwood flooring. I tapped on it. Real, not laminate. Had to be careful with that.

I picked up the glass on the table, swirling the golden liquid within. Scotch, perhaps. It smelled smooth and expensive.

There was another thump upstairs, as if something had fallen over. He was doing my job zealously, covering the footprints that would lead to his own grave.

Still, I was impatient to begin. I shifted the mask from my face for a second, downing the remaining scotch—not nearly as good as I’d hoped.

I sat down in the armchair, tugging a marble from my pocket and setting it down on the smooth surface of the coffee table, watching it carefully for a moment.

Satisfied, I repositioned it and dropped the glass upon the floor.

The shuffling from upstairs halted, and a smile found my lips.

I shifted into position, waiting pressed up against the wall around the corner from the staircase as I heard him descend one creak at a time.

“Who’s there?” a low voice growled.

I took a deep breath, enjoying the stronger edge of fear to the wheatgrass in the air now.

Of course, the edge of a gun was the first thing to slide into my vision as he turned the corner. Just as primitive as could be expected from a man like him. Though his aura wasn’t out, which was a testament to his familiarity with situations like this: guns and auras could be unreliable.

And he really was making my job easy. His gun was equipped with a silencer. I’m sure after the warning that had just sent him into a panic also made him uneasy about drawing gunshot attention to his house. But a gun wasn’t enough to save him.

Nothing would be.

Right on cue, the marble hit the ground, making a resounding lowthunk, thunk, thunkbehind the armchair as it bounced on hardwood. His fear skyrocketed, and it was a sweet, sweet drug in my lungs.

“Who’s there?”His demand was more aggressive this time.

He took one more step forward, damning himself with far too much ease.

I grabbed him, aura out, cloth in my fist as I pressed it over his mouth. His aura hit the air right after mine, but almost instantly it began to wane as the powder hit his lungs. I had his other arm in my grip so that when the gun went off, I could aim it into the back of the couch.

Not ideal, but I’d let my guy know, and he’d hide it.

Wheatgrass wailed, struggling against me as I crushed the cloth against his mouth with vicious strength.

He seized once, twice.

“Tonight,” I breathed in his ear. “You’re going to be more afraid of me than she ever was of you.”

Again, his fear spiked.

Beautiful.

And then he went limp in my arms.

FORTY-THREE

ROOK

Holy.

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