Page 62

“Tell you what,” he begins, taking a step forward. “Once I kill you, I’ll kill him too. As a favor.”

“A few years too late,” I say, shrugging. “My brother beat you to it.”

“Can’t say I didn’t offer.”

I edge back toward the car. “So, after you kill me and get the money, what’s the plan? Keep on killing?”

“I’m going to retire. Head back to France.” He jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “I have plans.”

“Open a vineyard?” I drawl, rolling my eyes.

He narrows his eyes. “If I am? I’ll name a bottle after you as thanks.”

“Cliché,” I scoff, shrugging.

He laughs, looking away. “You’re pretty mouthy for a man on a watchlist. From what I hear, you don’t even know how to use a weapon.”

My hand wraps around the bloody knife in my back pocket, and I hit the side button on my phone. It’s a built-in device for moments like these. “Not everything you hear is true.”

He winks, then flings his second blade of the night. I fall to the side, the blade brushing my flesh. The slice of pain pulls a grunt from my lips as I drop to the pavement. Blood soaks my damp hoodie.

Fucker cut me. Rude.

“Isn’t this fun!” He claps his hands as if I’ve done a trick. Slipping out another blade, he smiles widely. “Stay still. I’ll make it quick.”

I don’t, obviously, and fling my knife at his boot. It hits with deadly accuracy, piercing through the top and into the ground. The assassin screams, falling to his knees. A river of red gushes out, staining his hands as he holds the handle.

“I wouldn’t—” He pulls it out, drops flinging to the side. “Do that.”

Quinn looks up, dark gaze crazed. Oh, that’s never a good sign.

Summoning my strength, I lift myself and knock the hitman to the ground. We tussle, gripping clothing and hair. In a knife fight, he has the advantage. He’s quicker, better with blades. But in sheer brute force, I have the advantage.

Because my rage simmers under the surface, a stoked fire that never ends. It pushes me to fight, to use my fists, and to ignore the pain after every blow. It’s always begging for a release. I’ve tried to bury it, but it never truly goes away.

He throws a left jab at my jaw, rocking me back, but I keep my hands on his shirt. Red tinges my eyesight as that rage explodes. I slam him back, once, twice, into the cement. His head bangs with a loud crack, and red flows from underneath.

He throws a feeble punch, but I dodge it. Grabbing one of his blades at his waist, I stab it through his neck. The hiss of air through his lips and the gurgle of spit sickens me, but relief blasts through my veins.

The light fades from his eyes, and I fall back, knees crashing into the ground. Everything goes numb as the red haze leaves my vision. Coldness seeps into my fingers, and my joints stiffen, but I don’t move.

He’s dead. I killed him. Me.

Logically, it was him or me, and survival instincts took over. But this is one more step I never wanted to take. I never wanted to kill—because that means I’m just like Ferguson. No one could love a man like that. Especially not Valentina.

Killian and Hayes find me, still in the middle of the road, crouched over a corpse, not long after that. The car pulls up beside me, and Hayes stays seated, but Killian kneels beside me, shaking the daze away.

Blinking up at his black gaze, the words die on my tongue. All I see is Quinn’s blood. It covers my hands like a stain that will never wash away.

I wasn’t supposed to kill him.

“Kid, you all right?” Licking my lips, I bob my head. “What happened?”

“Assassin,” I say thickly. I jerk my thumb at my car. “Jacked up my car.”

The knife and the dead body tell him everything else. Hayes exhales, pulling out his phone while Killian helps me to stand. My knees buckle, and he grips me under my arms so I don’t face-plant.

“Come home,” he murmurs. “It’s safer there.”