Chapter 27
VICTORIA
Ishould definitely check my head because I’m severely ill and probably dying. Otherwise, how would I explain all this?
When Azrael sent me the message last night telling me to be ready for a date, I expected nothing less than a redo of our torturing session. Afraid for my life? Yes. Excited? Even more so.
I mentally prepared myself for shit to hit the fan, and it kind of did.
He took me out for dinner, made small talk, asked me all the normal questions, and ended the night with his hand between my legs, making me come while I was still seated in his car.
And then nothing. He left me at my door like a gentleman, which might be the most disturbing part of the whole evening.
Is this what those reports from his governmental experiment meant? Step 3? Well, not fucking me must be the correct way to do it because there is nothing worse that he could have done than not fucking me after that.
Just the idea that I’ve become so weak for this man is twisting my thoughts. But instead of being repulsed by the situation, I just keep on asking for more.
Did I want him? Yes, obviously. I went after him for months like a feral cat in heat.
This is just not the result I expected. I wanted him as a thing—an object of desire I could use, keep, command, and throw away like garbage.
Something beautiful and dangerous I could tame.
Mine to pleasure, mine to hold, mine to throw away if I ever got bored.
Now, my will bends under the weight of his attention, and my dignity is hanging by a thread. Just one word from him and I’d jump off a cliff, all while smiling because he looked at me. Which is pretty much exactly what he would expect and exploit.
He didn’t come in last night, refused to touch me in the way I wanted, and laughed when I almost begged.
He kissed me like a man who would do anything to fuck me numb and then walked the fuck away like he had all the time in the world to do it.
Who does that? Who fingers you in a car like that and leaves you alone in the hallway after an orgasm?
Azrael. That’s who.
So what is this? What the hell are we, and why is this even a question in the first place?
Saturdays used to be mine.
My ritual day. The only day when the world knows better than to exist around me.
I start the morning unhurried. Cat is already waiting, perched on the edge of the kitchen counter, glaring at me, judging me like the lazy servant that I am.
I go through the motions, pretending this is just another day, but something doesn’t sit right.
No matter how hard I try to forget what happened yesterday—or more accurately, how I refuse to admit how pathetic I act around him all the damn time—my brain keeps on revolving around the same question: why?
What, exactly, about last night was about us being together, me being his and him being mine, and how much was just part of the experiment? To say I’m confused would be an understatement. I need to know exactly what Azrael is doing and if he’s still following through with the experiment.
Victoria: Why did you take me to dinner yesterday?
I’ve never been accused of being subtle, and my brain can’t deal with uncertainty.
If my life is not sitting right, I will always overcompensate in other areas. Hence, the outfit I chose just to go get my wine. I’m dressed like I have a red carpet waiting—heels and my most expensive dress, both matched with a customized mouse gun.
Andrew is at the counter, just like always. But as soon as I walk in, he looks at me like he’s surprised I’m here. It gives me the ick. Or maybe it’s just because of the way I am dressed? I choose to believe the latter.
Seconds later, he goes to the back and returns with the bottles bagged.
“I added an extra one. Bordeaux.”
Okay, Andrew, where the fuck are you going with this? I thought we were…platonic friends.
A new bottle isn’t unusual, but a new red wine in July is.
“Why?” I ask, almost afraid to hear the answer.
He shrugs, casual but not really. “It’s like scotch. Thought you’d like it.”
This is too much. I will miss the wine from this place, but I guess there’s no way in hell I’m coming back. I knew getting that fucking bottle of scotch was a mistake. Azrael really likes destroying everything good in my life.
I take the bottles and leave without another word. Everything around me is changing, and the universe refuses to shut up about it.
In the kitchen, I pour a glass of this fucked-up wine and stare at it. What the hell am I even supposed to do with it?
Bordeaux. With a smell that invades my senses and leaves a bitter taste on my tongue. It tastes like him. Well, not literally, thank God, that would certainly turn me into an addict. But the way it fills every part of me and leaves me quieter than before—yeah. That is Azrael.
I hate how much I like it. I hate that everything is starting to be about him.
I sink into the couch, staring out the window, distracted by my own thoughts.
What I need right now is a way to distract myself from him, to keep me occupied. Right. A mission. Time to focus.
I pick up my phone, ready to call Alex. He will find it strange, will probably make a stupid remark, but I’d rather have that.
Last time he tried to call me on a Saturday, I made sure he understood what a huge mistake that was—burned him so hard he probably still checks the calendar before dialing.
Yet here I am, voluntarily going against my own damn rules.
I hit call before I can change my mind and it only rings twice before he picks up.
“Blink twice if he’s holding you hostage.”
Oh, I really shouldn’t have done this.
“Is this a cry for help or did you miss me too much?” he continues.
I roll my eyes. “Relax. I just need a distraction.”
“So…the Professor’s already a problem, huh?”
I ignore him with all my power. Otherwise, he would be a distraction, and I still need Alex.
“First, Toronto guy. I moved up the schedule. I hear Mondays are way better for killing.”
I can practically hear the eye roll.
“Or maybe just buying yourself time away? What else?”
“The anonymous one. We are also rolling it. I need a timeframe, and all the details you can find. As much as I like my job, I can’t just walk around with an FN M249 SAW and kill everyone with dark hair and green eyes.”
“You got it.” A too long pause, like he’s afraid of saying what he’s about to say. “He really left his mark on you, huh?”
I look down at the wineglass on the table, lips twitching. “I think ‘marked’ was two nights ago. We’re way past that now.”
“TMI. All right,” he says, serious now. “Give me an hour. But Victoria…”
“What?”
“Be careful. He might be too much, even for you.”
I spend the next forty-eight hours focused on who the target is, learning her better than she knows herself. I prepared everything. Azrael tried calling a couple of times, but I made sure my answers were as ambiguous as possible.
If I want all this to make sense, I need to make sure my conclusions are drawn without the sight of his cock in me, or his tongue, or any other of his body parts that would alter my brain chemistry.
As for the target, she is, at the surface, quite boring—the ordinary work-too-hard-to-survive-in-a-man’s-world type of girl.
She initially loathed me, but I got to be quite impressed once I learned more.
She is obnoxious, lacking friends or any sort of interpersonal relationship, but at least the girl doesn’t care about the rules or whether she breaks them, something I can respect.
She will be quite a challenge, as she has trained in multiple contact sports and loves guns more than she loves her brother, but still manageable.
The mission is set: the only way to actually get to her is to be as close as possible. My only chance will be a direct stab, skin to skin. Exactly what I’ve done dozens of times before, so it should be okay, right?
I check into a hotel I’ve never been to before, under a name I barely remember using. If I want to stay invisible, I have to keep moving, especially in a place like Toronto, where I’ve been too many times. Inconvenient for Alex? Absolutely. But I’ll admit, I never hated waking up to a new skyline.
This room is as lively as a morgue—white and gray walls, bleach smell in the bathroom. Honestly, one good bloodstain would improve the decor by 30 percent.
I lay my gear on the bed, fingers brushing over steel, while my mind is already going through the different strategies. I am absolutely not thinking about Plan B. Funny how the right weapon in the wrong mood can rewrite an entire plan.
I want this job to be perfect. Not just because of the Plan B issue, but to prove to myself that I’m still the best, that when blood is on the line, I’m still the first name that should be called.
The weapon I chose is small, with a silencer attached. If I have to touch her, I need to make sure nobody notices me mid-act.
I dress in a black hoodie, black leather jacket, black jeans, and black boots. If anyone is to see me, the darkness of the night will just distress my features, nothing left to be hinted at.
By the time the clock hits the confirmation moment, I’m ready, so fucking ready. I’ve rehearsed this in my mind a thousand times—it has to go right.
“Ready?” Alex’s voice cracks through the earpiece, disturbing the calm.
I just nod, more to myself.
“The target should appear between 9:40 and 9:47. That gives you a solid window, don’t waste it. Once she’s in sight, make it clean. The team’s on standby for cleanup.”
“Clean job. Got it.”
I’m already in position five minutes later at one of the cafés directly across from the kill zone. A coffee cup sits in front of me, half full, the other half dumped somewhere in the corner.
Once she shows, I should be able to reach her in eight seconds flat. The job itself? Less than fifteen, including exit.
“I’m in position. Waiting.”
“Still trying to locate her,” Alex replies, and with that the tension starts creeping in. “She must still be in her apartment.”