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His voice, though? There’s something rough about his voice. He hasn’t quite sanded all the edges off it, not even for this act.
Because has any man ever looked at me like this before? With hungry eyes the color of liquid gold, roving up and down my body like he wants to swallow me whole? Like I’m someone to be wanted and not feared?
It was barely anything, a whisper of a kiss, but my skin tingles and heat roars through my veins. I sway on the spot, mind fuzzy, pressing harder against him, and Flynn’s mouth quirks like he’s amused. “Look at you, rubbing against me. You’re practically purring, Anietta. You’re a little murder kitten, aren’t you?”
Fucking hell, Flynn. Don’t aggravate the killer.
I can’t read her. For once in my life, I have no idea what someone’s thinking. Jesus. And some people always feel like this. How the hell do they get anything done?
Oh, I’m in this. I’ve never played a better game than trying to please this young woman, and I’ve always been a sucker for high stakes. So she could kill me? Eh. Lots of things could kill me. I’m a walking bundle of reckless choices, and my Ma always despaired at my chances. If she was still alive to see me romancing an assassin, she’d box my ears.
A tulip and a shower of pink hearts. I tip my head back and laugh. This girl. This fucking girl.
Sweetheart. I like when he calls me that. It’s almost as good as kitten. It’s like he really wants me here. Like he really cares.
He’s kind of a mess. I love that about him.
“Ah, there she is.” Flynn scratches my scalp like a cat. I buck automatically into his touch, cheeks flaming. “My murder kitten. No more lurking on cold rooftops, you hear? Just come straight inside. You know I leave the balcony doors open for you.”
“I’m going to make you comfortable, Anietta. So comfortable you’ll forget to ever leave. That’s my cunning plan.” My tone is light and she rolls her eyes, but I’m not fucking joking. That’s my whole play here.
Fucking hell. Anietta is a killer, yes. Outright lethal. But she’s unaccountably delicate too. Like a vivid, poisonous flower. Not for the first time, I’m hit by the eerie realization that I could hurt her if I’m not careful. I could do some serious damage; I could tear her delicate little petals.
“I will never change my mind,” I vow, with no hint of humor for once in my life. “I’m going to keep you and treasure you and love you until you’re sick of me.”
What if I made her some kind of assassin’s hobby area? A poisons lab or a knife throwing station. Would she stay then?
The bedroom door swings open under my palm. I’m not thinking anymore; I’m moving on instinct. She whispered my name. Now I want her to scream it.
“Good girl,” a voice rumbles from near my belly. Oh, wow. I am very much not a good girl, I am a blood-soaked criminal with stalker tendencies, but when he says it like that… it’s all I want to be. Flynn O’Malley’s good girl. His kitten.
No one ever worries for me. They don’t look after me or take care. The few friends I do have are great, obviously, but they don’t fuss over me. They don’t coddle, and it turns out I like to be coddled. Because Flynn’s a fusser. He always makes sure I’m warm enough, bringing me blankets and thick pairs of his socks. He had a spare toothbrush ready for me, and when I raised an eyebrow, he proudly showed me the box of tampons he bought weeks ago in case I ever visited during my period. The sight made my eyes burn.
Flynn’s not needy. Or if it’s needy to want love and compliments and nice, warm things, then I guess we’re both basic bitches, because every time he calls me beautiful, happy little sparks explode in my chest.
But I’m not an idiot. Anietta is my stray kitten. And I’ll never lock those balcony doors.
