Page 32 of Pretty Little Assassin

I’ll sleep on the couch with the cat.

Valentina is looking at me, an adorable little wrinkle on her usually bloodthirsty brow, and I realize I didn’t answer her question.

“Are you upset that I can outcook you, in addition to outkill you?”

The indignant burst of jasmine and vanilla is more potent than the dish I just cooked. “You most certainly cannot outkill me. My ledger has almost as much red on it as yours does.”

“Half,” I smirk.

She smacks her fork down against the table, accidentally launching a noodle into the air. The cat reaches up a paw to quickly confiscate his new plaything as easily as if he had seen it coming. Perhaps Mr. Pickles is the true ninja.

“I was going to tell you that I love the food. And cooking a good stroganoff doesn’t make you any more effectively violent than I am. In fact, it makes you seem rather⁠—”

She stops before finishing her sentence.

“Rather what?” I move to crowd her a little. I’m much bigger than the pint-size executioner. Even though I’m not foolish enough to think that makes her less lethal, it can’t hurt to lurk menacingly after that insinuation.

“Stop that,” she says, standing up from the table.

“Asking you questions?”

“Fucking grinning at me all the damn time. It makes you look silly.”

I am grinning. Trying to intimidate her is impossible. If I come any closer, she might cut my balls off with a blade. Damn if that doesn’t make me grin wider.

The scent wafting off her skin doesn’t match the annoyed expression on her face.

“Your body betrays you, little assassin.” I don’t mention my body is betraying me, too. Sparring with her is the most fun I had in years.

One bed.

The grin leaves as soon as my cock starts getting hard and all the blood rushes from my face to my dick.

Valentina sits back down at the table and picks up the fork again. Watching her eat, knowing she could stab me with that utensil if she wants to is not helping my little—or not so little—problem, and I move to the couch. As soon as I sit down, Mr. Pickles arranges himself across my thighs.

The cat makes a noise that sounds like a command for attention, and I scratch him behind his ears while I watch the omega enjoying my cooking. My delicious cooking. I can’t resist baiting her some more.

“Admit it, I can outcook you.” And outkill you, I don’t say again. But we both hear it.

My smug eye contact is disrupted by the tears that begin to pour from my eyes. I sneeze spasmodically. I keep petting Mr. Pickles anyway. Every time I pause, he yowls.

“Jesus Christ, what the fuck have you done to my cat?”

“What do you mean? He likes me.” I keep stroking the fur. I am going to regret it for the next hour.

Her annoyance that her cat has apparently chosen me as one of its “people” is rather amusing.

“He doesn’t like you. He’s simply getting back at me for making him stay here instead of going home.”

“You are treating your cat’s opinion as a betrayal. There is room in Mr. Pickle’s heart for both of us.” I know I’m provoking her.

Despite her irritation, she clears her plate. I appreciate her consideration

“You practically licked it clean,” I say. “You didn’t even leave a taste for the cat.” Something about her keeps pushing me to provoke her. Sure enough, she glares at me as she strides toward the couch.

“Jesus,” she exclaims as she narrowly catches herself from falling. “I don’t know what I just tripped over. You have nothing in this safehouse.”

I have one bed.