12. Lyssa

I stroll backinto the Sokolov drinking hole like I own the place, my boots sticking slightly to the floor. The stale reek of spilled beer assaults my nose again, but needs must when hunting down a cunning little minx like Scarlett.

I plant myself at the scratched-up counter, scanning the dingy space with a practiced eye. The handful of regulars seem the same as last time, and they avoid meeting my gaze, no doubt recognizing me.

The weaselly bartender slinks over, his pinched face radiating a wariness that has me suppressing a grin. “You’re not welcome here,” he grits out through a thicket of crooked teeth.

I arch a challenging brow. “Then I suppose you’d better throw me out.”

The scrawny man visibly falters. A beat passes before he forces out a resigned sigh. “What’ll it be?”

Claiming a backwards perch on one of the battered stools, I cast him a lazy smile over my shoulder. “I’m sure you’ve got something decent tucked away. Surprise me.”

He pours me a finger of bottom-shelf rotgut and I throw it back in one swallow. I slam the glass back onto the bar and tap two fingers against the rim, wordlessly demanding a refill.

He complies with a glower.

And now we both know our respective places in this hierarchy.

I nurse the second drink, idly tracking the sluggish crawl of the clock on the wall as I wait. Thirty interminable minutes drag by. I’m on the verge of getting twitchy when the door finally swings open and in she walks, drawing every eye.

Scarlett.

Damn, but she looks good, poured into those tight jeans again and a low-cut black sweater, a leather jacket on top to give her some edge. Heat licks at my clit, a twisted tangle of irritation, lust, and something uncomfortably close to admiration.

She’s glaring at me with murder in her eyes.

Delicious.

The bartender takes one look at her stormy expression, glances at me, and throws up his hands in warning. “Both of you, get the hell out of here before the Sokolovs show up. I mean it! I don’t want any blood on the floor tonight, you hear?”

I slide off the barstool, the movement liquid and lazy, and I don’t take my eyes off Scarlett. “Well, you heard the man. What say we get outta here, sweetheart?”

She glares at me, those haunting hazel eyes flashing with green fire. “Fine by me. I can kill you just as well in the street as I can here.”

“Yeah, yeah. We’ll get to that.” I head for the door, shoulder brushing hers as I pass, a deliberate invasion of space. A subtle challenge.

The game is on.

Outside, I turn to face her, ready for another scintillating round of threats and flirtation. Instead, I find myself staring down the gleaming black barrel of a silenced gun.

I sigh, the sound equal parts exasperation and anticipation. “Knock it off. I want some information before we get to the fun part.”

Her full lips thin, finger tightening on the trigger. The shot zips out, but I’ve already knocked her arm aside with a lightning-quick strike, sending the bullet to bury itself harmlessly in the crumbling brickwork. A twist of my wrist and the gun clatters to the trash-strewn pavement, her fingers left grasping empty air.

But Scarlett is tenacious. Undeterred, she breaks my grip on her arm in a move that leaves me blinking, and uses her twirl to mask yanking a wicked-looking switchblade from her boot, so that I only see it when the blade shoots out, glinting in the neon spill from the bar’s buzzing sign. “Why waste time talking when you could be dying?”

She lunges for me, the edge arcing toward my throat.

Oh, she’s good.

She’s much better than the other night, now that she’s prepared herself. Now that she’s focused.

On killing me, which is less great?—

The razor comes close enough that I feel the disturbance of air, but I flow around the slash like smoke, weaving just out of reach with an infuriating grin. “If you want to get your ass kicked first, be my guest. But I’ve got questions, Scar, and you’re going to give me some answers…before I kill you.”

Her face contorts, a rictus snarl of pure rage, and she lashes out at me. I block her arm, hard. “Easy, honey,” I murmur, holding her fiery stare while surreptitiously tensing the tendons in my forearms. “If you wanted my attention, you could’ve just asked.”

She rips away from me and repositions, coming at me in a whirlwind of deadly steel and even deadlier intent. I pull taught the steel cord I keep in a handy bracelet around my wrist for just these occasions, and parry her strikes.

Yeah. She’s improved since our last tussle, her technique tighter, more controlled. But that fury still blinds her, telegraphs her intentions. She fights like a woman possessed, a berserker without care for defense. It makes her dangerous…

But predictable.

And playing on that rage is an easy way to win.

“Nice try,” I pant, as we break away from each other again. Our vicious ballet has carried us across the quiet street, into the deserted construction site on the other side of the road. “But you have a lot to learn, kid.”

Scarlett’s lips peel back in a defiant snarl as her free hand whips a slender stiletto dagger into view.

Ah. This must be the blade that ended up in so many Syndicate hearts. With weapons in both hands now, she moves with savage grace, the wicked stiletto stabbing toward my face in a blur. I sidestep the strike, my blood thrumming with a wild, electric thrill.

“A little too frantic,” I chide, in the same voice I use for the Syndicate trainees. I know it drives them crazy. And from the look on Scarlett’s face, it works on her, too. But the deep coursing of adrenaline through my veins makes this encounter almost...pleasurable.

Scarlett comes hard at me again, her eyes blazing as she rains down a flurry of thrusts and slashes. I duck and parry, pushing back with precisely measured counters, testing her mettle with every exchange.

“You’ve certainly sharpened your skills since our last meeting,” I acknowledge at last. “Care to tell me who’s been tutoring my would-be killer?”

A muscle cords in her jaw even as she avoids one of my sweeping kicks.

“Seriously, though,” I say, and I let my admiration show through for real this time. “Who are you?”

“You already know who I am,” she spits out, ducking beneath another arcing punch. “I’m vengeance.”

“Well,” I say, backing up a little to reposition, “you’re certainly intense.”

She throws herself forward, and that’s when I decide I’ve had enough. I seize the split second of vulnerability that her recklessness always leaves after each slash with the switchblade, locking her arm across my body and twisting brutally.

The switchblade goes skittering across the dusty floor, coming to rest beside a cement mixer. With a swift move, I whirl to grab her other wrist and wrench it until she opens her fingers with a cry, letting the stiletto dagger fall into my waiting hand.

Disarmed, chest heaving, Scarlett scrambles back from me, but I’m already on her, using her own momentum to slam her back into the rough brick of an unfinished wall, and then, keeping one hand hard against her chest, I bring her own stiletto up underneath her chin.

To her credit, there’s no surrender in her fierce eyes. Only defiance and the glimmer of something…hotter. Darker.

My blood sings with the thrill of the fight, the heady rush of dominance as I close in. I pin her to the rough wall with the long line of my body, but it’s the unyielding press of the blade that has her attention.

“This has been a fun little dance,” I murmur. “But now we’re going to have a friendly chat about exactly who trained you, and why you think I killed this brother of yours.”

She shudders, the motion bringing her flush against me in a maddening slide. I can’t deny the molten desire curling through me now. “Fuck you,” she pants.

I give a low, wicked chuckle. “We already did that, sweetheart. But I’ll tell you what—you answer my questions like a good little girl, and I’ll give you your pig-sticker back for another shot at me. What’ve you got to lose?”

I watch rage and humiliation war across the exquisite planes of her face. And as close as I am to her now, I see the thick layer of makeup she’s applied, and I know what that means. “Who hurt you?” I demand, my eyes narrowing. “Your face, I mean—who hit you?”

“Fuck you,” she says again.

Fine. I need to stay on-mission, anyway. “Tell me who sent you.”

At last, the words grind out from between clenched teeth, “A woman trained me. I don’t know her real name.”

My grip on the knife handle tightens, the tendons in my forearm jumping. “You’re gonna have to do better than that if you want to keep breathing. I want a name.”

A muscle in her jaw tics, the tiny movement captivating. Her lips barely move as she forces out a single word. “Grandmother.”

No. It can’t be.

Scarlett senses my shock, tries to take advantage by struggling again?—

But I recover swiftly, digging the point of the stiletto deeper into her ivory throat until a crimson bead wells up in mocking mirror to her parted lips.

“You’re lying,” I hiss. “Grandmother is dead. I slit the bitch’s throat myself when I left her damn house of nightmares.”

Scarlett shakes her head, a minute motion constrained by the threat of my blade. Her voice is thin, thready with desperation or deception, I can’t tell. “I’m not lying, I swear. I swear on—I swear on my brother’s grave. She’s alive, and she’s the one who sent me to kill you.”

My mind whirls, struggling to reframe reality after this revelation. If Grandmother truly lives, if this is the shape of her vengeance…then I’m in more danger than I realized. And so is the frustrating, fascinating woman pressed up against me.

And so is the Syndicate.

Scarlett must see the decision crystalize in my eyes. Her voice pitches higher, edged with panic. “Lyssa, wait. Don’t do this. You don’t have to?—”

“Oh, but I do,” I cut her off. “See, if Grandmother really is alive, and behind all this, then you’re a threat I can’t afford to leave breathing.”

I lean in closer, until the rise and fall of her chest presses intimately against mine. I can taste the hitching terror of her breath. “I really am sorry, sweetheart. I wish we could’ve had a little more fun together…but it ends here.”