No Fair Lady

Damn, she’s good.

I didn’t hear her coming. Didn’t hear her picking the lock on my door, either.

And my state-of-the-art Crown Security alarm didn’t even beep once.

These girls are like ghosts. Invisible. Unstoppable. Highly unpredictable.

And from what I saw in that meeting and read in several other reports?

Very fucking dangerous.

But I don’t feel any hint of threat radiating off her. She just looks on, her sleek grey eyes as shiny as mirrors. She has her arms folded over her chest, her tight, trim figure tense but not aggressive, not ready to strike.

It really is like being watched by a large cat.

She might eat you, but she’s just not in the mood right now. Not yet.

She’s more curious than anything. She might bat you around for fun, but she’s too lazy to rip you to shreds until later.

Lucky me.

Brin looks past me for a moment to take in the view off the balcony, the glowing sunset on the bay. Her tongue works another one of those pink mini jawbreakers or whatever the hell they are with little click-clacks against her teeth.

They stain her lips pink, too, I notice.

Does her mouth also taste like sugar?

Or is it as bitter as her barbed tongue and that slicing gaze?

Which snaps back to me, locking on as she says bluntly, “You were watching me today.”

I snort.

“Damn right. You’re the living version of a loaded gun,” I counter. “Situational awareness around something like that’s just good common sense.”

“Some-thing?” Her smile looks dry but oddly pleased. “Is that what I am to you? A something?”

Fuck.

Her question sounds oddly…human.

“I don’t know what you are,” I say slowly, arching a brow. “Except exceptionally good at breaking and entering.” I gesture at the seat opposite me. “If you’re going to make yourself at home, at least have a seat.”

She shrugs, shoulders tight, her pale bare skin catching the fading light to turn shades of blush and gold, a gilded glow catching along one stark white collarbone.

Without a word, she pushes away from the door with fluid grace and drops herself down in the chair.

She carries herself like a lanky, coltish tomboy, but there’s a powerful elegance under it.

The woman knows her own strength.

She controls it.

And I could see her transforming herself in an instant from this casual, relaxed soldier into something refined and lethal.

As she sits, kicking back to prop her feet up on the balcony railing and clacking her candy against her teeth, I stand. I quickly step into the apartment to grab another wine glass off the table inside.

For a second, I consider reaching for my concealed gun hidden in the counter, too.

But what would be the point? If this is a hit, there’ll be more assassins where she came from.

While I pour, she watches me from the corner of her eye. That razor-sharp line of precision-cut hair shields her face and makes her look more vixen than cat.

“You look more impressive with your sleeves rolled up. More like a man than some empty suit,” she says, her eyes raking over my arms. “I’m partial to the shrieking phoenix.”

I try not to laugh.

It’s easy to forget what a beast I am when I’m not stuffed up in a monkey suit. It’s taken years, countless hours under the needle to turn every square inch of me that doesn’t see the light of day into art.

My thing? It’s birds.

Ravens. Eagles. Hawks. Fantastic mythological fliers plus ultra realistic birds of prey branded on my skin in freaky detail.

“Thanks.” I grunt. I think. “Plenty more where that came from.”

“Do you really feel so caged? Kinda ruins the mystery. Having to wear it right in the open and…wherever else you decided to torture yourself,” she says, her eyes dipping down to my beltline.

Shit. Speaking of ruining mysteries…

I snort again. “Got a whole aviary on my back, lady. Don’t read too much into it. I’m hardly pining away for sweet freedom like some songbird in a box if that’s what you’re thinking. My birds are part of me. Symbols. History. Life well lived. Not life I’ve missed.”

“Well lived? Hmm.” She quirks a pointed eyebrow.

I ignore her. “Do they even let you wear ink in the Nightjars?”

She looks at me and blinks.

“Right. Dorm life. Tight working units. Constant supervision. Dumb question.” Why the hell do I feel like I’ve just been thrown back to my sophomore year trying to ask the hottest chick in class to homecoming? I’m too old for this shit—especially when it involves a girl who could snap my neck in under a second.

“Hardly,” she sighs. “The dumb part was assuming a Nightjar gets to enjoy any hint of individuality. They ground that out of us in the first year.”

I cock my head. What she’s saying isn’t wrong. The program was run like every special forces boot camp meets MKULTRA CIA brainwashing lab.

But the way Brin wears her hair and that edge in her voice says she’s not a hundred percent ice-cold, mechanical kill-machine.