Page 106 of Claimed By the Psychos

I blow a strand of hair out of my face. "That was forever ago." I glance back at the alphas, who are now arguing about extraction routes. "Besides, don't you miss it? The adrenaline? The planning? That moment right before everything goes sideways?"

His lips quirk in that almost-smile that makes my insides go liquid. "I miss working with you. The rest is just noise."

"Sap," I accuse, but I'm grinning.

"If you two are done making out," Carlisle calls without looking up from his maps, "we have murder to plan."

"It's not murder if they deserve it," I correct, pulling Felix back to the table. "It's justice with extra blood."

"Vigilante justice," Archer corrects.

"The best kind," Bane agrees.

As we settle in to plan an operation that will probably end in blood and fire and at least three building code violations, I can't help the excitement building in my chest. The shadows are singing now, pleased at the prospect of retribution, of finally getting back to what we do best.

Felix and I might be many things. Damaged, dangerous, more than a little unhinged. But we're also really fucking good at what we do. And what we do is remove problems from the world, one bullet at a time. And for once, we have a pack to do it with.

I just hope it's enough to show Felix he doesn't have to do everything on his own. We don't have to lose ourselves just to belong to this pack. We've just found pieces we didn't know were out there.

Chapter

Thirty-Nine

JUNIPER

The dress feels like wearing someone else's skin. It's made of expensive silk, clinging in all the places that make me look delicate instead of deadly. I stare at my reflection in the vanity mirror, barely recognizing the woman looking back. Soft pink fabric that makes my skin look like porcelain, hair pinned up in some elaborate twist that took Elias an hour to perfect because apparently he has hidden hairdressing skills, and makeup that transforms my face into something innocent and breakable.

Perfect bait for the sharks we're about to swim with.

The shadows cluster in the corners of the room, whispering their approval.Pretty little doll,they sing.Pretty little trap.

"You look gorgeous."

Carlisle's voice makes me jump, which pisses me off because I should have heard him coming. But he moves like a ghost when he wants to, filling the doorway in one of those designer suits that makes it look like the fabric was woven just for him. The all-black ensemble makes his golden hair look even brighter, those blue eyes sharp as the knives I know he's got hidden under that perfectly tailored jacket.

"I look like a porcelain doll off the clearance rack," I mutter, adjusting the neckline that shows just enough cleavage to be enticing without being obvious. Because apparently omega trafficking has a fucking dress code.

"Not clearance." He glides into the room with that confident stride that makes everything he does look choreographed. "The finest boutique in Paris, perhaps. Though I'll admit, you don't quite look yourself."

His fingers trail along my bare shoulder, and I suppress the shiver that wants to follow his touch. "No?"

"I prefer you in leather combat gear," he murmurs, moving to stand behind me so we're both reflected in the mirror. His hands settle on my waist, thumbs brushing the silk. "Or my shirt." His lips find my ear, breath hot against my skin. "But my absolute favorite is nothing at all."

"Naughty boy," I accuse, but I'm already leaning back against him, my body responding to his proximity like it always does.

"Guilty as charged." His teeth graze my earlobe, and my knees go a little weak. "Though I wouldn't mind seeing those assassin pants you promised. The really fucking tight ones."

I laugh, spinning in his arms to face him properly. "Maybe after we murder everyone at this auction, I'll model them for you."

"Such a romantic." His hand cups my face, thumb tracing my bottom lip. "Promising me fashion shows and mass murder. How did I get so lucky?"

"I got hired to kill you," I remind him. I pull him down for a kiss that starts teasing and quickly turns hungry. His tongue slides against mine, and he tastes like expensive whiskey and psychopathy, my favorite flavors.

He backs me against the vanity, hands sliding up my thighs, pushing the dress higher. "We have time," he murmurs against my mouth. "The auction doesn't start for another hour."

"My makeup?—"

"I'll fix it." His fingers find the edge of my underwear, and I'm about to tell him to fuck the mission and fuck me instead when?—