Page 4 of His Ruthless Match

I turned slowly, holding my wine glass in one hand and the bottle in the other. “Wasn’t aware I was being hunted.”

“Jareth,” he said, extending a hand like this was some polite dinner party and not an unwelcome ambush.

“And who are you?” I asked, pouring more wine into my glass and pointedly ignoring his hand.

“I work for The Shadow.” His grin widened, sharp as the edge of a knife, as he dropped his hand. “And you’re his little sister. The one who brought bubblegum pop to a sacred ceremony.”

Heat crawled up my neck, but I refused to rise to the bait. “How do you know he’s my brother?”

“I’m The Shadow’s right-hand man. I know everything and take care of all things for the boss.”

The revelation shook me to my core, though I masked my triggered anxiety with a slow, deliberate sip of wine. Of course, he worked for Raffaele and killed people when asked. That was exactly who I needed to meet when I was two seconds from crawling out of my skin.

Him working for my brother explained the smugness, the too-perfect suit, the air of someone who thought they could walk into any room and own it. Still, it annoyed me to my core that someone other than Raffaele and Vivian knew who I really was. I didn’t like feeling like someone had an edge on me.

“So, what kind of magical creature are you? I’m assuming you’re not human,” I said, my tone frostier now.

“You’d be correct. I’m a cougar shifter,” he replied easily, flashing a grin that was too predatory, too deliberate. It was a reminder that I should tread carefully.

The asshole was trying to intimidate me, and I couldn’t let him see me shake.

Suppressing the shudder clawing up my spine, I said flatly, “I’m not really a fan of know-it-all, supernatural hitmen. I wouldn’t be too proud of your position, if I were you. You’re just my brother’s bitch, no?”

His grin faded. “You wound me.” His voice dipped into that low, velvety register people like him used when they wanted you to know you were standing in the presence of something dangerous. Something that enjoyed it. “Why don’t I tell you about my last assassination, and you can decide. It wasn’t a clean job,” he said, almost conversationally. “But I wasn’t in the mood for clean. He ran like they all do. Made it two blocks before I brought him down in an alley behind a butcher’s shop. You know the kind… sawdust on the floor, metal hooks still swinging from the ceiling.”

I said nothing. My pulse pounded in my throat.

Jareth crossed his arms, clearly savoring the mental image he was feeding me. “He begged, if you were wondering. Kept talking about his kids, which was rich considering he’d sold half a dozen strays to the Crimson Dominion just to settle a gambling debt.”

My jaw ached from clenching it.Don’t react. Don’t flinch.I didn’t want to hear this.

“I gave him a chance to talk,” he went on, voice syrup-smooth. “Told him to make it interesting. He cried instead.” He flashed me a satisfied smile. “So, I slit him open from hip to shoulder. Watched him twitch a little. Messy work, but effective. The message was clear.”

The air felt thinner suddenly. My mouth was dry, but my palms were damp. It wasn’t just the violence that made me want to shudder—it was the way he told it. The detachment. The pleasure.

And all I could see, suddenly, was another powerful magical man using his abilities like a scalpel. Cutting people open to send a message. Watching them die not because they had to, but because it made him feel invincible.

I couldn’t breathe. But I didn’t let it show. Not even a blink. I kept my face carefully schooled even as my stomach turned.

Jareth gave me a once-over, as if checking to see if I would squirm. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. He pushed off the counter and stepped closer, invading my space just enough to make a point.

“But don’t worry,” he said, his tone light again, almost playful. “I’m not here for you.” That obnoxious grin of his returned. “Unless you suddenly start running a black market soul ring or forget to pay your hitman tax.”

“You’re hilarious.”

He winked. “I try.”

Before he could spew another quip, my gaze landed on the plant sprayer nestled among the foliage. I refused to let this smug motherfucker know he got to me, so I would let him know—in the most humiliating way I could think of—exactly what I thought of him.

Without giving it another thought, I snatched it up and aimed it at his face. Water sprayed across his smug features, and he let out a spluttering gasp.

“Bad kitty,” I deadpanned, the words as dry as the wine on my tongue.

Jareth stared at me in disbelief, then he wiped his face with the sleeve of his suit. “I’m not a cat,” he said with reluctant amusement. “You can’t train me by spraying me with?—”

I squeezed the sprayer again, misting him a second time. “No. Bad cat.”

His exasperated groan was deeply satisfying. With a dramatic roll of his eyes, he straightened, muttering something under his breath about “impossible women” and “not being paid enough for this.” He stalked off into the crowd, his shoulders tense but his steps deliberately slow, like he wanted me to watch him leave.