Page 21 of Scarlet Mark

An assassin for hire who meant to take me back to Malcom.

An assassin who had fallen asleep.

He actually appeared quite peaceful, in a beautiful sort of way, with his thick, dark hair swept to the side, his defined cheekbones relaxed. That jaw was still as chiseled as ever, and damn, he still wore a shirt. Granted, the white fabric clung to his muscles, accentuating strong arms lying loose at his sides.

Huh.

I glanced around, disturbed that he’d somehow managed to get me up here without me waking.

Even more disturbed to find that he’d removed my boots, jeans, and jacket, leaving me in a tank top, a bra, and a thong.

My guardians always said I could sleep through a tornado. They weren’t wrong, especially when I went too long without any rest, and I’d been constantly moving for weeks. Strange that I chose Killian’s presence to finally relax in—strangeandstupid.

Where did he put my jeans? The room appeared spotless, my clothing and bag nowhere to be seen. Maybe they were in the bathroom?

As silently as possible, I crept out of the bed to tiptoe into the en-suite bathroom, my gaze widening at the elegant furnishings. This was definitely not a cheap motel. The walk-in marble shower, double sink, and heated floors suggested wealth and opulence, especially for a European hotel.

And, of course, the room was completely empty.

Where did you hide my stuff?

I sighed, eyeing the cuff on my wrist and then my reflection in the mirror. A glimmer of hopelessness stared back at me. The expression of a woman on the edge of defeat.

How could I escape? He even had that stupid butter knife.

My shoulders fell, my options swimming out of reach, leaving me in the deep end to drown.

After all that planning, my only chance at running was gone. Destroyed by a man I hardly knew who had bested me mere hours after meeting.

I wasn’t weak.

But he made me feel inferior, as if I stood no chance to survive.

Because I don’t.

The glassy glimmer in my gaze had me cringing. This wasn’t me. I didn’t give up. I fought. I just didn’t know how. He’d cornered me in a way few others ever had. All for Malcom. That made Killian one of the bad guys by association.

I have to fight him.

We’d played before.

This wouldn’t be a game. This would be real. It was my only shot.

Steeling my spine, I glowered at the meek female in the mirror. I’d rather die than go back to Malcom. And if that meant provoking Killian into killing me, so be it. Dying by his hand would be far better than returning to the hell I’d escaped from.

He thought I was a con artist. Assumed that meant I deserved this fate. Fine. I’d play that to my advantage. Push him into hurting me. Fighting. Maybe I could grab a blade off him. Or a gun.

The idea had me slipping back into the bedroom. He hadn’t moved, his chest rising and falling softly in a pattern of sleep.

Where’s your jacket?I wondered, scanning the two chairs and the couch, my gaze finally landing on the closet across from his bed.

Bull’s-eye.

I crept forward on silent feet and jostled the door. It opened with a soft snick that had me glancing over my shoulder. Killian took a deep breath but otherwise remained still.

Good.

Okay.