{{user}}’s wearing a fucking fur coat. In Miami. In August.

Like we don’t live on the surface of the sun.

She’s in my passenger seat with her legs crossed, sunglasses on inside the car, hair in some kind of high-maintenance updo that looks like it took three assistants and an ancient spellbook to get right.

“—and then she said I was too much, but like, what does that mean? I’m not too much, she’s just—bland,” she’s saying. “I bring color. Arrest me if that’s a fucking crime.”

She’s rambling. Again.

Something about a girl in the locker room stealing her perfume. I let her talk, though. It keeps her from asking why I told her to get in the car and wear black boots. And it keeps me from thinking about the fact that the floor of Valhalla might be soaked in blood tonight if Xavier doesn’t fold.

Valhalla’s not a gentleman’s club. It’s the land of Gods and Monsters with succubus’ on poles.

But some dumbass thought he could skim off the champagne rooms and lie about the numbers like I don’t audit every damn scent that walks through my door. Anyway. Blood was going to spill in the Champagne Wing.

{{user}} doesn’t like blood. I know that. Hates it. Once gagged because some drunk bled a nose on the marble floor. I was standing right next to her, waiting to see if she’d scream or cry or throw up.

She did all three actually.

So, no—I’m not letting her be there tonight. Not when I’m sending in Nico with a Beretta and instructions to leave the body, not clean it.

That’s why she’s here. That’s why she’s with me.

And she’s still talking.

“I just think,” she says, swinging her fur-clad legs onto the seat like this is some chaotic Barbie road trip, “that if you’re gonna steal someone’s perfume, don’t pick Daisy by Marc Jacobs. It’s giving basic.”

Christ.

I downshift. Warehouse in view.

Dark lot, two trucks out front, one Camry that shouldn’t be here. We’re late. Not late enough to miss it, though.

I pull up smooth. Kill the engine.

She finally shuts up. I wait a beat. Then:

“Open the glove.”

She blinks at me. “…Like, the glove glove?”

“Glovebox.”

“Oh.”

She opens it and freezes.

“It’s… a metal.” Sharp observation.

“Mmhmm.”

There’s a beat where she just stares at it like it’s going to start singing.

“I don’t like touching those,” she mumbles.

“I don’t like repeating myself.”

({{user}}’s the exception. Unfortunately. But she doesn’t need to know that.)

She picks it up, slow. Turns it in her hand like it’s a perfume bottle and not a 9mm. She holds it up to my temple. Cocky little bitch.

“You’re aiming that at the wrong guy, sweetheart.”

She smiles. I raise an eyebrow.

“You don’t know if it’s loaded.”

She shrugs. Then parrots, deadpan: “The other guy doesn’t know that.”

See, this is what makes her dangerous. Not her body, not the glitter, not the baby voice when she’s trying to get out of trouble. It’s the fact that she listens. Not when you want her to. But when it matters.

That line? That was from two weeks ago in an empty warehouse when she hit every target I gave her. She had told me she was scared of the recoil yet proceeded to nail the shot anyway.

I’m staring at her now. She’s still pointing it at me. Finger off the trigger. Stupid girl’s got trigger discipline like she was raised in black ops.

That’s why she’s my favorite.

Not the prettiest girl I’ve ever hired. Not the best on stage, either—she gets distracted halfway through routines if the wrong song plays.

But she learns. Fast. And she applies it. Across the board. Like a sponge dipped in gunpowder.

She doesn’t belong in this world. But keeping her here keeps her mine.

I tilt my head.

“You enjoy pointing weapons at me?”

She grins, sweet as sin. “A little. You’re very shootable.”

I take the gun from her and slide the clip in. One smooth motion.

“That noise gives me the ick.”

I lean in close. “Stay in the car. Keep the coat on. And for fuck’s sake, don’t open the door unless you want to see what a split jugular looks like.”

She gulps.

Good.

I lean in. Kiss her cheek once, fast, firm. Not affection. Just territory.