MAVIS

would always remember those seven days in the damn fairytale cottage as heaven.

And, even though she would never tell Ace aloud, she considered it as their honeymoon.

Looking at Ace now . . .

Her blonde hair glowed golden in the fading afternoon sunlight. Her blue eyes were as bright as the summer-kissed sea, as though painting pottery was her favourite thing in the whole world. And her concentration . . . it was so attractive that Mavis wanted to shove all the ceramic mugs off the stupid table and ride Ace until she was screaming her name.

Mavis coughed a little when she realized Isla was squinting suspiciously at her.

"Mama, you're supposed to be painting."

"Of course, baby," Mavis said, feeling her cheeks redden. "I am. I'm almost done with this little whale on the handle."

"Mama, no offense, but that's a pitiful attempt at a whale . . ." Isla tilted her head as if trying to see it from a different angle. "It looks more like a Smurf humping itself."

"Baby!"

"Have you seen Ace's?"

For the first time, Mavis actually paid attention to what Ace was painting. It was an effort to look away from her glinting blue eyes, the sharp curve of her mouth―pure sin, that mouth―but Mavis somehow managed.

And her jaw fell.

Mavis jumped to her feet. "La hostia," she swore. "Aren't you supposed to be some brutal, merciless hitman? Since when did you become an artist?"

Ace only smirked in answer.

The plates laid out in front of her had all been finished, but now she was working on a sculpture. In one hand, she had a knife.

It was . . . really, really attractive to know Ace could use that knife to murder a man just as easily as she could carve a little masterpiece.

But as for the plates . . .

Ace's were all of landscapes. Twisting, bright-coloured architecture. Planes of snow, a brilliant blue sky. White-capped mountains and flowers that bloomed like a storm of little violet flecks.

"Damn it," Mavis said. "I can't believe I got outdone."

"Mama, I could outdo your humping Smurf."

"Isla, just because you said no offense, it doesn't mean anything that comes after won't be offensive."

Isla pouted.

Ever since they had arrived at the cottage, Isla had complained about how boring the plates and cups were. A simple white, really, but when Isla had found paints in the closet, she had announced that they would now be decorating the entirety of the crockery.

Mavis had agreed with reluctance, only after Isla had jumped up and down, pleading to even do the dishes for a week in exchange for the painting.

Ace, of course, had readily said yes to painting all of the plates and mugs in the cottage.

Isla could probably ask Ace for a French castle at this point, and Ace would happily move the country of France itself to wherever Isla wanted it, and kill whoever she needed to kill to get that castle.

It made Mavis roll her eyes, but secretly―

Secretly―maybe even stupidly―she was pleased that Ace was so enamored with her daughter. Sometimes Mavis wondered about Isla not having any friends, but she supposed a Russian assassin was a good place to start.

Now, Mavis let out another curse in Spanish as she took a closer look at what was in Ace's hand.

It was a little bird. A small, delicate little bird with chips of rock carved as intricately as feathers. A sculpture.

And Mavis suddenly remembered their conversation about the prison and her brother's betrayal.

A bird―it had been a bird that had kept Ace alive. The image of a bird that she had held on to.

Now Mavis asked, "What kind of bird is that?" Soft, because she didn't know what kind of horrors Ace had endured. Because Ace's pain had somehow become her own pain as well.

"A songbird," Ace said quietly.

For a moment, all Mavis felt was that burning, irresistible heat between them.

She had been fourteen when she had gotten pregnant. Fifteen when she had been tossed out. And she had spent every year of her life until then fighting for herself, for Isla.

Ace was so new to her life, but how could it be that someone who had only just appeared could suddenly be so damn important to her?

And the sculpture of the bird . . .

"Is that for Mama?" Isla asked suddenly.

Mavis had always hoped to raise her daughter with absolutely honesty.

She was really regretting it right about now.

"No," Ace said bluntly. "It is not."

And Mavis tried―she really did. But the hurt still flickered through, and it stung her chest. Disappointment.

What did it matter if that precious, beautiful sculpture wasn't for Mavis? It was only a symbol of everything that had helped Ace survive in her darkest times, but Mavis wasn't bothered by the fact that it wasn't for her.

No, of course not. Why would she be bothered by that?

Mavis only swallowed. Forced a smile. "Don't be silly, Isla, mi cielo. I'm going to . . . um, I'm going to take a walk."

Ace's eyes snapped to hers immediately.

"Do you have your knife?"

"Yes," Mavis sighed. "There's no way I could forget it. We train every single day."

Ace nodded shortly. "Good."

Mavis was already at the door when Ace added, "Be careful."

"I know."

When the door shut, Mavis let out a breath. The afternoon was fading into evening, but the cottage in its little clearing was still bathed in golden sunlight.

A honeymoon.

But Ace's curt No had eliminated the thought of that.

It's a fake marriage, Mavis reminded herself. What else could I expect?

She had been the one to make it clear that their marriage was just on paper.

But maybe after all the times they had consummated . . . and the stories they had shared . . . and that soft look in Ace's eyes whenever she glanced over at Isla . . . Mavis had thought―

Stupid. That had been stupid.

That bird. That sculpture of the bird. A symbol of Ace's hope, and . . . and it wasn't for Mavis.

Did that mean something? Anything?

Maybe Mavis was crazy, but―

What was Ace to her?

For the past seven years, it had been Isla and Mavis. Mavis and Isla. Just the two of them, facing the world. Whatever it took of Mavis―stripping, extra shifts, long nights.

Ace had given her two options to escape from the Russian Mafia.

And Isla deserved a life unburdened by financial strain. She deserved a life where she could be whatever she wanted without worrying about―about mobsters and sneering girls at school and damn assassins.

They couldn't stay in this cottage forever, but the other alternative was . . .

Mavis let out something like a yell of frustration.

Alone in the woods, she knew no one could hear her, but―

A rustle.

Mavis glanced behind her.

Paranoid―this was paranoid on a whole other level.

It was probably just a stupid squirrel.

Mavis shoved aside more leaves, more branches. This past week with Ace and Isla in that cottage―it had been spent learning how to fight for herself. How to hit a man between the eyes in such a way that he would drop unconscious. How to stab someone in the back of the neck with a toothpick in just the right way to kill them.

Yes, Mavis had considered it a honeymoon.

What exactly did that say about her? She wasn't exactly sure. But she had liked it―feeling powerful.

It was different than the kind of power she got from making the eyes of men glaze. From making them hard. She had felt powerful because they wanted her. Because it was desire, smoky and heavy, evident in the bulge between their legs.

But this wasn't lust. Now, Mavis felt powerful because men would be afraid of her.

Ace was a frighteningly good teacher.

As the Russian mob's own secret weapon, it made sense that she had been trained in every deadly skill possible.

The memory of her fighting, of her sharp movements as she demonstrated just the way to give a man a heart attack with a kick―

Mavis gave herself another shake. And growled.

What was wrong with her?

Ace was just . . . a blonde bimbo. That's it. An annoying, murderous, deadly blonde bimbo.

Another rustle from sounded behind her. Louder, the leaves clattering.

"Isla!" Mavis scolded, though she couldn't see anyone. "This isn't funny."

There was something black on the forest floor.

It was getting dark now. Mavis shivered.

Time to go back.

But that black object . . . what was that?

Everything in her body screamed, Pretend like you don't see it. Get out of here. Get out. Get out!

Mavis knelt down on the grass. It was a gun.

What the hell was a gun doing all the way out here? This was too far from the area Ace had designated as their practice space.

Maybe Isla had accidentally thrown it too hard?

No, it wasn't possible. Ace had given Isla the gun safety basics, but Isla was determined to know as much about swordfighting as possible.

It could have been Ace's. But the model of the gun was American.

And it was oddly familiar―

Someone screamed.

The building sense of dread inside Mavis ignited. She was already running, already lunging towards the source of the scream―

Through the trees, she stopped at the edge of the cottage clearing.

Isla was on the ground, writhing.

Ace was tickling her.

"No!" Isla shrieked. "That's cheating!"

"There is no such thing as cheating in life," Ace said in a stern voice. But Mavis didn't miss the smile tugging on her mouth.

And Mavis didn't even realize she was smiling, too.

Her daughter and the blonde bimbo.

No, she thought. As much as she wanted to hate Ace, to call her a blonde bimbo, she couldn't.

Because moments like these had long since proved to Mavis that Ace was worth trusting.

Worth loving.

Fuck it. Suddenly, Mavis wanted to tell her. To say it, because―because―there was the chance they could die at any moment. And Mavis didn't want to go one more second without letting Ace know.

This beautiful, dangerous woman, who had come into her life like a hurricane, who had made herself a home in Mavis's heart so fast, too fast.

But Mavis never got the chance to say it.

Because just then, Mavis heard a rustle in the bushes behind her.

She turned around, expecting to see a squirrel.

Her mouth opened in surprise when she saw a man instead.

"If only you hadn't seen the gun," he said in a low, raspy voice.

Ace is right behind me. Mavis stepped back, prepared to run, to scream―

Just in time to feel the press of a man's chest behind her.

She opened her mouth to call Ace's name.

A cloth covered her nose.

Chloroform.

Mavis turned around, hoping to catch a glimpse, just a glimpse of Ace―

Ace looked up, almost sensing her.

But Mavis was already being dragged away from the clearing.

Her last memory was the sight of a small bird up in the sky. Chirping as though he could see her, as though he was crying out for help.

Then the cloth tightened, and the songbird disappeared into the black of her unconsciousness.