Darkest Sins (Perfectly Imperfect #9)

When I headed out to the library that day to pick up the reference book I needed for my paper, I found a bunch of vegetables hanging from the outside knob of my new door. Some were parsnips, but most were celery root plants. I gaped at them, wondering what the hell they were doing there, until it dawned on me. They were meant to be parsley. I stood on my threshold, staring at the “offering” for several minutes, while a warm feeling swelled inside my chest.

“Men who need bullets removed from their bodies and wounds sewn up don’t go around bringing girls parsley, Nera.”

“This one does. There was still dirt on the roots. I’m fairly sure he stole them from somewhere.” I look away from my new “herbs” and meet my sister’s gaze. “Do you remember all the gifts Lotario used to bring me?”

“What does that have to do with this?”

“Flowers,” I say. “He kept bringing me flowers even though I told him several times that I was allergic. Diamond earrings, which I never wore since my ears aren’t pierced. That crazy-expensive snakeskin purse that I gave away because I would never use real leather.”

“Lotario was a tool. You shouldn’t use him as a reference.”

“And what about our friends?” I ask. “Friends who I thought knew me well, always seem to be in competition to buy the most expensive gift for my birthday without bothering to find out what I actually like.”

“It’s not like that.”

“It is. And you know it. You’ve experienced it yourself. Last year, Dania bought you a watch for your birthday. And she knows you never wear jewelry because your skin is so sensitive and won’t tolerate many things. She picked that particular watch because she knew everyone would be talking about it for days. Not because you’d like it.”

Zara looks away, but I still catch the tears in her eyes. “I do like that watch.”

“I know,” I whisper and take her hand in mine. “And I know you love the jewelry Dad keeps buying for you. Even though you only keep it in that velvet box on your vanity.”

“He probably forgot.” She brushes away a stray tear and smiles. “So . . . parsley?”

“Well . . . celery root.” I snort.

Zara eyes me for a few moments, then bursts out laughing. “I didn’t know you have such a peculiar taste in men, sis.”

“Me neither.” I grin.

“But, be careful, Nera. And for the love of all that’s holy, next time, ask him his name.”

The elevator doors ping open.

I step out and head left toward Kruger’s office at the end of the hall. Two tech guys who handle surveillance are hanging outhalfway down the corridor, shooting the breeze while slugging from their takeout coffee cups, but the moment they notice me, their discussion comes to a halt. They plaster themselves to a wall, watching me with wide eyes as I approach, their focus bouncing between my face and an unconscious man I’m carrying over my shoulder. My eyes cut to them as I pass. One of the pip-squeaks gulps—loudly—and his coffee cup slips out of his grasp, crashing onto the concrete floor with a resounding thud. As soon as I move past them, two sets of running feet patter in the opposite direction. I adjust my hold on the unconscious guy and step inside Kruger’s office.

“I expected you on Friday,” he says without lifting his eyes from the laptop and scribes a note on the pad lying on the side of his desk.

“Something came up.” I dump the limp body by the door and take a seat on the lone visitor chair in the room.

Kruger doesn’t even spare me a look, just resumes typing and periodically making notations. He’s always needed to appear as if he’s unperturbed by my presence, but we both know that’s not the case. After he took me in, under the pretense of enrolling me into the “troubled youth program,” this man spent years using the most sinister methods to shape me into his vision of a perfect killing machine. I was his first recruit. Or, “patient zero” in the insane project of his, molded since the age of eight to become a remorseless slayer. As far as experiments go, I guess you could say I surpassed the expectations.

“And what’s the nature of the thing that ‘came up,’ Mazur?” he asks and finally meets my gaze after circling his last line on the pad of paper.

“Not your fucking problem.”

The pen in his hand cracks in half.

I lean back in the chair and cross my arms over my chest. As a child, I was terrified of “my savior,” but then, there came a time when our roles reversed. I can still vividly remember the look on his face when it happened.

I returned from a mission and threw a severed head on his desk. It belonged to a well-known terrorist whom the military had been trying to kill for years. Kruger stared at the bloody thing for nearly a minute before he pulled his shit together enough to glance my way. That was the moment, I think, when he realized just what he had created.

It was then that I’d first seen fear in Lennox Kruger’s eyes. He was afraid of me. I was barely seventeen. But something else was also in his eyes. Pride. I’d never had anyone be proud of me before that day. It felt good. Still, in that moment, I wanted to put a gun to his temple and kill him. At the same time, though, I wanted to see that look of pride in his eyes once more. My feelings about the whole thing confused the fuck out of me.

I’m not sure why I never tried to kill the bastard. God knows I had numerous opportunities. Like now, for instance. I could easily shoot him in the head before he can get to the gun he keeps strapped under his desk. Still, I don’t want to waste him. Maybe because I enjoy seeing that look of fear in his eyes way too much. Or maybe because my fucked-up psyche sees this asshole as the closest thing I’ve ever had to a parent. And, to make the whole situation worse, I’m fairly certain that, in his own deranged way, he thinks of me as his kid.

“I don’t want your private matters messing up my business,” he snaps.

“When have I ever affected your ‘business’? You do remember my fucking completion rate, right?”