Darkest Sins (Perfectly Imperfect #9)

“Now, listen to me well, because I’m not going to repeat myself. My orders for this shitty mission are clear—retrieve the flash drive by any means necessary, but let you live.” I nod at his hand. “Shooting to maim isn’t exactly my thing. Looks like I hit an artery there. If you don’t get help in twenty minutes, you’re done for.”

“Sugar jar,” he chokes out.

“What?”

“The flash drive is in the sugar jar.”

I rise and get the white ceramic jar from the counter. Buried just below the surface of the fine white crystals, lies the elusive memory stick. As I’m about to grab it, a faint squeak of wood scraping on the linoleum floor sounds behind me.

“Fuck, you’re stupid,” I say, turning around as the guy rushes at me with a kitchen knife in his good hand.

I grab his wrist and squeeze. A muted crunch of bone follows. The knife slips from his hand. I catch it in midair and plunge the blade into the side of the idiot’s head, right through his ear.

“I told you,” I say into his glassy gaze and let the body fall to the floor. “Occupational habit, asshole.”

I get the flash drive from the sugar jar, then look up at the wall clock hanging over the counter. Half past two in the afternoon. If I head out now, I could be in Boston by seven. My cub should be working the afternoon shift today. She typically does on Thursdays.

Twenty-seven days. Ten hours. And twenty-five minutes. That’s how long it’s been since I’ve spoken with her. I’ve been checking up on her regularly, but I’ve kept my distance.

Nera.

I never intended to discover her name, too worried that knowing it would drag me even further into this obsession, but one of her friends called out to her while I was close enough to hear.

Nera.

I wonder how it would sound if I spoke it aloud.

I want to talk with her again.

Taking a fillet knife out of the knife block, I check the sharpness of the blade with my finger, then stride up to a long mirror mounted in the hallway.

The chime above the door rings out, breaking the silence in the small vet clinic.

“We’re closed,” I say as I’m reaching for my jacket.

“I know.”

My head snaps toward the voice. The designer all-black suit fits him perfectly, hugging his broad shoulders, the top two buttons of the black shirt underneath undone. The collar is completely covered in dried blood. Diagonally, across his cheek, is a long nasty-looking cut.

“Are you serious?” I gasp and throw my jacket back on the hanger.

My demon looks around the office, then casually strolls into one of the exam rooms and takes a seat. “How’s life, cub?”

“Unbelievable,” I say under my breath as I rush around, collecting disinfectant and gauze. “Just . . . unbelievable.”

I can feel his eyes on me the whole time I’m rummaging through the drawers to find the rest of the things I’ll be needing and set them beside him on the table. After washing my hands, I march toward him as tiny little butterflies flutter their wings in my stomach, the sensation clashing with the horror of seeing him hurt.

“I think I need stitches again.”

I blink and focus my gaze on the cut along his cheek. “Steri-Strips would suffice this time. The bleeding has already stopped, so you just need something to keep the wound closed.”

“Oh . . . That’s a shame.”

“Shame? Are you some kind of masochist or something?” I ask as I clean dried blood from the cut and surrounding skin.

“No.”

It’s really hard to focus on my task when he’s so close. My leg is pressed against his thigh, and my breasts are touching his upper arm. “Um, can you tilt your head a bit?”