Page 129 of Breaking Rosalind

I crouch in front of her chair and gaze into her hazel eyes. Eyes the same shape as Miranda’s, but which burn with golden flames.

“Talk to me, pet.”

“I didn’t know there was another hit,” she rasps.

My fingers close in around her bandaged thighs, and I squeeze them so tightly she grimaces.

“You’re intelligent, powerful, ruthless. A seducer of men,” I murmur, my gaze falling to her lips. “A high-ranking assassin like you manipulates the world around you. You could have escaped, yet you stayed in position to coordinate your subordinates to carry out your mission.”

“No,” she says.

I dig my fingers into her skin, making her gasp. “Then how did you direct Britt past secret entrances, through the maze of underground hallways, and into the hidden bathroom?”

“I didn’t.”

“Rosalind.”

Her eyes widen at the use of her name. Good.

“Help me help you.”

Her brow furrows. “What do you mean?”

“I want to protect you more than anything, but all the facts point to you being the master assassin. I searched you for trackers, yet you found a way to communicate with your underlings.”

“Cesare, I’m not?—”

“Give me something, so I can save you!”

She flinches, squeezes her eyes shut, and shudders. Rosalind is a skillful actress. I almost believe she’s frightened, frustrated, even frantic. I’m so enthralled with her performance that I’ll do anything to make her mine.

With a shuddering sigh, she says, “You have six hostages?—”

“Five,” I reply with a smirk. “Your boyfriend shot my brother and just lost his cock. I doubt he’ll survive the night.”

“You have five hostages,” she says, not the least bit disturbed about the impending death of her lover. “Why don’t you use that as leverage against the Moirai?”

Loosening my grip on her thighs, I lean back and consider her proposal. It’s a smart strategy. But knowing Rosalind, there has to be a catch.

“That’s not a bad idea. Now, tell me how you coordinated your escape and the triple hit.”

“I didn’t,” she says with a sigh.

“Give me something else, or I’ll kill blondie boy.”

“Call Gunther at the Times,” she says through clenched teeth. “Tell him everything. He might listen.”

“How do I know it isn’t a coded message?”

She rears back. “What?”

“You’re the mistress of manipulation. How can I trust anything you say?”

Her face tightens, and she swallows hard. She almost looks the picture of innocence, an older version of the girl I want to protect. I shake off that thought and remember the pain of her firing that gun into my bullet-proof undershirt.

“Work with me,” I growl. “The stakes are higher. I need something. Anything to keep you alive.”

She licks her lips and hesitates, as though conjuring up another lie. “I’m not as powerful as you think,” she says, her eyes glistening. “All those people in there outrank me.”