Seeds of Iniquity (In the Company of Killers, #4)(37)

She sits tied to that chair; her legs and ankles and torso wrapped many times and pulled so tight she can hardly move; her forearms and wrists are bound to the metal arms, in addition to the chains and cuffs. But despite all that, she doesn’t look uncomfortable. It’s like she’s no stranger to this; either that or she has so much patience and discipline that she can tolerate it.

I hate her. I hate her for what she’s done to Dina. To Woodard’s daughters. And still, even though it looks like Dorian is a traitor, I hate what she’s done to his ex-wife. I hate her for making me tell her the darkest secret I’ve ever kept.

But what I don’t understand is how I can also envy her.

Nora Kessler is who I’ve been striving to become since I met Victor and chose this life with him—strong, intelligent, skilled, confident, but most of all…taken seriously. She’s a f*cking master and I’m a novice. If she were much older than me, in her thirties or forties maybe, I wouldn’t feel so amateur compared to her, but she can’t have but a few years on me. How in the hell can she be so experienced?

Nora looks up at the camera, snapping me out of my thoughts. I feel like she’s looking right at me even though she can’t see me, and I get the sudden urge to talk to her again. I don’t know why, but the need is strong and I find myself fighting against it.

She grins as if she knows someone’s watching and I look away from the screen.

Niklas is sitting to my right, reading a magazine. A cigarette is tucked behind his ear. A cup of coffee sits on the table next to his elbow.

He still hasn’t spoken to me much since his confession with Nora. It’s starting to annoy me.

“You don’t have to be a dick,” I say.

He slides a finger between the pages and flips one over casually. “Yeah I do,” he says calmly and without looking up. “Haven’t I always been?”

“Yeah, actually you’re a pro at being a dick,” I say, “but I think I prefer the rude, mouthy you over this silent-treatment one.”

“I don’t recall ever giving you a choice.” He flips another page.

I sigh. “Niklas, what happened to Claire isn’t my fault.”

“Never said it was.” He still hasn’t looked up, or raised his tone above I-don’t-really-give-a-shit.

“But why do you hate me so much? Because she died? Can your brother not be happy?”

Finally he looks up and his eyes lock onto mine; the half-turned page paused on his finger.

“Happy?” He smiles with mock disbelief. “There are a handful of words that don’t really apply to this kind of life, Izabel”—it actually stings this time that he doesn’t call me Izzy—“and ‘happy’ is one of them. That’s for people with white picket fences and bratty kids n’ shit.”

He closes the magazine and tosses it on the table; it lands on a keyboard. Then he leans forward; the smile still present on his unshaven face now laced with mockery. “What was it that Nora said to you when you were in there with her, before the audio was turned off? Inexperienced, overly confident and too far in over your head—it was something like that.” He pauses. “Well she was right.”

I swallow down my hurt feelings and my shame, and pull at all of my strength to keep it from showing.

Niklas leans back in his chair again and crosses his arms over his chest. He props his left boot on top of his right knee.

“You never should’ve been brought here,” he goes on. “You never should’ve been allowed to know what we do, much less being fed the delusion of thinking you could do it too. You don’t just decide one day that you want to be a contract killer, or a professional spy. And you never will be. You may hold your own on some missions, you may ‘prove your worth’”—he makes quotation marks with his fingers—“but you’ll never be on my brother’s level, or on mine, no matter how much you train because you weren’t born into this life or started training young.” He shakes his head, glances at the surveillance room door and then says, “Do you really think that Victor has ever once”—he points a finger upward—“trusted you to go on a mission without him or one of us to protect you? Think about it—have you been on a mission alone? Has Victor ever sent you out alone?” He shakes his head again, this time in answer of his own question; a vague smile around his blue-green eyes. “And he never will. Even when you think you’re alone you know his men are in the shadows watching you.” He picks the magazine back up and opens it to the center. “A solo mission will never happen. At least not until he realizes that you need to die, then he’ll send you out on your own. It’ll be easier for him to stomach than killing you himself.”

Niklas’ words cut through me like a dull blade through flesh and bone. My stomach swims with humiliation and pain. For a long time I can’t even look at him, not out of anger for his cruel words, but out of shame because I believe them. Deep down I think I’ve always believed them.

“You’re a bastard, Niklas.”

“I know,” he says, looking up. “I’m a bastard in the technical sense, too, because my brother killed our father. Can you kill someone you love? Can you let Dina Gregory die? Because it’s in all our best interests that she does, and you know it. This never should’ve happened, Izabel. Family members and ex-wives—ties to the outside are just weaknesses.”