The Killer's Kitten
Later, when he went into the room to sleep, he whispered a word:
"Goodnight, Kitten." Not a question. Not an invitation. Just a fact.
She'd frozen. "What did you call me?"
He didn't open his eyes. "You heard me."
She'd stared at him in the dark. His expression hadn't changed. But his ears—she'd noticed—were slightly pink. The great Vincent, who could kill a man without flinching, was blushing over a nickname.
Now, sitting beside him in the near-dark, she didn't mention it. Neither did he. But when he shifted—just slightly—and leaned his shoulder against hers, his hand found hers in the space between them.
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