Isolde tilted her head up. One of the bodies hung from the ceiling, drenched in dried blood. She squinted, trying to make out the face of the poor bastard strung up in this abandoned warehouse. And she recognized him.
The corpse belonged to the man she and Severin had talked about last night—her ex. The same asshole she thought would end up as her third mission target—another piece of shit who'd carved pain into her like it was sport.
But instead of being saved for her to kill, Severin had already taken care of him yesterday and slaughtered him. Hung him up like a goddamn trophy. It's like a sick, welcome banner just for her.
Severin noticed her staring at the gruesome body dangling from the rafters.
"He was supposed to be your third target," Severin said flatly, "but that son of a bitch couldn't keep his mouth shut. Ran it off about you, talking shit. I wasn't about to wait until tomorrow. So I fucking handled it myself."
