Victor found the scene tedious. He raised his gun and shot the man on top of her; the crack of the shot echoed through the room. Gunpowder lingered, sharp in the air.
“Let’s make a bet,” he said almost lightly, as if proposing a game.
But Scarlett’s gaze was hollow.
Victor crouched, his smile widening. “What’s wrong? Do you want your last breath to be on my bed?” He tilted his head, feigning thought. “Shall I call more in?” A flicker crossed her face—enough to amuse him. He chuckled.
“What’s the bet?” Her voice was flat.
“That if I let you go now, Ryan will keep you alive. A couple more days, at least.”
“He won’t.” Scarlett’s mouth curved faintly, bitter. “I failed my mission. He’ll kill me.”
Victor shook his head with quiet certainty. “Let’s not be sure about that. I say, you’ll last another seven days.”
“Why seven?”
Victor smiled, offering no answer. Then he let her go.
At the door, he leaned close, his breath brushing her ear. “I put poison in you. If you want to live, you’ll come back for the antidote.”
Then he added, almost tender, “Seven days. I hope you’ll return alive.”
Alive.