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There’s a body lying face down on the kitchen floor, surrounded by a pool of blood that is slowly spreading across the eggshell colored tiles.
Eve suspects that she should be more alarmed by this fact.
Instead, after an initial jolt at the sight of the corpse, her attention is drawn away from the body and towards Villanelle, who is sitting on the floor with her legs crossed neatly. There’s even more blood sprayed across her pale face and hands, and there’s a knife resting on the ground beside her, a vicious looking thing with a serrated blade at least four inches in length. It’s not Villanelle’s weapon of choice, and as Eve sets her groceries down on the kitchen table, she absently wonders where it came from.
“Who’s that?” she asks instead. Villanelle looks up, mouth curved into a grin the very picture of feral.
There’s blood between her teeth.
“Another assassin from the Twelve,” she responds, unfolding her lethal body and getting to her feet. Kicking the corpse in the leg, she continues, “This one almost managed to cut me.”
“Impressive.” Eve reaches out and brushes a piece of Villanelle’s silken hair away from her face, tucking it securely behind her ear. “Want help cleaning up?”
Villanelle’s grin widens.
“Not yet,” she murmurs. Closing the space between them, she threads her fingers tightly into Eve’s hair, molds her body to Eve’s, and kisses her roughly.
She tastes like rust.
It’s a taste that Eve has come to love.