Hello friends! We are back up on schedule, yay! Sorry to leave you all on such a cliffhanger. Originally, it wasn't one, but I did a little re-jiggling of chapters and I just couldn't resist ;) Hope you don't hate me too much! Anyway, I hope you all enjoy this chapter too (I'm pretty proud of it myself) and leave me a review after you've done reading, pretty please? Love you loads!

It would have been a perfect kill if the glow from the streetlight above them hadn't reflected off of Clove's knife and into Cato's eye. He blinked, then, realising what was happening, he pushed himself away from her with a shout and jerked to the left. Her blade slipped clean through the air, missing him by miles.

White-hot anger flashed through Clove's mind as she lurched forward, then a cold stab of panic she was unaccustomed to flared in her stomach. Shit shit shit shit. Quickly stabilising herself, she spun around under his arm that was just passing over her head, grabbed his wrist and kicked her leg up to catch him in the centre of his chest. Cato stumbled backwards and crashed down onto the pavement, Clove following ontop of him, her knife held over his heart. As soon as she was down, she tucked her legs in by his sides, trying her best to hold him still enough for her to impale the knife into his body but Cato seemed to have regained his wits enough to start fighting back.

'What the hell?' he gasped, writhing from side to side, his hands reaching up to grab her wrists and stop her from stabbing him.

'Just stay still,'Clove hissed vehemently, struggling to bring the blade down.

'What, you think I'm fucking crazy?'

'Just let me kill you!' she grunted, her knuckles turning white with the strain of pressing down on the metal.

'You're fucking crazy!'

With a burst of fearful energy, Cato flung her off of him towards the alley wall. Clove gave a yelp of pain and staggered, her head hitting the bricks hard. She felt dazed, almost as if she was going to pass out, then quickly regained her balance. Her knife had slipped from her grasp. Scrabbling across the ground, Clove snatched it back up and leapt to her feet, ready to leap again, ready to strike – control, control – when she heard the click of a gun loading.

Cato was standing in front of her, a shot gun held out in front of him, his finger on the trigger, a small trail of blood trickling down his chin from his nose. Clove breathed out, a low whistle leaking from her lips. Her heart was hammering on the inside of her ribcage so hard she thought her ribs might break from the pressure and let her heart leak out onto the pavement.

'You don't know how to use that,' she said, trying to keep her voice even. Control.

'You want to bet on that?' Cato replied, cocking his head at her slightly.

No, actually, she didn't. Bets were risky, bets were uncertainty. Bets could allow for mistakes and she had already made way too many of those for one night.

Cato gave a hollow laugh, not bothering to wait for her reply. 'God, why do I always go for the crazy ones? You had to be fucking insane.' He jabbed the gun further in her direction. Clove flinched, her fingernails digging into her skin. 'You had to be insane!' Cato yelled again, hysteria tingeing his words.

Clove shifted the weight of the knife in her palm, calculating. The chances that she could throw it before he pulled the trigger were slim, incredibly slim. Actually, unless somehow she could knock the gun out of his hand before it penetrated his skin, it would be impossible.

Suddenly, she heard a thin wail pierce the night air, cutting through it like her knife had been meant to cut through his flesh. Her head jerked towards the sound, coming from the main road. Sirens! Clove's heart leaped into her mouth and she thought she was going to throw up. No no no no. Not here, not now. Someone inside the bar must have heard them and called the police. She had nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. She was trapped.

Unexpectedly, Cato turned towards the sirens too, his face contorted with confusion. His grip on the gun slackened. Clove saw her opportunity. She threw the knife she still held in her hand towards the gun. It collided with the sickening sound of metal scraping against metal and Clove turned on her heel, desperate for what might be her only chance of escape.

Cato screamed and she heard a thump; she could only imagine that the knife had sunk into his skin as it fell to the ground, taking the gun with it, but did not have the time to check. As fast as she could, she ran to the dumpster under the wall and grabbed onto the handle, propelling herself ontop of it, her shoes slipping on the cracking plastic.

By the time Cato, gripping his bleeding hand tight to his chest and wincing in pain, had turned around to see where she had gone, Clove had spun over the top of the alley wall and had disappeared into the night.

Standing in her shower cubicle, Clove turned the water on and let the hot water run over her body and wash away the grime from the previous night. After she had gotten away from the sleazy district she had ended up in with Cato, she had only had the time to strip off her dress and kick off her shoes before she had passed out on her bed in her underwear. When she had woken up ten minutes ago, she had felt impossibly, and incurably, dirty.

The water was pumping out of the shower hot and hard; it was pummelling her skin raw like tiny bullets, like the bullets that could have ended her life the night before. Clove felt her hands tremble as she turned up the temperature.

Stupid. Stupid, stupid! How could she have been so careless, so sloppy? How could she have let this happen? She had never let a kill get away, she always got them, always, every single time. In the past two years, the length of time she had been working for Snow, she had never failed to bring him a body. But this time, this time, she had let her victim slip through her fingers like sand on a beach and she had been unable to grasp back in time to keep some in her palm. Even worse, this time she had nearly let herself killed as well. She had lost control and for that Clove could never forgive herself.

The water was approaching scalding temperature now, but Clove didn't care. The heat was cleansing, it was getting her clean again. And she needed to be clean, especially after what had happened last night. Last night, when, as she had been kissing Cato, as she had let his hands roam across her body and his lips kiss hers, she had felt a deep desire awaken within her and a hunger that ached within her now that she could not suppress. For a moment, back in that alleyway, she had wanted him. And for that, she needed to be cleansed.

Clove turned the water up to its highest temperature and turned so that her back was to the facet and her forehead could rest on the tiles of the shower. A wave of dizziness washed over her, threatening to send her tumbling into oblivion, but Clove grasped onto her consciousness, bringing her hands up to the wall to steady herself. The water was scalding hot now; the water droplets were burning her skin and steam was rising in the cubicle like smoke from a flame. Clove closed her eyes, praying for the dizziness to pass.

She saw him in fractured pieces, like parts of a broken mirror being put back together. She saw his smug smile as he corrected her offensive technique inside the bar, the corner of his mouth pulling up into a sneer.

Control, control...

She saw the mole behind his left ear as he bent forward to kiss the back of her neck, his hot, beer-battered breath staining her skin. She saw the small stream of crimson blood, tracing the skin down from his nose to his lip.

Control.

She saw his eyes, looming above her and laughing. She felt his hand move across her face and pull her towards him, tipping her chin so he could kiss her and, God, she wanted him to, she wanted it so badly...

CONTROL!

Clove screamed and whipped her head around to grasp at the controls to turn the shower off. The water stopped and Clove felt a large pressure she hadn't even known was there leave her brain as her soaked hair dripped down her back. Uttering a deep, shuddering sigh, she reached around and rubbed at the back of her neck, trying to slow down her heart rate. Control.

Straightening up, she pushed open the door to the shower cubicle and groped around on the floor for her towel, as a cold blast of air hit her skin, sending goosebumps shuddering down her shoulders and legs.

Wait.

Clove froze. There was no way a breeze that strong could be blowing through her apartment. She had locked all the doors and closed all the windows before she had gotten into the shower. There was nowhere for such a wind to come from. A cold rush of fear prickled down Clove's spine.

Her towel forgotten, Clove left the bathroom and walked, cautiously, into the main living space of her apartment. At first glance, all seemed to be as she had left it. The open plan apartment space consisted of a small kitchen, a circular wooden table in what Clove assumed was a dining area but had never used and a sofa and television set next to the window – which was wide open. The front door was also open, but not as wide as the window.

It was only then that Clove noticed the smell. Roses, an overwhelming scent of roses had replaced the sour stench of milk that normally filled the apartment, settling over everything in sight and suffocating the air around Clove.

Sitting on the coffee table next to the sofa was a crystal vase, patterned all over with frosted swirls and patterns, and a white envelope. Inside the vase were five white roses, just opening up their petals to reveal their fragrant insides. Roses, Clove noticed, that had not been de-thorned.

She moved closer to the table, now almost certain that whomsoever had delivered the gift was no longer inside her apartment. The envelope was addressed to her; her name was written on the front in red ink and in the cursive writing that could only belong to Snow. As she ran her finger under the seal, more rose perfume leaked out into the room, followed by a sweet, sickly scent that smelt suspiciously like blood to Clove.

On the paper, ten words were printed in the exact same manner as her name had been: 'You have five more chances. Otherwise you will be terminated.' The letter was signed, quite simply, with the letter S.

Clove stared at the words on the page for several minutes, reading them over, tracing the letters with her thumbnail. Abruptly, she crumbled the letter in her hand and let it slide out of her hand and onto the floor in disgust. Next, she picked up the vase. The roses were perfect, smooth petals unfurling around themselves to reveal that intoxicating scent. For a moment, Clove imagined that the blood scent she could smell was coming from inside the roses. Then, she lifted the vase high and threw it to the floor.

When his phone rang in his pocket, vibrating onto his chest, Cato nearly jumped out of his skin.

He was sitting in Lincoln Park, on a bench by the zoo, with his laptop on his knees. He had gone there in an attempt to get some work done but instead he had ended up simply staring out at his surroundings. A productive day, then.

An ice cream van, in excellent business, had parked up opposite his bench and Cato had a perfect view of the never ending stream of hot Chicago citizens and holidaymakers desperate for some kind of release from the heat. He watched parents argue with their kids that there was no way they were paying for the triple scoop cone, girlfriends split the lowest calorie sorbet between the two of them, teenagers giddy with independence buying the highest priced ice creams and looking severely disappointed when they didn't turn out as tasty as promised. It made Cato smile.

Cato had become so transfixed on watching the van that, when his phone rang, he had started so hard his laptop had nearly fallen off his lap. He swore under his breath as he pulled it back and, setting the computer safely on the bench beside him, he looked at his phone. It was an unknown number calling, probably some reporter or journalist, searching for a scoop. Normally, Cato would simply decline the call but, after nearly loosing his laptop, he was buzzed to give the son-of-a-bitch a piece of his own mind.

'Now listen here, you fucking piece of no-good communist crap,' he spat into the phone, 'I am giving you five seconds to hang up and lose my number or I swear to go I will call the police and-'

'Wow,' a familiar dry voice remarked on the other end of the line. 'You're gone from your best friend's life for 56 hours and suddenly you're a communist. How 'bout that?'

Cato's words died in his mouth. 'Marv?'

'Obviously.' The crackly line could not hide the grin in Marvel's voice. 'You don't exactly have any other close friends willing to ring you up to check that you're still alive, do you?'

Cato's original relief was replaced by anger. 'Marvel, where the hell are you?'

'Switzerland airport,' came the reply. 'We took like three plane rides here, just to try and throw anyone tracking us off our scent. From here, we're on a straight flight to Paris. Pretty crazy, huh?'

Cato wiped his hand down his face. 'God, yeah. What's it like? Are you and Katie okay?'

'Yeah, yeah, we're cool...' Marvel's voice went muffled. 'No, Kat, just someone from work. Look, go get us some coffee, yeah? Have you got any money?' The line went static and Cato could only make out very few words being exchanged and even then it sounded like he was hearing them from underwater.

'Sorry,' Marvel rejoined the line, his voice getting clearer again.

'It's cool. She okay?'

'Yeah. Yeah, she's okay.' Marvel's voice instantly switched to casual and jokey, as if he was still in his house just ten minutes walk away. 'So, what's going on over there?'

Cato paused for half a heartbeat. 'Some chick tried to kill me last night.'

Marvel's line went silent. 'You're shitting me,' he said, eventually.

Cato gave a harsh laugh. 'I wish I was.'

He gave Marvel a quick recap of the previous nights action, from the moment he had entered the bar to when Clove had disappeared after cutting his hand in an attempt to get him to drop the gun. He also recounted the sirens which had not, as Clove must have thought they would, come storming in to rescue him but had instead kept screaming down the neighbourhood. Cato figured the area was no stranger to police sirens in the dead of night.

The only thing he did not mention to Marvel was the level of attraction he had felt towards Clove, from the moment she had walked into the bar to the last fleeting glance he had had of her hair as she tipped herself over the wall. He did not tell Marvel that he was still feeling the tingle of desire for this girl seeding itself inside him at that very moment.

'Holy shit,' Marvel uttered, once Cato had finished. 'Holy fucking shit.'

'Yeah,' Cato agreed.

'Jesus, Cato...I...I...'

'Am at a loss for words?'

'Did you call the police?' Marvel demanded. 'Are they out looking for this chick? Did you give a statement?'

Cato hesitated, for just a moment too long.

'You didn't call the cops.' Marvel said it as a statement, not a question.

'No,' Cato admitted.

'You didn't call the cops when someone tried to kill you.'

'No.'

'You didn't call the cops when some crazy bitch with knives coming out of her dress tried to kill you in the alleyway behind some sleazy bar at fucking midnight.'

'No.'

'Why the fuck not?'

Again, mistakenly, Cato hesitated.

'Oh, Jesus,' Marvel groaned over the phone. 'Oh God, no.'

'Marv...'

'I knew it! I knew you had some insane sex kink that was going to get you killed someday! Is this why Caitlin Sawer moved school after you fucked her? Was she so weirded out when you asked her to try and knife you under the covers that she could never stand to see your face again?'

'Marv!' Cato snapped, his temper fraying.

'Jesus fucking...' Marvel's voice trailed off. 'Was she hot?' he asked, after a brief pause.

'Yeah,' Cato reluctantly confessed. 'She was really fucking hot.'

'Son of a bitch,' Marvel muttered under his breath. For a while, they both fell silent. 'Do you think she's going to try again?' Marvel eventually continued.

'I have a hunch,' Cato said, rubbing his chin. 'She didn't seem like the kind of girl to give up after only one shot.'

Marvel snorted down the phone. 'I always say, second date sex is the best.'

'This is serious.'

'Says the guy who wants to fuck his assassin.'

Cato couldn't help the smile breaking out from under his hand as he covered his mouth. God, he had missed Marvel. Not that he'd ever let the skinny bastard know that.

'Do you think you can handle this girl? It sounds like she's pretty good at her job.'

'Hey, I've got a few tricks up my sleeve too.'

'Sure you have. Any that might make a fully trained assassin want to fuck you back?'

Cato didn't quite want to admit that he hadn't gotten that far with his planning yet. 'I'm working on it,' he said, breezily.

'Sure. Hey, when you do figure it out, just make sure you're still around to pick up your phone. I want regular updates on this hot, psychopathic bitch and my best friend's freaky turn-ons.'

Cato grinned. 'It's a deal.'

'Hey, I gotta go,' Marvel said, suddenly sounding flustered. 'Out flight just got called and I can't see Katie. I'll talk to you later.'

'Yeah, yeah, sure.'

'And, Cato?'

'Yeah?'

'Stay safe.'

'Got it.'

'Then adios, amigo!' Marvel chirped. 'Paris awaits!'

''Adios' is Spanish, you dumbass.'

'Ah, fuck.'