Emily stood in the butcher's secret workroom, staring at the man as he worked to quickly carve the flesh and muscle away from the dead man's bones. Ave María...grátia plena...Dóminus tecum...Benedícta tu in muliéribus, et benedíctus fructus ventris tui, Jesus...Sancta María, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatóribus, nunc et in hora mortis nostræ...." She shuffled her feet slightly and looked down at her shoes. Dark blood was seeping into the satin of her nice blue heels. Absolutely replaceable. They could go in her closet with the rest of her blood-soaked clothes. Emily O'Connor wasn't afraid of blood and death and gore. She had been a hit-man since she was 16. She had seen blood and death and gore. She had caused it. She had walked through the streets of hell to come out the other side beaten, bruised, and ready for more. Her eyes flicked back up to the wolverine in front of her. Her heels clicked softly against the cement floor as she walked up to the man hanging from the meat hook and walked a slow circle around the two men, watching Pyotr's every cut, every slice, every single movement. Now and then she looked up to his face, awed by the look of concentration she found there. There wasn't one bit of this that made the cat squeamish or uneasy. Quite the opposite, honestly. She shivered at the thought of the knife running across her skin and stepped back, rubbing her upper arms with her hands. She watched as he gutted, dismembered, and disposed of the two bodies. They were nothing. Thugs who thought it would be a good idea to try and shake the butcher down for protection money when he was already under the protection of the Russian mob. Not only that, but they interrupted a rather intimate moment the hit-woman was sharing with her butcher out in the alley beside his shop. She was a little sad the others ran away after Pyotr cut two of them down easily with knives she didn't even know he was carrying. She really was ashamed she forgot her guns. She never left the house without her guns. She wasn't good at hand-to-hand, especially not with her knee and shoulder injury. She wasn't very good at it before either. Hence the veritable road map of scars crisscrossing through her fur. Every one a memory, every one very important to her. As she watched Pyotr cleaning the surfaces once both bodies were nothing more than ground up meat in the sewer below, Emily realized she had to make a choice. Should she let her beau know grateful she was for dinner now? Should she let him in on just how messed up she really was? He was a butcher. He was the type of man who drew an anatomical cow's heart on the back of a business card when she had asked for his phone number. He was perfect for her. The others had been perfect too... But the others didn't know how to eviscerate a body with the grace that Pyotr did. Plus, the others were gone. Out of her life for good. Every single one of them dead. The rumors were she did it herself. The truth was she only killed the first one... None of that was the point at the moment. Well, is finish. She barely registered that he had said anything. She stood there, fidgeting, trying desperately to make up her mind. It was a fiery debate between her brain, her heart, and her crotch, two against one vs her brain. The debate ended with Pyotr pulling her into a heated, passionate kiss. Electricity shot through her body. Every single nerve felt like it was on fire, every inch of her begging to be touched. She wrapped her arms around him and jumped up, wrapping her legs around him as well. Not that she had to jump very far. They were the same height, but still. She pulled herself into him as tightly as she could and when the kiss broke, she let out a sigh, her pulse racing. She could feel her heart pounding. She stretched her neck out for him to do with what he wanted. "I'll take dessert now." She said, desperately hoping he understood she didn't mean ice cream.