Page 66 of Bought By Santa

Dad rolls his eyes. “If you need these…” Pausing, he gestures around the table. “… men to tell you what to do, you’re not ready to lead. It’s pathetic.”

Inwardly, I bristle, but outwardly, I keep my expression neutral, careful not to show how much his attitude is bothering me. “And if my dad thinks I need him around to conduct business, maybe he shouldn’t be here,” I reply coldly.

No one says anything while I stare Dad down, refusing to blink first. The problem with a staring contest between the former and current leader is that neither wants to back down. But if I’m the one to do it, I’m showing everyone I’m the weakest. That isn’t happening.

Dad looks away as Jack slams his fist into the table. “We should send them a message.” I mentally make a note to thank him later. “No one spies on the Knight family and lives to tell about it.”

“I agree,” Sergei says, cracking his knuckles. “A bloody one.”

“Agreed,” I say, signaling Marco with a nod. He understands; this isn’t just about punishment, it’s about setting an example. No mercy for those who cross us.

I glance at the spy, his chest heaving beneath the tight ropes, his fear palpable. He’s heard everything, yet can say nothing. Good. Let his mind paint the gruesome pictures of what’s to come.

“Marco, move our guest closer,” I order.

“Of course,” Marco replies smoothly, already rolling up his sleeves.

The blade in my hand feels like an extension of my will as Marco holds the Russian’s arm outstretched on the dark wooden table. The spy’s eye, wide with terror, darts from me to the steel glinting under the lights. His muffled whimpers are the only sound in the room as I position the edge against his flesh.

“Any last words?” I ask, though the gag in his mouth makes the question rhetorical. No one betrays Nicklas Knight and lives to speak of it.

I slice down with precision. Blood spurts, staining the wood a deep crimson. The man’s scream is stifled behind the gag as his hand falls onto the table. It’s a clean cut—a warning to anyone who dares cross me.

“Package it,” I command Marco, who nods without a flicker of emotion across his stoic face. He’s seen this before; he’s done this before. The severed hand is a message that cannot be ignored.

“Sergei,” I call, and when he looks my way I continue. “The kill is yours.”

He grins and inclines his head, knowing it’s an honor, one I didn’t have to give him. But we both know he’s earned it. “Thank you,” he says, coming to stand next to me. “Do you mind if I use my own weapon?”

“Not at all,” I say.

Apart from Dad, I trust every single man in this room. We’ve bled together, and each and every one has bled for me. So I don’t take their weapons when they come here, my one and only demand is that no one is allowed more than one.

Sergei pulls a small vial from the inner pocket on his suit jacket, the liquid a bright pink.

“Of course the Russian carries poison,” Lee snorts derisively.

“But why is it pink?” Jack asks.

Unperturbed, Sergei removes the cork and places the small glass on the table. “Open his mouth,” he instructs Marco, who looks at me for confirmation, so I give him an encouraging nod.

“This is Sergei’s show,” I confirm as I sit back down.

Marco traps the spy between his legs, and then he takes the knife I used to cut his hand off, using it to slice the gag, makingsure to knick the corner of his lips as well. Then he shoves his hand into the man’s mouth, grabbing hold of his tongue.

“Open wide,” he barks.

The man does as he’s told, and as soon as Marco’s no longer holding his tongue, Sergei pushes the entire vial into the spy’s mouth, making me wonder why he even bothered to remove the cork lid.

“Keep his head tilted up,” the Russian instructs Marco.

Sergei puts one hand on top of the spy’s head, clamping the other around his jaw. He repeats the motion until we all hear the bottle crunch. For a couple of moments, nothing happens. But then the spy’s face turns pink; multiple shades of the color.

Using his remaining hand, he claws at his throat. He screams as he scratches at his flesh until it breaks. I’ve seen a lot of bad ways to die, but this has to be one of the most gruesome ones. Yet another reason to keep Sergei close.

“And that’s why it’s pink,” Sergei says, winking at Jack.

“Nicklas,” Caspian’s voice slices through the room as Marco wraps the severed hand in cloth. “What of Carolina? Any news of an heir?”

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