Page 113 of Princess of Vengeance

He doesn’t speak, doesn’t even fully acknowledge my presence, but I know that quick glance was enough for him to take in as many details about me as I noted about him. He reminds me a little of Killian—with that same sort of dangerous energy barely contained beneath a veneer of control.

As I signal the bartender, I hear the door open behind me. I don’t turn around, but I know it’s one of my men. They’ll staggertheir entrances and take different spots in the bar to blend in with the other patrons while I keep my focus on the task at hand.

“Whiskey, neat,” I tell the bartender, pitching my voice a little higher and a little sweeter than usual. I lean forward slightly and smile when the bartender glances at my tits.

Now I just need Ronan to do the same.

It’s a delicate balance—making myself available without being completely obvious—but I’m counting on whatever it is in a man’s DNA that makes it physically impossible for him to ignore a little bit of exposed cleavage on a woman.

Or, in this case, quite a bit of exposed cleavage.

The bartender sets my drink down just far enough away that I have to reach for it—no doubt trying to get another eyeful in the process. I thank him with another sweet smile and shift forward again, making sure Kane can see all the way down my shirt if he’s looking. And I’m pretty sure he is, even though he hasn’t fully turned his head.

I can feel him watching me from the corner of his eye, his interest piqued in spite of his obvious self-discipline. I take a small sip of my whiskey, letting it burn down my throat, and set the glass back down.

The vial is already open in my palm, hidden from view. I’ve been palming it since I walked in—a trick I learned years ago when I used to run small cons before my father pulled me into Enigma full-time.

I wait for my moment, watching the bartender move to the other end of the bar to serve another customer. Then I let my napkin fall to the floor between us.

“Oh, shit,” I mutter, waiting until he turns toward me for the first time before I bend to retrieve it.

While his eyes are on me for that split-second, my hand passes over his glass and I empty the clear liquid from the vialinto his drink without a sound or a ripple. It’s slick and practiced—the kind of move that would’ve made my dad proud.

I sit back up with the napkin, offering him a small, apologetic smile. “Sorry about that.”

He doesn’t return the smile, just nods once and looks away. My heart is pounding in my chest, but I have to stay completely calm as I take another sip of my own drink.

Slowly, silently, I count to ten before I let a sense of relief flood through me. He didn’t notice. He’ll take another drink and the drugs will kick in within minutes. By the time he figures out something’s wrong, it’ll be too late.

I finish my whiskey and get ready to make my exit. I leave cash on the bar, more than enough to cover my drink, and slide off my stool.

I haven’t even taken a full step away when I feel it—a tug on my jacket, so subtle it could be mistaken for my clothing catching on something. But I know better.

Ronan’s fingers are tangled in my leather jacket, not obviously restraining me, but still effective enough to stop me in my tracks.

His voice is low, almost a whisper, but there’s no mistaking the danger in it.

“What the fuck did you just put in my drink?”

37

QUINN

Fuck.He saw me.

“What?” I force a confused laugh, trying to pull away from his grip without making it obvious. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

His fingers tighten on my jacket enough to make it clear I’m not going anywhere. From the corner of my eye, I see Atlas and Nico both tensing, ready to move. Killian is already halfway out of his seat.

I give them the slightest shake of my head. A brawl is the last fucking thing we need right now. If we cause a scene, someone might remember us. Someone might connect us to what’s about to happen to Malcolm. And then we’re all fucked.

“My drink,” Ronan says, nodding toward his whiskey. His voice is calm and controlled—which somehow makes it even more terrifying. “What did you put in it while you were picking up your napkin?”

“Nothing.” I meet his gaze steadily, channeling every ounce of innocent indignation I can muster. “I didn’t touch your drink.”

His mismatched eyes are oddly mesmerizing, especially when they’re filled with cold suspicion.

“Look,” I say, changing tactics, “I don’t know what you think you saw, but I was just getting my napkin. Maybe you should lay off the whiskey if you’re seeing things.” I try again to pull away, and again, his grip tightens.

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