Page 115 of Princess of Vengeance

Ronan studies me with those mismatched eyes, his expression unreadable. “You don’t strike me as the type of woman anyone could force to do anything.”

“Yeah, well, even the strongest people break when someone has the right leverage.” I look down at the wedding ring I’m still forced to wear. “He knew how to get to me.”

Ronan snorts, a sound of pure derision. “Malcolm always was a spineless little weasel. Never could get his hands dirty himself. He was always manipulating others to do his work and using threats instead of earning loyalty.”

His casual contempt for Malcolm surprises me. It’s clear he really doesn’t like him, which I hope will work in my favor.

“So,” he says, leaning forward slightly, his voice dropping even lower, “all you want from me is to not show up to this meeting?”

I nod, knowing this is the make-or-break moment. “That’s it. Just don’t go.”

He leans back in his chair, considering me for what feels like an eternity. Then he slides his whiskey across the bar toward the bartender with a flick of his wrist.

“I need a new one,” he calls out. “Actually, make it a double. I think I’ll be here all night.”

I let out a shaky breath, relief washing over me in a dizzying wave. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

He shoots me a look I can’t quite read, something like half-respect, half-amusement. “My brothers would never forgive me if I fucked over a woman who’d been trapped in a marriage,” he says simply, as if that explains everything.

There’s clearly a story there—something personal that touches a nerve—but I have no time to satisfy my curiosity. I need to get out of here before he changes his mind.

I stand up, ready to make my exit, when his hand catches my wrist one more time—gentle now, not restraining.

“Good luck,” he says, and I know he understands more than I’ve told him. “Whatever you’re planning for Malcolm… you’d better make it stick.”

I nod once and slip away, moving quickly through the bar toward the exit, not daring to look back. My men will see me leaving and follow at a safe distance.

I’ve barely made it half a block when they catch up with me. Atlas reaches me first, steering me toward an alley and away from prying eyes with a hand on my lower back.

“What the fuck happened in there?” Nico asks, more worried than angry. “We saw him grab you. I was about to come over when you gave us the signal to stay back.”

“He caught me,” I admit, still shaken by how close I came to blowing everything. “He saw me put the shit in his drink.”

“Jesus Christ,” Killian mutters. “And he still let you walk out of there?”

“I told him the truth. Most of it, anyway.” I glance back toward the bar. “I told him Malcolm forced me to marry him and that I didn’t want him to go to the meeting.”

“And he bought that?” Atlas’s brow furrows in disbelief.

“He more than bought it. He doesn’t like Malcolm. Called him a spineless weasel.” I pull the wig off and shake out my teal hair, finally feeling like I can breathe again. “He’s going to stay at the bar and skip the meeting.”

“You believe him?” Nico asks, clearly still skeptical as he looks back over his shoulder. “Just like that?”

“You didn’t see his face when I mentioned Malcolm,” I say. “There’s bad blood there. And he said something about his brothers never forgiving him if he fucked over a woman trapped in a marriage.”

“He could change his mind,” Killian says, looking out for me as always. “We need to stay prepared for anything.”

“We do need to stay prepared,” I agree, trying not to let Killian’s warning set off my own anxiety. “And yeah, he could change his mind. But there’s nothing we can do about it now. The plan is in motion. Either way, Malcolm is walking into that room tonight expecting to meet with Ronan.”

Nico checks his watch. “We need to move. The others will be waiting, and we need to be in position before Malcolm arrives.”

I nod, knowing he’s right. There’s no time to keep second-guessing or worrying about Ronan now. No matter what else happens tonight, Malcolm’s fate is sealed.

“Let’s go end this,” I say.

The Vault sits at the edge of downtown, a sleek two-story building with dark windows and a discreet entrance.

We approach from the back alley, staying in the shadows. A black sedan is parked by the service entrance—Imogen’s car. She’s waiting for us, leaning against the brick wall, smoking a cigarette with practiced elegance.

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