Page 118 of Princess of Vengeance

Blood spurts from where he’s bitten his tongue, spraying across my face in hot droplets. He roars in pain and rage, grabbing for my throat with both hands.

“You’re dead, you little bitch,” he snarls as spit and blood fly from his mouth.

Across the room, I see Killian take a blow to the head that sends him staggering. Nico is pinned against the wall by two guards, while Atlas is still fighting but surrounded by three more. We’re outnumbered and outgunned, and the realization sinks in that we might not make it out of here alive.

Adrenaline surges through my veins, sharpening my senses and fueling my anger. Elliot fucking double-crossed us. I should have known it would be him—he’s got as much reason to hate Malcolm as any of us, but like any true snake, it’s impossible for him to turn against his master.

The guard’s fingers dig into my throat, cutting off my air. Black spots float at the edge of my vision, but the fury inside me won’t let me give up. I drive my thumb into his eye, pushing as hard as I can. He howls and jerks backward, releasing my throat.

I gasp for air, my lungs burning as I scramble backward on the carpet. My gun is gone, knocked away in the initial attack. I need a weapon. Anything.

“I’m going to enjoy watching you die,” the guard growls, blood streaming from his eye socket. He pulls a wicked huntingknife from his belt and grins, looking like something straight out of a horror movie. “Malcolm said I can take my time with you.”

“Fuck you,” I spit, grabbing a heavy glass ashtray from a nearby table and hurling it at his face.

He dodges, but the distraction gives me enough time to kick out at him, and my boot connects solidly with his knee. There’s a sickening crack as his leg bends sideways at an unnatural angle. He screams, collapsing to the floor as the knife clatters beside him.

I lunge for the knife, but another guard is on me before I can reach it. This one is leaner and faster, and his fist connects with my jaw so hard that my teeth cut into the inside of my cheek. The metallic taste of blood fills my mouth as I stagger backwards.

“Quinn!” Nico’s shout cuts through the chaos. He’s fighting like he’s fucking possessed, trying to get to me, but there are too many guards between us.

I spot Malcolm by the door, watching the carnage with a cold smile on his face. His eyes meet mine across the room, and the hatred I see there is matched only by the fury churning in my stomach. This was supposed to be his end, not ours, but I’m not going down without a fucking fight.

The lean guard comes at me again, but I’m ready for him this time. I dodge left, then drive my elbow into that spot between his ribs with everything I’ve got. He doubles over, gasping, and I bring my knee up into his face. The crunch of cartilage is really fucking satisfying, but I don’t have any time to savor it.

I’m running out of energy, and Malcolm’s men keep coming. For every one we take down, it seems like two more appear. The room looks like a bomb went off, with broken furniture, blood, and spent shell casings littering the entire space.

In the brief second I’ve bought myself, I reach for the small burner phone tucked into my bra—the panic button Willow gaveme. My fingers close around it just as another guard lunges at me.

His fist connects with my cheekbone, and the impact is so hard I see stars. The phone falls from my hand and clatters across the floor, but not before I’ve managed to activate it. It’s a desperate cry for help, and I don’t even know if it works, but it’s all I have right now.

I didn’t see where the phone landed, and I don’t have time to search for it. The new guard is joined by another, and both of them manage to grab my arms at the same time and shove me down to my knees. I kick and strike out at them as much as I can until I land a solid hit to one guard’s groin that doubles him over. The other guard responds by backhanding me across the face, snapping my head to the side with enough force that I taste blood again.

“Stay down, bitch,” he shouts, twisting my arm behind my back until I cry out.

I try to see what’s happening with my men, desperate to know if they’re still fighting, or at least still alive. Atlas is on his knees, bleeding from a cut above his eye, with a gun pressed to the back of his head. Killian is still struggling against two guards, but a third delivers a brutal blow to his kidneys that makes him crumple. Nico is the last one standing, fighting like a demon, but even he can’t hold out against the odds that are stacked against us.

“That’s enough!” Malcolm’s voice cuts through the chaos. “Restrain them all. I want them alive.”

The guard behind me pulls my other arm back and binds my wrists with a zip tie so tight it cuts into my skin. I don’t give him the satisfaction of hearing me cry out again, though, and I bite down on my lip until I taste fresh blood.

Around the room, the fighting gradually stops as Malcolm’s men gain full control. Cassandra is dragged out from behind hercover, and there’s a nasty gash on her forehead that’s streaming blood into her eyes. Rafael is lying motionless on the floor, but I can see his chest rising and falling—he’s unconscious, but not dead. Owen is the last to be subdued, cursing and threatening everyone around him as they force him to his knees.

My men are alive, but barely. Each of them is bloody and zip-tied like me. The relief of seeing them still breathing is immediately balanced out by the harsh reality of our situation.

We failed. And Malcolm isn’t known for his mercy.

The panic button was my last hope—but even if Willow and her men received the signal, how will they find us? How will they get past Malcolm’s guards?

Malcolm walks slowly around the room, surveying the carnage with the detached interest of a man inspecting damaged property. His suit is still somehow immaculate, without a drop of blood or speck of dust marring the expensive fabric. But then, he hasn’t even had to lift a finger. His men did the dirty work, as always.

My eyes dart to Imogen’s body, still sprawled where she fell, a perfect bullet hole in the center of her forehead. Blood has pooled beneath her head, seeping into the expensive carpet. Her eyes are still open, frozen in that last moment of shock and betrayal.

I liked Imogen. She could be cold and calculating, but there was something honest about her ruthlessness. She didn’t pretend to be anything other than what she was, and she deserved a hell of a lot better than to die at the hands of a snake like Elliot.

“Well, Malcolm,” Elliot says, looking down at me with undisguised satisfaction, “do you still think your wife is warming up to you? Because it looks to me like she’d rather see you dead.”

Malcolm’s face hardens, and the pretense of the sophisticated businessman slips away, revealing the monsterI’ve always known he was. His eyes are cold and empty—the eyes of a predator who has caught his prey and is trying to decide the most painful way to kill it.

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