Page 12 of Princess of Vengeance

“Didn’t feel right?” Killian’s voice is dry as he starts cleaning up the medical supplies. “Are you going soft on us?”

“Fuck no.” I blow out a frustrated breath, scrubbing a hand through my hair. “Maybe Ishould’veput a bullet in his head, I don’t fucking know. But he saved Quinn’s life. That counts for something.”

A small sound from Quinn draws our attention. She’s still passed out on the couch, but she’s shivering slightly, her skin too pale under the harsh lighting.

“Let’s get her somewhere more comfortable.” I move to her side, careful not to jostle her as I lift her. She feels small in my arms, fragile in a way Quinn never is when she’s awake. “There’s a bedroom in the back. With any luck, there will still be a bed there.”

Atlas leads the way, checking the room before letting me bring her in. The bed is musty but clean enough. I lay her down gently, and her eyes flutter open.

“Nico?” Her voice is rough, barely more than a whisper.

“I’m here, mia cara.” I brush her hair back from her face, letting my fingers linger against her skin. Even half-conscious, she leans into the touch. “You’re safe. We’ve got you.”

She makes a small sound of acknowledgment, already drifting back under. But her hand finds mine, squeezing weakly before she passes out completely again.

I stay there for a moment, just watching her breathe and memorizing the peaceful look on her face. I’ll store it away for later when she’s back to being the wild, tough, unstoppable force I fell in love with.

5

QUINN

Everything isa haze of pain and medication. I have no idea what time it is or how many hours have passed, but I’ve faded in and out of consciousness so many times that I’m guessing I’ve been here for a while. A full day and night, maybe? Maybe longer—I just don’t fucking know.

I open my eyes at some point, and Killian is forcing me to eat something. His voice is low and firm, and he’s not taking any of my shit as he tells me I need to keep my strength up. There’s the taste of chicken broth on my tongue, warm and salty, before I black out again.

The next time I wake up, it’s Atlas next to me. His strong hands are gentle but supportive as he helps me stumble to the bathroom. My legs shake like a newborn colt’s, but his grip never wavers.

“I’ve got you,” he rumbles, just above a whisper as he puts me back in bed afterward. “You’re safe. Just go back to sleep, vicious.”

So I do. I sleep and sleep, tossing and turning as I fade in and out. My body feels detached from my fuzzy head, and I feel like I’m floating half the time, but it’s better than the pain I felt before.

The next time I become aware of my surroundings, Nico is murmuring to me in Italian as he wipes my forehead with a cool cloth. The words don’t make it through my drug-addled brain, but his voice steadies me. The familiar scent of him—warm and earthy with just the right amount of manly musk—keeps me grounded when everything else feels like it’s spinning.

I know I should hate feeling so fucking weak and helpless, but the drugs make it hard to hold on to anything. One minute I’m angry, the next I might be scared, like I’ve been running and running for days… but I only wake up with fleeting images left in my mind.

Sometimes I hear these men—my men—talking in low voices, their words cutting through the fog in bits and pieces. There’s always at least one of them nearby, as if they think something might happen to me if they leave me alone for too long. The heavy footsteps, the quiet creak of the chair beside my bed, the rough touch of calloused fingers checking my bandages—it all blends together, but it’s all soothing in a weird way.

Somewhere beneath all the meds and fog, there’s this nagging feeling that I should be doing something. That we’re all in danger, that we can’t just sit here hiding like a bunch of fucking cowards while our enemies are out there plotting god knows what.

But every time I try to focus on that thought, try to piece together what happened and what we need to do next, it slips away from me. My head feels like it’s full of cotton, and stringing two thoughts together is harder than trying to walk with these shaky-ass legs of mine.

I force my eyes open, trying to tell whoever is next to me that we need to move, that we need to do something. But my tongue feels thick in my mouth, and before I can get the words out, the darkness pulls me under again.

The next time my eyes flutter open, everything seems normal for a moment. There’s a tall figure standing over my bed—but when I focus on the face, my heart stops. It’s not one of my men.

It’s Ambrose.

I jolt up, ignoring the stabbing pain in my chest and side. The blanket tangles around my legs as I try to scramble back, looking for anything I can use as a weapon.

That’s when I see them.

My men are sprawled across the floor, completely lifeless. Blood pools around their bodies, and I barely stifle a gasp when I realize their throats have been slashed wide open. But it’s their faces that make bile rise in my throat—those twisted smiles carved into their skin, their lips sliced at the corners in that signature mutilation that marks all of Ambrose’s kills.

“No,” I choke out. “No, no, no.”

“Should I have woken you?” Ambrose’s voice is sickeningly soft, almost gentle. “I did consider it. I thought you might want to watch.” His smile grows wider. “Killian fought the hardest. Atlas tried to reach you, even with his throat cut. And Nico…” He sighs, like he’s savoring the memory. “Well, I hate that you missed it.”

Something inside me snaps. Fury burns through my veins, drowning out everything else. I grab the lamp from beside the bed, yanking its cord from the wall as I launch myself at him.

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