Page 120 of Princess of Vengeance

“Get them prepared to be taken out of here,” Malcolm orders the guards. “We’re going to the warehouse.”

I look over at my men, hoping to exchange one last meaningful glance, to somehow tell them that I love them, and that I’m sorry. But before I can, I feel a sharp jab in my neck.

“Sweet dreams, Mrs. Mercer,” Malcolm whispers as a cold sensation spreads down my shoulder and back.

I try to fight it, but my vision begins to blur almost immediately. The last thing I see as darkness closes in is Malcolm’s face, smug and triumphant, staring down at me.

Then nothing.

39

QUINN

I’m notsure how long I’ve been drifting in and out of consciousness, but feelings and sensations hit me in bits and pieces. There’s the rough sway of movement. The bite of zip ties cutting into my wrists. The dull throb on the side of my neck where Malcolm injected the drugs.

I force my heavy eyelids open for a moment, but it’s like looking through a fishbowl as I try to make out my surroundings. We’re moving again, so I must be in a vehicle. A van? A truck? Something with a metal interior.

My body is slumped against something—no, someone. I try to turn my head, but my muscles won’t fully cooperate. Still, I manage to catch a glimpse of dark hair. Nico? Atlas? I can’t tell. My tongue feels too big for my mouth, and I don’t dare risk trying to make any noise.

The vehicle hits a pothole, and my head bounces against the hard metal wall. The jolt of pain is enough to send me back into the waiting darkness.

I wake up again to the sensation of being carried. My body is limp, and my head is resting against someone’s chest. I catch the scent of stale cigarettes and cheap cologne and I know it’snot one of my men. Which means it has to be one of Malcolm’s guards.

“This one’s starting to wake up,” a rough voice says above me.

“Just get her inside,” another voice answers. “Mercer wants them all secured before they’re fully conscious.”

I try to struggle, but my muscles still won’t respond. My arms and legs are dead weight, and even keeping my eyes open takes more strength than I have in me right now.

Through nearly-closed eyes, I catch glances of my surroundings. There’s a dimly lit hallway and concrete walls. I can hear the sound of several sets of footsteps around me. Then there’s the creak of a heavy door, a rush of cooler air, and the distinct smell of dampness.

Someone else says, “Put her in cell three,” and that’s all I hear before my eyes fall fully closed again.

The next time I wake up, my mouth tastes like I’ve been sucking on a dirty penny. That’s the first solid thought that forms in my head. The second is that I’m lying on cold concrete, and everything fucking hurts.

I force my eyes open as far as I can, blinking against the dim light. I’m in some kind of cage with metal bars on all sides, and the space is maybe six feet by eight feet, just big enough for me to lie down or pace in a tight circle.

I push myself into a sitting position, but the movement sends a wave of nausea rolling through me that almost forces me back down. I swallow hard against the urge to vomit, then focus on steadying my breathing until the worst of it passes. Whatever they drugged me with is obviously still working its way through my system.

As my vision clears, I’m able to take in more of my surroundings. The walls are rough concrete, and the ceiling is low with exposed pipes and a few bare bulbs providing minimallight. The air is cold and damp, and it’s musty enough in here to tell me that this space hasn’t been actively used in a while.

I keep scanning the room, and my heart stutters. There are other cages arranged in a loose circle, and they’re all occupied.

Cassandra is slumped against the bars of the cage to my right, and I can see that her platinum hair is matted with dried blood from the gash on her forehead. Rafael is in the cage next to hers, still unconscious. Owen is across the room, moving slowly and grunting like he’s beginning to regain consciousness. And then I see my men.

“Fuck.” I shudder at the stabbing pain in my heart as my eyes find each of them in separate cage.

Malcolm has made sure to keep us apart this time.

I crawl to the side of my cage closest to them, ignoring the pounding in my head and the churning in my stomach. Atlas is directly across from me, and his face is partially covered in dried blood from a deep cut near his right eye. His hands are curled around the bars of his cage, and his knuckles are raw and split.

To his left is Nico, sporting a huge bruise that runs from his cheekbone up to his hairline, turning purple and blue against his skin. His lip is busted open and swollen to almost twice its normal size.

Killian is in the cell on the other side of Nico, and I can tell he has several cuts along his jawline. His shirt is ripped and stained with blood—probably as much from Malcolm’s guards as his own—and I can see through the tattered fabric that his ribs are bruised as well.

They fought like hell. We all did.

The sight of them makes my chest ache. This is my fault. They wouldn’t be here right now if it weren’t for me. They wouldn’t have been caught in Malcolm’s trap if they hadn’t agreed to help me take him down.

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