Page 127 of Princess of Vengeance

“Look at them,” Malcolm says, gesturing toward the cages where my men are watching. “Look at their faces. They know they can’t protect you. They know you’re mine now.”

“Touch my wife and you’ll fucking die,” Nico growls from his cage. One of his eyes is swollen shut and his face is a mess of bruises, but there’s no mistaking the fury in his tone.

“You’ll get your turn to watch,” Malcolm tells him. His hands move to his belt buckle. “All of you will. And then I’ll kill you one by one, and she’ll know it’s all her fault.”

I’ve never felt more helpless in my life. Not when the Bullets jumped me. Not when Malcolm forced me to marry him. Not even when I watched Rafael die earlier today. This—this violation in front of the men I love—is a new kind of hell.

“You fucking bastard,” Atlas shouts, his voice echoing off the walls. “I’m going to tear your fucking throat out!”

Malcolm ignores him, sliding his rough, possessive hands up my bare stomach. I do my best to twist away from his touch, gagging with revulsion.

“You think she’s yours?” Malcolm taunts, looking over at my men. “She was always meant to be mine. Just like her mother before her.”

I’m still fighting, still thrashing beneath Elliot’s grip, but I know it’s useless. There’s no way I can overpower both of them. But I won’t stop. I won’t ever stop fighting.

A sudden crash draws everyone’s attention. Killian is throwing himself against the bars of his cage with brutal force, slamming his body into the metal again and again. The whole structure shakes with each impact.

Malcolm laughs. “Look at him. Like an animal in a zoo.” He turns his attention back to me and starts to unbutton his pants. “He can’t help you now.”

There’s another crash, louder this time. I twist my head to see Killian ramming his shoulder into the bars with so much force that the metal joints of the cage are starting to bend. Blood is streaking down his arm from where the impact has torn his skin,but his face isn’t showing any sign of pain. His eyes are cold, focused, and deadly.

“What the fuck?” Elliot mutters, his grip on my wrists loosening slightly as he watches.

Another crash. The metal groans. Blood spatters the floor beneath Killian’s cage as he throws himself at the bars again.

“Stop him,” Malcolm orders the two guards, who fumble for their weapons. “Shoot him if you have to!”

41

KILLIAN

The metal givesway under my weight, and the cage door tears from its hinges with a screech that vibrates through my bones. Pain registers somewhere in the back of my mind—my shoulder is dislocated or broken and blood is streaming down my arm—but it might as well be happening to someone else.

None of it matters. Nothing matters except the sight of Malcolm’s hands on Quinn, the terror in her eyes, the blood on her face.

One of the guards points his gun at me and pulls the trigger before I can reach him. The bullet tears into my fucked-up shoulder and I know I should feel it. It should be enough to take me down—or at least slow me down. But the pain doesn’t register. It’s just more white noise in the hurricane of rage that’s taken over my senses.

I barrel into him full-force, slamming him against the concrete wall hard enough to crack ribs. His head snaps back, connecting with the concrete with a sickening crack as his gun clatters to the floor between us. But he’s still conscious and still fighting.

From the corner of my eye, I can see that the second guard is lining up a shot, aiming at my head with shaking hands. Igrab the first guard by the throat with one hand, using him as a shield as I drop to the ground and grab the fallen weapon. The movement sends fresh blood pouring from my shoulder, but I barely notice. Three rapid shots echo through the basement, and the second guard crumples with a red stain spreading across his chest.

The guard in my grip struggles, clawing at my hand as I squeeze his windpipe. His eyes bulge, bloodshot and desperate, while he fumbles for a knife at his belt. I twist violently, feeling his vertebrae snap beneath my fingers. His body goes limp, dead weight in my grasp, and I let him drop to the concrete.

“Fuck,” Elliot exhales, scrambling away from Quinn. His eyes are wide with shock or fear or both.

Good. He should be scared. They should both be very fucking scared.

Malcolm is already on his feet, backing toward the stairs. His hand darts to his pocket, and he pulls out a small device. He presses a button, and somewhere above us I can hear an alarm start blaring.

“We need help down here!” he shouts into what must be an intercom. “We have a prisoner loose! Bring every man you’ve got!”

I tune out the alarm, my vision narrowing until all I can see is Malcolm. The man who tortured Nico. The son of a bitch who touched my siren. Who murdered her mother. Every cell in my body vibrates with the need to rip him apart, piece by fucking piece.

Malcolm looks over, and I know he can see it in my eyes. He can see his own death reflected back at him.

He turns and runs. All that power, all that control, all that fucking superiority—and in the end, he’s nothing but a coward. He sprints for the stairs, shoving Elliot out of his way.

“Malcolm!” Elliot calls out, staggering from the force of Malcolm’s push.

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