Page 135 of Princess of Vengeance

“And we’ll always be together,” Nico growls, backing me up completely without a second of hesitation.

Malcolm’s eyes widen slightly, and I can see the flicker of doubt. For the first time, I think he truly understands what he’s up against. Not just me, not just three men, but something stronger and more powerful than any of us could be alone.

We have something he’s never experienced before—a bond built by shared pain and unbreakable trust.

We’re a family.

But even now, he can’t help but taunt me. “So that’s it? You’re going to have your attack dogs finish the job? Let them kill me while you watch? Just like your mother—too weak to do what needs to be done.”

Maybe he thinks I’ll fly into a rage and somehow give him an advantage. Maybe he thinks one of my men really will get tired of his fucking mouth and snap his neck like a twig.

God, he really hasn’t been paying attention. And I can kill him with absolutely no remorse, knowing he’ll never change. He’ll never be anything but a monster.

Atlas chuckles, but there’s no humor in it. “You’ve got it all wrong,” he says, still holding Malcolm’s arm like a vise. “We’re not going to kill you.”

I meet Atlas’s gaze, understanding passing between us without a word needed. He nods once, a question in his eyes that I answer with my own nod.

“We’re going to watch our wife do it,” he finishes, releasing his hold on Malcolm and stepping back.

I step forward and roll my shoulders even though every muscle in my body is aching and spent. Every inch of me hurts—from Elliot’s torture, from the fight, from the weeks of walking on eggshells in Malcolm’s house. My ribs ache with each breath, my throat burns from where he tried to choke the life from me, and I’m just fucking exhausted.

But this—this is what I need. This is what I’ve needed since the moment I learned what he did to my mother. Since he forced that ring onto my finger and called me his wife.

Malcolm staggers to his feet, swaying slightly as he reaches up to cradle his shoulder for a moment before thinking better of it and dropping his hand back to his side. His eyes dart to the edge of the yacht, and I can see the wheels turning in his pathetic, cowardly brain.

“Don’t even think about it,” Killian warns, clearly reading his intentions. “The only way you’re going in that water is as a corpse.”

Malcolm’s face hardens, and he raises his fists. He throws the first punch—a wild, desperate swing that I could dodge in my sleep. I step inside his reach, driving my fist into his bullet wound. He howls, staggering back, but I don’t let up. I follow, pressing my advantage as he retreats across the deck.

“You’re nothing without your guards,” I tell him, blocking his next pathetic attempt to hit me. “Nothing without your money. Nothing without your fucking Syndicate lackeys.”

He tries to grab me, but I’m faster, slipping around him and landing a solid kick to the back of his knee. He collapses to one knee, and I circle around to face him again.

“You were right about one thing, though,” I continue, adrenaline singing through my veins as I advance on him. “I’m too fucking stubborn to die because of a coward like you.”

I punch him as hard as I can, square in the face, feeling the satisfied crunch of cartilage beneath my knuckles as his head whips to the side.

“That’s for my mother,” I snarl as blood sprays from his broken nose.

He tries to stand, but I knock him back down with another punch that connects with his jaw.

“For my father, who you manipulated and betrayed.”

Each word, each punch, feels like a weight lifting from my chest. I hit him again, harder this time, watching as his eye begins to swell shut.

“For my uncle, who should’ve never died in that prison cell.”

Malcolm spits blood onto the deck, struggling to stay upright as I circle him. “You stupid bitch,” he slurs through broken teeth. “You think this changes anything? You think this makes you strong?”

“No.” I land another punch that sends him sprawling. “This just makes you dead.”

I advance on him as he crawls backward, leaving a trail of blood on the polished wood. His expensive suit is in tatters, his face a mess of blood and swelling tissue.

“For my gang,” I say, kicking him hard in the ribs. “For every person you’ve ever used and abused.”

He coughs, and blood bubbles from his lips as he curls into himself. “You can’t—you don’t understand?—”

“For my men,” I cut him off, grabbing a fistful of his hair and hauling his head back to make him look at me. “For every second they spent in your torture chamber.”

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