Page 137 of Princess of Vengeance

He chuckles, then immediately grimaces. “Don’t make me laugh. Fuck… my ribs.”

I rest my head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. It grounds me in a way nothing else can. After everything we’ve been through—the lies, the secrets, the misunderstandings—we’re all still here. And we’re all still together.

“I should have figured out a way to kill him sooner,” I say, watching as Atlas limps over to check on Killian. “I should have put that fucker in the ground the first day he put his hands on me.”

“Hey,” Nico says, tilting my chin up so I have to look at him. “You did what you had to do to survive. To keep us all alive. And now he’s dead, and we’re not. That’s a win in my book.”

I nod, feeling the truth of his words settle into my bones. We survived. All of us. Battered and broken, but still breathing.

Killian walks across the deck, moving so steadily on his feet that it would be impossible to guess the hell he’s been through ifnot for his tattered, bloody clothes and the arm that’s dangling at a slightly skewed angle. He grabs Malcolm’s body by the back of his ruined suit jacket, hefting him up like he’s nothing but a bag of trash.

“Need something to weigh him down,” he mutters.

Nico and Atlas are already moving, searching for something we can use. After a few minutes of poking around, Atlas yanks open a storage compartment, and Nico nods in satisfaction as he hauls out a thick, heavy looking length of chain. They join Killian, and in seconds, they’ve wrapped it tight around Malcolm’s limp form.

“Time to join your fucking friends in hell,” Killian grunts to Malcolm’s corpse as he drags it toward the edge of the yacht.

With one powerful motion, he tosses the body overboard. There’s a splash, and then nothing. No last words, no ceremony, no fucking glory for a man who caused so much pain.

“Rot down there, you piece of shit,” Killian says, wiping his hands on his jeans like he’s cleaning off something foul. “The river will wash away whatever’s left when the fish are done with you.”

I watch the ripples spread across the dark water, feeling nothing but satisfaction as Malcolm’s body disappears beneath the surface. There’s a certain poetic justice to it—the man who lived in luxury, who thought he was above everyone else, ending up as nothing more than food for the bottom-feeders.

“Good riddance,” I mutter under my breath, and Nico nods in agreement.

Atlas is already at the wheel, and somehow manages to fire up the engine even though more than a few of the controls and instruments have been smashed to hell. The yacht rumbles to life beneath our feet, and Nico guides me over to a padded bench, setting me down carefully.

“Hold on,” he says, his good eye scanning my face. “We’re almost home.”

Killian comes over to check on me, but directs his question to Nico as he slowly catalogs every injury on my body. “How’s our girl?”

“Alive,” Nico answers. “Tough as nails, as usual.”

The corners of Killian’s mouth lift in what passes for a smile from him. “We wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The adrenaline crash is hitting me hard, leaving me shaky and light-headed. Every injury I’ve earned tonight is screaming for attention, but I push the pain down. We’re not safe yet.

As we approach the dock, I can see figures moving in the darkness. For one horrible second, I think it’s more of Malcolm’s guards, and I tense, ready for another fight even though I really don’t have anything left to give.

But then I spot a familiar face—Willow. She’s standing at the edge of the dock with her three men, surrounded by what looks like a small army of Carnage and Enigma members. Cassandra and Owen are there too, bloodied but alive.

The yacht bumps against the dock, and Atlas cuts the engine. Killian jumps off to secure the boat while Nico helps me to my feet.

“Are you good to walk?” he asks, his arm still around my waist.

“Yeah.” I nod, even though my legs feel like they’re made of wet noodles. “I’ve got it.”

I make it off the boat, still limping slightly as I step onto the dock. Willow rushes forward, relief washing over her face as she looks me up and down.

“Jesus Christ,” she says, her eyes wide. “You look like hell.”

“You should see the other guy,” I reply with a weak smile. “Oh wait, you can’t. He’s fish food now.”

She shakes her head, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “I was worried we were too late.”

“How did you find us?” I ask, glancing around at the aftermath of what must have been one hell of a fight. There are bodies scattered around—Malcolm’s guards, I’m guessing. Some of our people are injured too, being tended to by others.

“We got your distress signal,” Vic says, stepping forward. He’s got a nasty cut above his eye, but he looks steady on his feet. “When you hit that panic button, it sent your location to my phone.”

---