Page 2 of Princess of Vengeance

No, I mouth.Don’t.

There are too many weapons trained on us, too many eyes watching our every move. If they try to fight now, they’ll die before I do. And that’s the one thing I can’t handle.

“There’s a ritual that must be followed.” Malcolm intones, as if he’s trying to make murder sound civilized.

“Of course there fucking is.” I can’t help the mockery that creeps into my voice. After all the shit I’ve been through today, his theatrical bullshit is almost funny.

Or it would be if it was aimed at someone else.

Rafael snorts from his corner of the room, and Malcolm’s head snaps toward him, eyes flashing with an unmistakable warning. Rafael doesn’t flinch, but he does look away. The other crime lords around this table might not like Malcolm, but they all know better than to push him too far.

The guard holding me jerks me forward as Malcolm gestures toward the far wall. My boots scrape against the concrete floor as they drag me across the room. There’s not much I can do to stop what’s happening, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to make it easy on them. As we get closer to the wall, all I can focus on are the steel hooks mounted high above my head. I never noticed them before. I guess I never had a reason to.

Two more guards step forward with metal chains clinking in their hands. Just knowing they’re for me makes my stomach turn. They thread the chains through the hooks while the first guard holds me in place, his fingers digging into my bicep hard enough to bruise.

“Spread your arms,” one of them orders.

I bare my teeth at him. “Make me.”

They do, of course. Rough hands grab my wrists, forcing my arms out wide. The cold metal of the manacles bites into my skin as they lock them around my wrists. They chain my ankles too, spreading my legs just enough that I can’t get any leverage.

When they step back, I test the chains. They don’t give at all. I’m stretched out against the wall like a fucking sacrifice, completely helpless, and the reality of what’s about to happen starts to sink in.

Malcolm gestures to another guard who is stationed near the door that I’ve only ever seen the Syndicate leader use. The guard pulls a polished wooden box from a shelf and sets it on the conference table. It’s beautiful, all dark wood and brass fittings, like something you’d keep expensive cigars in. But when he opens it, there’s nothing refined or subtle about the knife lyingon the velvet inside. The handle is laced with a red cord and the blade is long and wickedly sharp, designed for one purpose only—to kill.

“Since you betrayed us all equally,” Malcolm says, lifting the knife and turning it so it catches the light, “it’s only fair that we all have an equal hand in your death. One blow each.”

“No!” Atlas surges forward, but the guard behind him slams the butt of his gun into Atlas’s skull, driving him to his knees. The sound of the impact makes me flinch.

Killian lets out a sound I’ve never heard from him before—something between a growl and a roar. He actually manages to break the guard’s grip before two more tackle him, forcing him back down. A gun barrel pressed against his temple finally stills him.

Nico doesn’t move, but his eyes promise death. The kind of death that comes slowly, with maximum pain. The look he’s giving Malcolm right now—I’d say Malcolm’s odds are only slightly better than mine at making it out of here alive.

“Patience, gentlemen. It’s not your turn yet,” Malcolm tells them, then flicks a wrist in my direction. “Bring them closer though. I want them to have a good view.”

The guards drag my men forward, forcing them to their knees about fifteen feet from where I’m chained. Close enough that I can see every emotion that crosses their faces. Close enough that they won’t miss a single detail of what’s about to happen to me.

“Front row seats to the show,” he says with that predatory smile spreading across his smug fucking face.

Malcolm holds the knife out to Elliot, handle first. “Since she betrayed your votum directly, you should have the first blow.”

Elliot takes the blade with the first genuine smile I’ve ever seen cross his face. It’s completely at odds with the look of pure hatred in his eyes as he walks toward me. This isn’t just aboutthe votum anymore. This is about me making him look weak in front of the Syndicate. It’s about a pregnant woman escaping his reach because I chose mercy over murder.

I force myself to meet his hateful stare, refusing to show fear even though my heart is trying to pound its way out of my chest. “I knew giving you that severed hand would be good enough to fool you. I guess I wasn’t counting on anyone else calling my bluff.”

His expression twists from anger and hatred to pure rage. The blade flashes in the light, and then pain explodes through my left side as he drives the knife in just below my ribs. He puts his whole weight behind it, and I can feel the blade slice through muscle and scrape against bone.

I try to bite back my cry of pain, clenching my jaw so hard my teeth might crack. But then Elliot twists the knife, grinding it against my ribs, and I can’t hold it in anymore. The sound that tears from my throat is raw and primal, more like a wounded animal than any noise a human should ever have to make.

Through the haze of my own excruciating pain, I can vaguely hear the sounds of grunts and heavy breaths as my men strain against their captors. The brief sounds of scuffling seem like they’re miles away, only to fade away as quickly as they started with a few bursts of cursing.

Elliot yanks the knife out, and fresh pain rips through me. Warm blood immediately starts soaking through my shirt, running down my side in sticky rivulets. My pulse is racing, sending more blood pumping from the wound with each beat.

This is how I’m going to die. One stab at a time, in front of the men I love, all because I couldn’t bring myself to kill a pregnant woman. And the worst part is that I’d make the same choice all over again.

Malcolm hands the bloody knife to Imogen next. Her expression doesn’t change at all as she takes it from him, andshe keeps that same perfect mask of neutrality in place as she approaches me. Her heels click against the concrete floor, each step measured and deliberate.

My side is on fire where Elliot stabbed me, and my shirt is already soaked through with blood. I try to focus on Imogen’s face as she steps close—too close, like this is intimate somehow—but my vision keeps trying to blur at the edges.

---