Page 20 of Princess of Vengeance

I’ve never felt safer.

The dizziness ebbs away slowly, leaving my head mostly clear even if it still feels like I’ve gone eight rounds with a bear.

Nico picks up where he left off, washing me like I’m made of glass, like I’m some priceless work of art that might shatter under too much pressure. His fingers trace my skin with an almost religious reverence, cleaning away the dried blood, sweat, and cum with a gentleness I don’t get to see very often.

Part of me wants to tell him I’m not that fucking fragile, that I won’t break if he uses normal pressure. But there’s something oddly comforting about being treated this way after everything that’s happened. After being stabbed and chained and hunted like an animal, it feels… nice to be handled like something precious.

Still, we can’t stay in this bubble forever.

“Tell me you guys have some kind of plan,” I say, breaking the quiet calm that’s settled over the bathroom.

The silence that follows is answer enough.

“Malcolm and his people might be searching the wrong side of town right now,” I continue, going by the little bit of information I got from Atlas earlier. “But eventually they’ll make it over here. And when they do…”

“Our lives get about ten times more dangerous,” Atlas finishes grimly from his spot near the sink.

Nico’s hands go still on my skin for a moment before resuming their methodical cleaning. “We’ve been discussing options.”

“And?” I prompt when he doesn’t continue.

“And they all fucking suck,” Killian says bluntly.

Even without hearing any other details, I can see it in their faces that we’re trapped between impossible choices. Malcolm alone would be dangerous enough to deal with, but the entire Syndicate? Together, they’re a fucking nightmare.

“We could try to fight,” Atlas suggests, but there’s a hollowness to his voice that tells me even he doesn’t believe it’s viable.

I let out a harsh laugh. “Against all the resources and hired firepower the Dark Lotus Syndicate can muster? That’s not a fight, that’s a suicide mission.”

“So we run?” Nico’s voice is soft against my ear as he gently turns me and starts to wash my back.

“Where would we go?” Killian asks. “They’ve got connections everywhere. The moment we pop up on someone’s radar, we’re dead.”

The water beats down on my shoulders as I process everything. Killian is right—running isn’t much better than fighting. Malcolm isn’t going to just let this go. Not after we made him look weak in front of the others by escaping when he ordered us to be killed. That’s not the kind of thing that gets forgotten. Or forgiven.

“They want blood,” I say finally, voicing what I’m sure we’re all thinking. “And they’re not going to stop until they get it.”

“No,” Atlas agrees. “They’re not.”

Nico’s fingers trace one of my wounds with devastating gentleness. “We need more time. Time to think, to plan.”

“Time we don’t fucking have,” I huff. “Every minute we spend here is another minute they could be getting closer.”

His hands tighten slightly on my waist. “I know.”

We all fall silent again, letting the sound of running water fill the small space. Four people against one of the most powerful criminal organizations I’ve ever encountered. The odds are so far from being in our favor that it’s almost laughable.

But there’s nothing funny about the way my heart rate kicks up when I think about Malcolm finding us here. There’s nothing fucking amusing about imagining his cold smile as he orders his people to finish what they started in that room under Noctura.

The conversation dies out as Nico finishes washing me, since none of us have any brilliant solutions to offer. He helps me out of the shower and the guys pass us towels, but the heavy silence sticks around. Staying hidden seems to be our only real option right now, but it’s just delaying the inevitable. Sooner or later, we’ll have to make the choice to either fight or run.

But for now, as I dry off and let them help me put on fresh bandages, I feel safe enough to push that decision off just a littlelonger. We have a place to rest, some basic medical supplies, and each other. It’ll have to be enough until we can figure out what the fuck to do next.

The days blurtogether in this safe house, each one bleeding into the next as my wounds start to heal. The stitches still pull when I move too fast, but the stabbing pain has dulled to a persistent ache. Physically, I’m getting stronger. But mentally?

This place is fucking wearing on me.

I pace the small rooms like a caged animal, trying to outrun the growing sense of urgency in the pit of my stomach. All four of us are stuck here. Trapped here. Waiting to be found, waiting to make a decision, waiting for something to change. The walls feel like they’re closing in a little more each day.

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