Page 33 of Princess of Vengeance

QUINN

Malcolm’s houseis big and fancy and luxurious—exactly the kind of attention-grabbing trophy home I’d expect from a power-hungry dick who gets off on control. The place was probably funded with drug money and human misery, since those seem to be his areas of expertise.

I scan everything as we walk through the front door, subtly searching for possible exits and whatever security measures I can see. There are two guards posted outside, another three I can spot so far inside, and probably more I haven’t seen yet. The whole place is wired up with enough cameras, sensors, and control panels—and those are just the obvious ones—to make Fort Knox jealous.

My chest stings where I carved through my rings, making each step remind me of what I’ve done. What I had to do. But the pain is nothing compared to the memory of their faces when I betrayed them. The blood has stopped flowing, and has dried tacky against my skin under my shirt. It’s uncomfortable, for sure, but at least I won’t bleed out all over Malcolm’s shiny floor.

“Your new home,” Malcolm says with enough smug satisfaction that I seriously have to stop myself from turning and jamming my thumbs through his eye sockets. “I trust you’ll findit more comfortable than that squalid little house you were living in.”

There’s nothing for me to say to that—nothing nice, anyway—and he doesn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he settles his hand on my lower back, possessive and controlling as he guides me deeper into this gilded fucking cage.

“Tomorrow, we’ll meet with the Syndicate.” He stops at the base of a sweeping staircase, turning to face me. “Once our vows are sealed, no one will dare question your place here. Your life will be secure.”

The way he says it makes my stomach turn, but I somehow manage to keep my face blank. I’ve already played my part. I’ve carved up my own flesh and shattered my own heart to sell this lie. I can keep playing it if it means my men stay alive.

“I’m married.” The words come out in a desperate grab at anything that might delay this nightmare, even though I know it’s probably fucking pointless. “Legally married. To Nico.”

He laughs and shakes his head, as if he’s dealing with a petulant child. “Oh, my dear.” His fingers brush my cheek and I fight not to flinch away. “Do you really think something as trivial as a marriage certificate could stop me? That will be handled by morning, along with any other legal entanglements you might have.”

Fuck. I knew it was a long shot, but hearing him dismiss my vows to Nico so easily makes my stomach clench. Of course a man who is used to playing god with people’s lives wouldn’t give two shits about a piece of paper, legally binding or otherwise.

“You’re not tied to anyone anymore.” His thumb traces my bottom lip and this time I can’t hide my revulsion. “You made that quite clear with that dramatic little display back at the safe house. Cutting through those tattoos?” He smirks and grunts appreciatively. “I couldn’t have arranged for a better show of loyalty myself.”

All I want to do is hit him and run, but I have to keep reminding myself that I chose this. I chose this to keep them alive. But standing here with Malcolm’s possessive hands on me, knowing I’m about to be bound to this monster… Fuck, I’ve never felt more alone and vulnerable in my life.

His fingers move to the spot below my shoulder where Imogen stabbed me, then down lower where Elliot’s knife went in, and I have to lock my knees to keep from jerking away. “You’re recovering surprisingly well. I assumed those wounds would kill you, but here you are, resilient as ever.”

I open my mouth to tell him it was Killian who kept me alive, who stitched me up and tended to my wounds, then sat by my side until he knew I was going to pull through. But even if I could make Malcolm understand how much it all meant at the time, I’m already certain of one thing—he wouldn’t care at all.

Still, the memory of Killian’s careful hands cleaning my wounds, of him cursing under his breath every time I winced, of the way he hovered over me while I healed…

Those are things I’ll never forget, no matter what else happens.

Fuck. I can’t let myself think about him now. I can’t trust myself to think about any of them. Not about how Killian patched me up, or how Atlas held me through my nightmares, or how Nico’s eyes lit up every time I started feeling stronger. Not about how they all took turns watching over me and protecting me.

How they all loved me.

“I heal fast,” I say instead, forcing myself back to the present and whatever fresh hell I’ve gotten myself into.

His fingers trail down to the hem of my shirt, and every muscle in my body goes rigid as they slip underneath and skim across my bare skin. Everything about his touch is cold and clinical, like a snake sizing up its prey.

I take a sharp step back, and my hands curl into fists at my sides. “Don’t fucking touch me.”

Malcolm’s eyes flash with anger, but only for a split-second before going back to being cold and lifeless. “You agreed to be my wife.”

“I agreed to marry you.” I have to stop myself from retching as those words come out. “That’s it. I didn’t agree to let you put your hands on me or fuck me or anything else.”

“No?” That cruel smile is back, the one that makes me want to knock his perfect fucking teeth down his throat. “And what exactly do you think being my wife entails?”

“A legal arrangement.” I feel like this is a make-or-break moment, and I need to keep my wits about me if I’m going to get through it. When I speak again, my words are careful and deliberate. “That’s what you offered. Protection from the Syndicate in exchange for marriage. You didn’t say shit about anything else.”

He gives me a long, hard look—cold and calculating—and for a second, I think he might try to force the issue. My muscles coil tight, ready to fight even though I know it will definitely get me killed.

But then his smug, humorless smile slides back into place. “You’re right, of course. Everything has changed rather dramatically for you in the last few hours, hasn’t it? Betraying your lovers, agreeing to marry me…” He gestures at my blood-stained shirt. “Cutting such intimate bonds.”

I hate the casual way he talks about what I did. I hate that he’s comfortable enough to talk about it at all. It’s hard to believe there’s any justice in this fucking world when men like Malcolm seem to hold all the power. All the fucking time.

“Maybe I’m being overly eager.” He straightens his tie and frowns slightly. “We haven’t even sealed our vows yet. There’splenty of time for you to grow more comfortable with your new position.”

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