Page 37 of Princess of Vengeance

I almost laugh out loud at the irony. I came closer to getting killed in the fucking safe house than I did in the gunfight with Ambrose.

And it’s still his face that haunts my dreams. His face that morphs into Malcolm’s now. Both men tortured me in their own sick ways. Both men wanted to see me and my men taken down. Now one of them is dead and the other… is going to be my husband.

My stomach lurches at that thought, and I quickly try to untangle myself from the sweaty sheets in case I need to dash tothe bathroom. But no. I’m not going to throw up. Just like I’m not going to cry or show any other emotion if I can help it.

Malcolm can try to bend me to his will. He can try to force himself on me. But I’m not going to let him break me, and I’m not going to let him know how badly he’s affecting me.

The knock on my bedroom door startles me, and I realize it’s that same sound that must have woken me from the seemingly inescapable nightmare that I was in.

Anywhere else, that knock would be Atlas or Nico or Killian, coming to check on me and reassure me. But my own actions have ensured that I won’t ever be able to count on their reassurances again. Atlas will never wrap his strong arms around me and ground me back to reality. Killian will never wrap his hand around my throat and fuck me senseless—until I’m literally so starved for air that the rest of my demons simply fade away. Nico will never call me mia cara and look at me with those beautiful mismatched eyes.

I’m not in the safe house. Not in our bed.

My chest aches where I carved through our bonds, and the cuts are still tender and raw. Just like everything else inside me.

Another knock, more insistent this time.

I slowly get out of bed, still in the same bloodied clothes I was wearing last night, and reach the door just as a soft click signals that whoever is on the other side has gotten tired of waiting. A second later, Malcolm’s face appears in the doorway.

My muscles tense automatically, reminding me that my body knows a predator when it sees one, even if my mind is trying desperately to play along.

“What do you want?” I stand my ground, not letting him all the way inside even when he pushes the door open a few more inches.

And there’s that smarmy smile that I’ve learned to hate. “My dear, we’ll have to work on those manners of yours. Awife should be more gracious and welcoming when greeting her husband.”

The way he says the word ‘wife’ makes me want to throw up all over again, but I swallow it down. Instead, I raise an eyebrow at him, waiting for him to answer my fucking question.

He holds up a garment bag, the expensive kind from high-end boutiques I’ve never set foot in. “I took the liberty of selecting something appropriate for you to wear today.” His eyes drift over my rumpled clothes, lingering on the dried blood staining my shirt. “Something more appropriate for your new position.”

My position.

Like I’m on his fucking payroll now. Or, more accurately, like I’m a chess piece he’s moving exactly where he wants me to be. And yeah, I guess that’s exactly what I am now—a pawn in whatever game he’s playing.

“It’s not white,” he adds when I still don’t speak or move a muscle. “I thought cream would be more suitable, given the circumstances.”

Given that I’m damaged goods, he probably means. Given that I carved up my own flesh last night to prove my loyalty to him. Given that I’m only here because he’s holding three lives over my head.

I want to tell him to go fuck himself. I want to throw the dress in his face and tell him exactly where he can shove his suitable fucking choices. But I can’t. So I just nod instead as I reach for the garment bag.

He doesn’t release the garment bag when I reach for it. Instead, he steps into my room, crossing the threshold with the kind of confidence that comes from the fact that he knows he owns me now. He owns me just as much as he does this fancy house or the cars in his garage.

“I’d like to see how it fits,” he says, his voice as smooth as ever even though his eyes are almost daring me to challenge him.

And that’s exactly what I do.

“I’d like to get dressed in private.” I keep my own words even and measured, letting go of the bag rather than staying connected to him through it.

His eyes narrow slightly. “There’s no need for modesty between us anymore. After all, we’ll be?—”

“Married? Yeah, you keep saying that. But we’re not married yet, and I want privacy while I change.”

For a moment, the careful mask slips, and I see the predator underneath. The man who has built an empire on the backs of those who’ve opposed him.

We stare at each other, neither willing to back down. The air is growing more tense by the second, and every instinct I have is screaming at me to get him out. To put distance between us before he decides to show me exactly how little he cares about what I want.

But I hesitate a moment too long. And when he takes another step into the room, I don’t move to stop him.

Even before he sets the garment bag on the bed and steps back with that victorious fucking smirk, I know I’ve lost this battle. I might have won the argument last night about him touching me, but he’s making it clear that I won’t be able to oppose him at every turn.

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