Page 42 of Princess of Vengeance

“I understand.” And I do. I’ve seen what Malcolm is capable of on his own, and what the Dark Lotus Syndicate can do when they work together.

I’d rather not go up against them again until the odds are closer to being even. And I’m honestly not sure that will ever happen.

“Alright. Then I’ll allow it.” He starts to nod, then holds up one hand. “If you give me another kiss.”

My stomach lurches, but I mirror his nod. What’s one more violation after everything I’ve been through?

I step closer and tilt my face up to his. His hand cups the back of my neck and his long fingers tangle in my hair. There’s nothing gentle about his touch. Everything is about possessing and claiming with him. It’s about keeping score.

When his mouth crashes down on mine, it’s somehow even worse than before. His tongue forces its way between my lips, prodding and insistent. I want to gag, or to bite down. Or maybe knee him in the balls and run.

Instead, I stand there and take it, letting him stake his claim all over again.

He finally pulls back, grinning and triumphant. “You’ll learn to love it.” He reaches out with his thumb to wipe a trace of saliva from the corner of my mouth. “You might even start to crave it.”

My stomach churns and I have to look away for a second before I become violently ill and undo everything I’ve just accomplished.

I take a deep breath and turn to face him again, and that’s when I realize that he really believes the shit that’s coming out of his own mouth. That I’ll learn to love his kisses. That I’ll somehow start to crave being with him.

Over my dead fucking body.

But I don’t say that. I just stand there, his disgusting taste still lingering in my mouth, and nod like the good little wife I’m pretending to be.

Patience isn’ta virtue I normally possess, but I somehow convince my mind to shut down long enough to sleep through the night after my conversation with Malcolm.

Now that he’s given me permission to rebuild Blood and Ink, I don’t want to waste any time getting started. But I know he’s already suspicious of my motives, so I can’t look too eager.

I force myself to wait through breakfast and lunch before I call a cab, and I’m on pins and needles the entire time. It feels like everything I have left in the world could be taken away on a whim.

Malcolm could decide that this new, tiny taste of freedom he’s given me is too dangerous. Or he might decide that I’m more trouble than I’m worth and slit my throat for shits and giggles.

That danger is still on my mind when the cab pulls up outside a squat brick building in one of Detroit's rougher areas. Through the rearview mirror, I watch a black SUV stop half a block behind us, where Malcolm’s guards can watch every move I make like the good little lap dogs they are.

I pay the driver and step out onto the sidewalk, taking in the graffiti-covered walls and boarded-up windows of what used to be one of my dad's side operations. Back then, it was a front for moving liquor, drugs, guns, and anything else that might turn a quick profit on the black market. Now it's just another abandoned building in a city full of them.

Perfect.

The lock is rusted but it still holds. I fish my keychain from my pocket and sort through the older keys until I find the one I’m looking for. It takes some work, but the door finally creaks open, letting out a whiff of stale air.

The interior is dusty as hell, but exactly how I remember it, with exposed brick walls, high ceilings with metal rafters, and enough space to set up whatever the fuck I want.

There are empty boxes and old furniture scattered around, leftover from the last time this place was used, but that’s okay. I’ll use what I can and get rid of the rest.

I look over at an unused display case and think about how my dad used to bring me here from time to time. He always stressed how important it was to keep my real operations hidden behind boring, legitimate ones.

It’s a lesson that has served me well over the years, and I hope like hell it’ll keep serving me now.

Once I’ve spent some time on the ground floor, I feel my way down the basement stairs and move carefully stacks of rotting cardboard boxes and rusted metal shelving.

The musty smell gets stronger with every step, and it’s bringing back memories of following my father down here to learn all his secrets.

Including this one.

My fingers trail along the far wall until I find the slight gap between bricks. The hidden door groans as I push it open, revealing a narrow tunnel.

This fucking thing probably hasn't been used in years.

Cobwebs brush my face as I make my way through, and I have to duck under a few pipes. After about fifty feet, I reach another door that I know leads into the basement of Mickey's Bar.

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