Page 45 of Princess of Vengeance

The ride through Detroit’s streets gives me too much time to think. The last thing I need right now is to second-guess whether I’m walking into a trap, or whether Quinn will even show up at all. I grip the handlebars tighter, trying to focus on the familiar rumble of my bike instead of the churning in my gut as block after block and mile after mile speeds by.

By the time I make it to my destination, I don’t feel any better or worse about being here—just more determined than ever to see this through.

I haven’t had many reasons to come this far into what used to be Enigma territory, but I’ve still known about Mickey’s bar for years. It’s not exactly on safe or neutral ground, but it’s probably as close as any of us can get these days.

And from what I can remember of the handful of times I’ve walked through the door here, this place hasn’t changed a bit. The lighting is still dim as fuck, the floor is still sticky, and the whole place smells like stale beer and cigarettes.

I keep my hood up as I slip through the door, keeping my face hidden for as long as I can while I scan the room. At first, I don’t see her. Then a flash of teal hair catches my eye, and my heart damn near stops.

Before I can think too hard about what I’m doing, I’m already moving. My fingers wrap around her arm, and I drag her towardthe bathroom, barely registering the little gasp of surprise that escapes her lips on the way.

She doesn’t resist as I pull her inside and kick the door shut behind us. The space is so fucking small that the scent of her—honey and jasmine—drowns out everything else. Jesus, it takes everything I have not to bury my face in her hair and breathe her in after this terrible fucking week apart.

Instead, I slam her back against the door, blocking her in with my body. “Is this a trap?” The question comes out almost like an accusation, but I don’t fucking care.

“No.” She doesn’t flinch as her eyes lock on to mine. “I wouldn’t do that to you.”

“Are you sure about that?” A bitter laugh escapes my throat. “Then what the fuck was that little show about, huh? All that bullshit about how we weren’t worth dying for?”

“It wasn’t true. But you know I didn’t have a choice.”

I slam my palm against the door beside her head. “Bullshit! There’s always another choice. We could have figured something out together if you’d just?—”

“The only other choice ended with the three of you dead.” Her voice cracks, but she pulls herself right back together. “And I wasn’t okay with that. I’ll never accept that choice.”

18

QUINN

Something flickersacross Nico’s face—pain, anger, maybe even a hint of understanding—but it’s too fast for me to catch. He stumbles back a step, his chest heaving as he stares at me. His fists clench and unclench at his sides like he’s fighting for control.

“Fuck,” he mutters, like he doesn’t know whether he should kiss me or turn right back around and walk out of here. “Fa male solo a guardarti. È come la peggiore delle torture. Do you have any idea what seeing you does to me?”

I stay quiet because I don’t think he’s looking for an answer. Not yet. I can tell by the guarded way he’s looking at me that he’s still sizing up the situation, still probably trying to convince himself that it isn’t some kind of trap, or his own mind playing tricks on him.

But I do know. I know exactly what it does to him, because having him so close to me again—feeling his touch and looking into his eyes—does the same damn thing to me.

Every fucking time.

His eyes drop to my chest, right where I slashed through those three marks. That cut is halfway healed and hiddenbeneath my shirt, but it still feels like his eyes are burning into me.

My breath catches and my hand automatically twitches, wanting to cover the spot, but I force myself to stay still until he looks up to meet my gaze again.

I did this. I chose this. Being away from them has been the worst form of torture I’ve ever endured, but there’s no point in pretending I wouldn’t do it all over again if I was faced with the same impossible choice.

His gaze drops even lower, settling on my left hand. I feel a stab of pain right through my heart as I realize he’s staring at the ring that Malcolm gave me.

My wedding ring.

Nico’s entire body goes stiff, every muscle visibly locking into place.

“So it’s done.” There isn’t a question in his tone. Only a tense, cold finality that I almost can’t stand to hear.

I nod, because that’s all I can do. I won’t lie, and I can’t take it back, but right now, the weight of this fucking ring feels like it could drag me straight through the floor.

Still, when he finally looks up at me to meet my gaze, I lift my chin and hold his stare for what feels like an eternity even though it’s probably no more than ten or fifteen seconds.

“I’m not sorry for what I did.” I’m doing my best to keep any hint of defiance out of my tone. Nico isn’t the enemy, but I can’t afford to sugar coat anything. My three men deserve the truth and nothing less. “I wasn’t going to let him kill you. Or Killian. Or Atlas. If I hadn’t made him believe I was serious, we’d all be dead by now.”

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