Page 57 of Princess of Vengeance

Thankfully, he gives in with a dismissive gesture, as if the whole conversation is suddenly beneath him. “I suppose that could be arranged. I’ll have someone drive you.”

“Of course.” I offer the fake smile that I’ve damn near perfected since I’ve been staying here. “I wouldn’t expect anything else.”

I turn and start heading back to my room before he has a chance to change his mind. I’ll leave him to plot or sulk or whatever it is that he does when I’m not around. I have more important things to do.

I’ve spent the past few days thinking back to every interaction I’ve had with the Syndicate and every meeting I’ve attended—anything that might help me figure out who else might hate Malcolm enough to turn on him. So far, I’ve got next to nothing.

It would help, of course, if I’d been a member for longer. I’d know more about their personalities and personal lives. I’d know their tics and tells and maybe even a little dirt to help me along.

Unfortunately, I didn’t have time to learn any of that shit, so I’m stuck with the tidbits I do know—and those tidbits all lead back to Imogen.

She’s the one who gave me and my men a place to stay when nobody else was going to. She’s the one who kept Princess alive without being asked or compensated for the trouble.

And she’s the one who tipped me off to the fact that Malcolm might not be as all-knowing and all-powerful within the Syndicate as he’d like to make people think.

I roll my shoulders, trying to work out the knots that have taken up permanent residence there. My body is wound so tight I feel like I might fucking snap in half. I can’t remember the last time I even took a full breath.

Living with Malcolm is like tiptoeing through a damn minefield. He scrutinizes every move I make and every word out of my mouth, and I’m almost certain that every conversation is a test.

Tests I’m probably failing, since I’m not the greatest at swallowing my feelings or keeping my mouth shut when I feel like I’m being pressured.

At least he hasn’t tried to touch me again, not since that first kiss after our “wedding,” but his eyes follow me everywhere, and I know it’s only a matter of time before his patience wears out completely.

At night, I lock my bedroom door, even though I know it wouldn’t stop him if he really wanted to get in. It’s more symbolic than anything else—a tiny act of defiance that helps me sleep.

But not well. Never well.

There’s never any doubt that he holds all the cards, and they’re all stacked in his favor. That knowledge and the cold look in his eyes makes me feel like prey from the time I wake up in the morning until the time I lay my head on the pillow at night.

I fucking hate that feeling. The only time it ever felt sexy to be chased was when my men were doing the chasing.

Malcolm’s drivertakes me to Imogen’s place in a sleek black SUV with windows tinted so dark that they make the interior of the vehicle unusually dim and oppressive.

Or maybe that’s just due to the mood I’m in.

One of Malcolm’s guards is sitting next to me in the back seat, with his bulky frame taking up more than his fair share of space. I press myself against the door, creating as much distance between us as possible.

Even though I’m not at the house anymore, I don’t feel any real sense of freedom. This is just a different kind of cage, with different walls.

As we drive through Detroit’s upscale neighborhoods, doubt starts to creep in. What the fuck am I doing? Am I walking straight into a trap? Imogen might have taken the cat in, but she also drove a knife into my chest not that long ago.

The memory of being chained to that wall flashes through my mind—all of them lining up to take their turn with the knife. Malcolm’s cold eyes. Elliot’s vicious twist of the blade. And Imogen, with her unreadable expression as she stepped up for her turn.

I rub absently at my upper chest where her knife went in. The wound has mostly healed now, but sometimes I swear I can still feel the bite of steel.

“Mrs. Mercer, we’ve arrived,” the driver says, and I flinch at the name. I’ll never be a fucking Mercer, no matter what a piece of paper says I am.

As I step out of the SUV, I instinctively check my surroundings and try to steady my racing nerves.

I’m probably overthinking this. If I’m going to pull off this insurrection, I need allies, and Imogen is the closest thing I have to a potential one.

The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced she held back when she stabbed me. Elliot went in deep, twisting the knife for maximum damage. But Imogen’s strike was different—calculated, precise, and shallow. The knife barely penetrated, missing everything vital.

She could have killed me if she wanted to, but she chose not to.

And then there’s the cat. She didn’t have to take Princess in. She didn’t have to feed or care for her. She could have easily left the poor thing to starve in that penthouse, or worse.

But she didn’t. And all of that leads me to believe there’s something there. Something I can work with.

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