Page 63 of Princess of Vengeance

I need air. I need space. I need to be with my men.

The driver and one of Malcolm’s guards are in the foyer when I reach the bottom of the stairs. They look up, clearly startled by my thunderous entrance.

“We’re going for a ride,” I order, not slowing my pace as I head for the front door.

“Ma’am?” The men exchange an uncertain glance. “Mr. Mercer didn’t mention?—”

“I don’t give a shit what he mentioned. You’re taking me out. Now.”

Something in my face must convince him, because he nods slowly and reaches for his keys. “Where are we going?”

“Blood and Ink. The new location.”

As we walk to the SUV, a wave of nausea hits me so hard I nearly double over. My mother’s death. Malcolm’s hands on me. The tangled web of lies that my life has become. It’s all too much.

I slide into the back seat, wrapping my arms around my middle as if I might be able to physically hold myself together. My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my temples, and my skin feels clammy and cold.

What the fuck am I going to do?

I keep my eyes closed, lost in these intrusive fucking thoughts until the SUV pulls up outside the building that will become the new Blood and Ink. I stumble out without waiting for the driver to open my door, ignoring his concerned look.

“I’ll be working late,” I tell him, forcing my voice to stay steady. “Don’t wait up.”

I know he’ll be right here, watching and waiting and reporting back to Malcolm at regular intervals no matter what I say, but it still feels good to assert some control—even if it is just for show.

I don’t wait for him to say anything else before I turn and hurry into the building. Once inside, I move around like normal, making a show of rearranging boxes and dusting empty shelves while I silently count to one hundred.

Then I head straight for the hidden passage in the basement.

What I’m doing is beyond reckless, but I don’t care. I can’t stay in that house with Malcolm tonight. Not after what just happened.

The bar is quiet when I emerge from the basement entrance, just a few early evening patrons nursing drinks in dim corners. Mickey, the owner, raises his eyebrows when he sees me coming up from his basement.

“Jesus, Quinn. You look like hell.” He keeps his voice low as he meets me at the end of the bar.

“I need to get a ride somewhere.” My voice sounds strange to my own ears, thin and ragged. “But I have to leave out the back alley and I don’t want anyone to know I’m gone.”

Mickey studies my face, taking in what must be a desperate, wild-eyed look, and nods. “Give me a minute.”

He disappears into the back office, and I press my hands flat against the bar to keep them from shaking until he returns.

“Wait back here for ten minutes, then leave out the back door. There will be a car waiting in the alley,” he says quietly. “Tell the driver where you need to go, then get in the footwell and cover yourself with whatever you can find in the back seat. The driver won’t ask any questions.”

I nod my thanks, unable to form the words around the lump in my throat. I follow his directions, practically holding my breath until I’m in the footwell of the car and we’ve driven far enough away from the bar that I’m reasonably certain Malcolm’s men aren’t following us.

I climb up onto the seat, and my careful control finally shatters. My breath comes in short, painful gasps, each one more desperate than the last. My vision narrows, with dark spots dancing at the edges. I press my forehead against the cool glass of the window, trying to ground myself and praying that I don’t pass out.

“Are you okay back there?” The driver glances at me in the rearview mirror.

I manage a quick nod, not trusting myself to speak. My hands are numb, tingling with pins and needles that creep up my arms, and my heart is racing.

Jesus, am I fucking dying?

I force myself to count my breaths. In for four, hold for four, out for four. It’s a coping mechanism I learned a long time ago, when these sorts of panic attacks would happen more frequently.

In. Hold. Out. Repeat.

By the time the cab pulls up several blocks from the safe house, I’ve managed to push back the worst of the panic, but I still feel like I’m moving through quicksand and only a few heartbeats away from slipping under. The driver asks if I want him to wait, but I shake my head, pressing some crumpled bills into his hand before nearly falling out onto the sidewalk.

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