Page 74 of Princess of Vengeance

Quinn has stopped crying enough to manage a nod. There’s something in her eyes that ties my fucking gut into knots—a frightened look I’ve seen before.

It’s the same look she had when we pieced together what happened with the Bullets, those motherfuckers who dared to fuck with what was ours.

Their poor judgment cost them their lives. And their hands.

I still don’t know everything they did to her, but I understand enough. She’s got scars that go really fucking deep, and someone just ripped them wide open again.

“Who did this to you?” I ask, even though I already know the answer. “Was it Malcolm?”

Her bottom lip trembles as she nods again. “He… he cornered me in his office. He tried to…” She doesn’t finish, but she doesn’t need to.

The rage that floods through me is so intense that for a second, everything goes red. My vision literally fucking blurs with it. I can feel my pulse pounding in my temples, and my hands curl into fists so tight my knuckles crack.

“I’ll fucking kill him,” I say. “I’ll rip his goddamn throat out with my teeth.”

Killian’s eyes have gone cold with an emptiness that means someone is about to stop breathing. Atlas looks like he’s barely containing himself from punching through the wall.

I force myself to take a breath, to focus on Quinn right now instead of the revenge fantasy playing out in my head. She needs us here, not off half-cocked on a suicide mission.

“Show us.” I swallow back as much of my rage as I can. “Show us everywhere that motherfucker touched you.”

She hesitates, then slowly sits up, wincing slightly. She points to her arms first, where the finger-shaped bruises are already darkening. Then she touches her jaw, where there’s a faint redness that’ll probably bruise by morning.

“He grabbed me here,” she says, her voice steadier now. “And he…” She touches her lips, and I see red again, but I channel it into something better as I lean down close to her face.

“He doesn’t get to claim any part of you,” I whisper to keep the raw emotions out of my voice. “Not a single fucking inch.”

I press my lips gently to the redness on her jaw in a deliberate, almost reverent touch. Then I move to the bruises on her arms, kissing each mark with a gentleness that is completely at odds with the burning hatred I still feel toward Malcolm inside me.

“These are ours,” I tell her, my breath hot against her skin. “You’re ours to protect. Ours to care for. Ours to love. No one else’s.”

“No one else’s,” she murmurs just before I finally kiss her lips.

These kisses aren’t just about love and desire. They’re about reclaiming what that bastard tried to take and erasing the memory of his touch with mine. I don’t want her to doubt for a single fucking second that she belongs with us, to us, even if she has to wear his ring for now.

Killian moves in next, taking her wrist and turning it carefully to expose the marks there before pressing his lips to each fingerprint bruise.

“I should cut his fucking hands off,” he rumbles against her skin, and I know from previous experience that he means every word.

Atlas follows suit, cradling her face with his large hands as he kisses the redness on her jaw.

“No one hurts what’s ours,” he says simply, echoing what we’re all thinking right now.

The three of us continue our trail of kisses, covering every spot Malcolm touched, replacing violation with devotion. I watch as Quinn’s eyes drift closed and the tension slowly drains from her face. Her tears have dried, leaving tracks on her cheeks that Atlas wipes away with his thumb.

A small smile begins to form on her lips—not her usual confident grin, but something softer and more vulnerable. Not only is she letting us see her broken pieces, she’s trusting us to help put them back together.

When we’ve finished, she drags in a deep, shuddering breath. Her eyes open, and they’re clearer now but there’s still a troubled look on her face that I’d do anything to get rid of.

“Better?” Atlas asks, still cradling her cheek with one hand.

“I just…” She pauses, then frowns. “I fucking hate this. Being like this.”

“Like what?” I ask, already gearing up to fight, to kill—to do whatever it takes to make her happy again.

“Weak.” It’s a word I’d never, ever use to describe her, and it honestly surprises me when I hear it come out of her mouth. “I’m supposed to be strong. I used to lead a fucking gang. I’ve spent my whole damn life staring down people who want me dead, and I’ve done it without blinking.” Her voice catches. “But one asshole grabs me the wrong way, and I’m reduced to this… this curled-up, sobbing mess.”

She gestures at herself with disgust. “It’s pathetic. It’s?—”

---