Page 77 of Princess of Vengeance

The basement is dark even with the lights on, but I’ve pretty much memorized my way down the narrow staircase and past the storage shelves of liquor, beer, and wine. There’s just enough light that hits the back wall for me to find the panel that slides open and reveals the makeshift tunnel that connects to the new Blood and Ink.

Part of me wishes I could just keep walking past this escape route, disappear into the night with my men, and never look back. But that’s not how this works. That’s not how I work.

My dad taught me not to run from my problems. It’s a hell of a lot more satisfying to burn them to the ground.

The tunnel is musty and cold, and I have to crouch in a few places where the ceiling dips, but it leads me back to where I’m supposed to be. When I come up the stairs from my own basement into the future tattoo parlor, I’m surprised to find it’s not empty. Damon, one of my old Enigma members, is painting a wall while Tanner from Carnage is installing some shelving.

It’s not the first time some of my former members—and even some of the former Princes—have stopped by to help with the renovation, but it still makes me feel the same pang of regret when I think of how much they’ve all had to sacrifice because of my decisions.

There will be time to apologize and make things right with all my people later though. We just need to make it through one crisis at a time.

They both turn when they hear me, and I see their shoulders relax when they recognize me.

“Quinn,” Damon says with a nod. “We didn’t expect you back tonight.”

“Just checking on progress,” I say, trying to sound like I’m not fresh from getting fucked senseless by three men. Like I’m not covering Malcolm’s bruises. Like I’m still the leader they remember.

“It’s coming along,” Tanner says, gesturing to the half-finished shelves. “We should have most of the interior cleared out and repainted by end of the week.”

I nod, grateful for their loyalty as much as their presence right now. It’s strange how Enigma and Carnage have melded together, brought closer by shared loss and shared enemies. Itouch the line I carved through my chest tattoo and wonder if scars can heal into something stronger than what was there before.

“Thanks,” I say, meaning it more than they could possibly know. “Both of you.”

They don’t ask where I’ve been. They don’t comment on the slight limp in my walk or the exhaustion in my eyes. They just nod and get back to work, offering me the only thing I need right now—a few minutes of peaceful fucking normalcy.

I check the time and curse under my breath. Yeah, I’ve been gone way too long. Malcolm’s watchdogs will be getting suspicious if I don’t show up soon. With a final glance around the space that represents my only real hope for freedom, I slip back out through the front door and cross the street. The black SUV sticks out like a sore thumb, and seeing one of Malcolm’s men jump out to open the door for me without saying a word just cements the fact that I’m still very much under house arrest. Still very much living and breathing on his terms.

That’s just the way it’ll have to be for now.

The headlights of Malcolm’s SUV flash as we pull into his driveway, briefly shining on the pretentious fucking mansion I’m forced to call home. My stomach knots at the thought of going back inside and being underneath the same roof again, but I’m clinging to the strength I found in my men’s arms tonight.

This won’t be my life forever. Just long enough to put my plan in motion. Just long enough to turn the Dark Lotus Syndicate against him. Just long enough to watch him bleed.

Each day with Malcolm feels worse than the last. His eyes follow me everywhere. Seeing him around the house—always seemingly just a few feet away—makes me feel like I’m suffocating. And when he touches me?

It makes me want to scrub my fucking skin raw.

But I can endure. I’ve survived worse.

I’ve made it through gun fights and car chases. I’ve been stabbed repeatedly. I survived The Saint and all the ones who came before him. Anyone who doubts me can go and look at my former enemies now.

I’ll survive Malcolm too.

As I walk up the steps to the front door, I straighten my spine and lift my chin. I replay Atlas’s words in my head. “You’re the strongest person I’ve ever known.” I remember the feel of Killian’s and Nico’s lips on my bruises, reclaiming what Malcolm tried to take. I think of Nico’s promise. “You’ll bathe in his fucking blood.”

I can do this.

The house is quiet when I enter, and most of the lights have been dimmed. It’s late in the evening but still probably too early for Malcolm to be asleep.

That’s fine though. As much as I don’t want to see him, I still have a part to play, and I’m going to give the performance of a fucking lifetime.

I remember what Imogen told me during one of our conversations about how Malcolm responds to flattery. He wants to be admired and respected, not just obeyed. The best way to stay on his good side is to feed his ego, to make him think he’s winning.

Stroking fragile egos isn’t something I have a ton of practice doing, but it’s a means to an end, and I’ll gladly suck it up and push through if it gets me what I need.

I find Malcolm in the master bedroom, propped up against pillows with a book in his hands. He looks almost normal, almost human—if I ignore the coldness in his eyes and the calculating way he watches me enter.

“You’re home late.” He looks me up and down, then closes his book. “I was beginning to worry.”

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