Page 82 of Princess of Vengeance

“Traitor,” Imogen mutters, but there’s a hint of a smile on her lips.

“She still remembers me.”

“Cats remember the people who feed them,” she replies. “And who pet them the way they like.”

I sink down onto the couch and let the cat climb into my lap, running my fingers through her soft fur. The simple act of petting an animal that doesn’t want anything from me except affection feels more soothing than it has any right to.

“Did you actually come just for the cat,” Imogen asks, crossing her arms, “or was there something else you wanted?”

“Can’t it be both?”

She studies me for a moment, then shakes her head with something like grudging amusement. “You’re smarter than I initially gave you credit for, Quinn Kent. Or should I say, Quinn Mercer?”

I wince. “Please don’t.”

“I’ve been thinking about what you told me,” I say after a few moments of silence, deciding that honesty is my best strategy here. “About how all the Syndicate members got their marks.”

Imogen pours herself a drink from a crystal decanter on the sideboard. She doesn’t offer me one. “Have you now?”

“I didn’t know about the blood debt situation until you mentioned it,” I continue, watching her carefully. “My father never told me.”

She takes a sip, studying me over the rim of her glass. “Have you considered that perhaps he was trying to protect you?”

“From what? The truth?” I scoff. “That protection didn’t do me much good in the end.”

“Some truths are more dangerous than others.” She leans against the sideboard, glass in hand. “Especially when they involve Malcolm Mercer.”

“So I’m discovering.”

She raises an eyebrow. “And why are you telling me this? What’s your angle here?”

“No angle,” I lie. “I just needed someone to talk to who understands the situation. Someone who isn’t…” I trail off.

“Malcolm?” she finishes for me.

I nod. “I went back and asked him how my father was given entry. It didn’t go well.”

That gets her attention. She lowers her glass, something like curiosity flickering across her face.

“What happened?” she asks, and there’s a hint of concern in her voice that surprises me.

“He didn’t want to tell me at first,” I grimace, remembering his dismissive attitude. “But I pushed. I demanded answers.”

“That was risky. Malcolm doesn’t respond well to demands.”

“I know that now,” I say quietly, letting my hand drift to my arm where his fingers gripped too tightly. “But he did finally admit it.”

“And what did our esteemed leader say?”

“He admitted it was because my mother died due to a job my father did for him.”

Imogen doesn’t look surprised, just nods slowly. “I didn’t know the specifics, of course, but I would have guessed something along those lines. That’s how Malcolm operates. It’s how he’s always operated.”

“Using people’s pain and loss to manipulate them?” I ask, although I already know the answer.

“Exactly.” She downs the rest of her drink in one smooth motion. “He finds your weakness—usually the people you care about—and he exploits it. By the time you realize what’s happening, it’s too late. You’re already caught in his web.”

“And he never faces consequences,” I add bitterly.

---