Page 83 of Princess of Vengeance

“No,” she agrees. “He never does.”

Princess purrs under my hand, oblivious to the darkness of our conversation. I stroke her head, trying to gather my thoughts.

“I’ve been torn about how my father handled it,” I admit, the words coming out before I can second-guess them. “Part of me respects him for not wanting to associate with the man who, even indirectly, got my mother killed.”

Imogen doesn’t move or say anything else. For now, she’s just watching me with an unreadable expression.

“But at the same time,” I continue, “him tattooing the mark on me without telling me about any of this… it set me up as a target. As a pawn.” My voice hardens a little. “If he’d just told me the truth, maybe I could have been prepared. Maybe things would have played out differently.”

“You think you could have avoided all this?” Imogen gestures vaguely, encompassing my current situation. “Malcolm would have found another way to get to you. He always does.”

“Maybe. But at least I would have been fighting with open eyes. I wouldn’t have walked right into his trap thinking I was making my own choices.”

“Your father probably thought he was doing the right thing,” Imogen says, surprising me with her insight. “It’s obvious he loved you. He thought he was protecting you from a truth that would only hurt you.”

“Noble intentions, shitty execution,” I mutter.

“Isn’t that the way it goes with most parents?”

“Did yours screw you over too?” The question slips out before I can stop it.

Imogen’s expression closes off. “They haven’t been a part of my life for a long time.”

“I’m sorry,” I say automatically.

“Don’t be.” She shrugs with practiced indifference. “I’m not. I barely remember them.”

“But you were close with your sister?” I ask, genuinely curious now.

“Yes, I was,” she answers after a pause. “Layla. She was everything to me.”

The way she says her sister’s name—with a softness I’ve never heard in her voice before—tells me everything I need to know about how much she loved her.

Imogen sets her empty glass down and walks over to sit across from me. For the first time since I’ve known her, her face softens with a genuine look of sympathy.

“I also considered not joining the Syndicate,” she says quietly.

This is unexpected. I keep my face neutral, not wanting to break whatever spell has her opening up to me.

“You did?” I prompt gently when she doesn’t continue for a few more seconds.

She nods. “After what happened with Layla, I didn’t want anything to do with Malcolm or his offer.”

“What changed your mind?”

“Fear,” she admits. “Practical concerns. Layla was my partner in everything. Our casino operation, our money laundering business, all of it.” Her eyes drift to a framed photo on the side table that I hadn’t noticed before. Two women, arms around each other, laughing at the camera. “When she died, I was afraid of losing everything we’d built. So I joined the Syndicate to keep our empire from crumbling.”

“You needed protection,” I say, understanding dawning.

“I needed resources,” she corrects me. “Connections. The kind of power that would ensure no one tried to move in on our territory while I was vulnerable.”

I recognize this for what it is—an olive branch, a small piece of trust. I also recognize similarities to my own position when I first sought out Malcolm and the Syndicate.

“I’m sorry about your sister,” I say, meaning it. “How did she die? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“Why do you want to know?” she asks sharply, that sympathetic look immediately erased from her features.

“Because I think we might have more in common than either of us realized,” I say carefully. “And because I’m trying to understand how all of this works—the Syndicate, Malcolm, all of it.”

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