Page 97 of Princess of Vengeance

I force myself to smile. “Thank you,” I say, and hate myself a little more each time.

Every night, I slide into his bed, stiff as a board with tension and barely able to keep from screaming. I’ve mastered the art of falling asleep while feeling hunted. Malcolm hasn’t pushed for sex again, but each night his hands wander a little farther, testing my boundaries a little more.

It’s a sick fucking game to him, and I’m convinced he’s only interested in seeing how far he can push me before I break.

I won’t break.

Not when I’m making so much progress on every other front. Imogen sent word yesterday that Cassandra is in. She didn’tneed much convincing once Imogen laid out how Malcolm had manipulated all of us, using our pain and loss to bind us to him.

If each Syndicate member is another step to freedom, I’ve already got two down with three left to go.

But Jesus Christ, I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up. Every hour in this house feels like I’m suffocating, and being near Malcolm makes me literally, physically ill.

There’s nothing about this situation that’s conducive to playing the part of a meek little wife, but that’s exactly what I have to do if I’m going to survive long enough to kill him.

I miss my men so badly it’s a physical ache. I want their hands and their mouths. I want them to fuck me until every trace of Malcolm has been erased and I can’t remember anything but the three of them.

Soon, I tell myself. Soon this will all be over. Malcolm will be dead, and I’ll be free.

I grab my jacket off the hook by the door, and my cab is waiting outside. He’s finally given me enough freedom to go to the tattoo parlor without being driven by one of his fucking goons, so that’s where I’ve been spending most of my time.

I’m pretty sure he’s still having me followed, but I’ll take it as a win for now.

And today, Blood and Ink—my sanctuary, my excuse to breathe free air for a few precious hours—is calling. The renovations are nearly complete, and we’re getting close to reopening.

“Quinn.”

Fuck. His voice stops me cold even though I already have one hand on the doorknob. I turn slowly, schooling my expression into something that I hope resembles mild curiosity.

“Yes?”

Malcolm is standing at the other end of the foyer, just at the foot of the stairs, with his arms crossed over his chest. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

My stomach twists into a knot as I walk back toward him as slowly as possible without looking overly reluctant. This is part of the game—the one where I pretend to be a dutiful wife. The one where I act like I don’t fantasize about slitting his throat while he sleeps.

“I’m sorry.” The lie comes easily enough these days. “You’re right. I just didn’t want to disturb you.”

I lean in to kiss his cheek—the bare minimum I can get away with—but he’s ready for me. His hand shoots up, fingers tangling in my hair, gripping hard enough to make my scalp burn. He waits until I gasp from the sudden burst of pain, then turns his head and captures my mouth with his.

His tongue forces its way past my lips, and I fight the urge to bite down until I taste blood. His other hand drops to my lower back, pulling me flush against him, and I can feel him hardening against my stomach.

Everything inside me goes cold and still, like a small animal playing dead in the jaws of a predator.

I close my eyes and pretend like I’m anywhere but here, trapped in this body, in this house, in his arms. When he finally releases me, I struggle not to gag. I won’t even give him the satisfaction of wiping my mouth or showing any reaction at all.

His fingers loosen in my hair but don’t let go completely. Instead, he rubs a strand between his thumb and forefinger, examining it.

“Your roots are coming in,” he says, studying the dark brown hair showing at my scalp where the teal has grown out. “Is this your natural color?”

“Yes,” I answer, trying to pull away subtly. My skin crawls at his touch and the possessive way he looks at me. “I’ve been meaning to dye it again.”

His expression hardens slightly. “You should let it grow out. The natural color suits you better.”

There’s something in his eyes that chills me, a flash of something I can’t quite identify. Recognition? Nostalgia? Whatever it is, I hate it.

Why the fuck does he care what color my hair is?

I want to scream, and kick, and gouge his fucking eyes out. Instead, I shrug noncommittally. “Maybe. I haven’t decided yet.”

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