Page 98 of Princess of Vengeance

He’s still looking at me, his eyes trailing over my features like he’s searching for something—or someone—in them.

“You remind me more of her every day,” he says quietly, almost to himself.

I take a deliberate step back, breaking contact. “I should get going. There’s a lot to do at the shop today.”

He nods, letting me retreat. “Don’t be too late.”

It’s not a request. It’s a command, wrapped in the thin veneer of civility.

“I won’t,” I answer, already calculating how I can stretch every damn minute away from him.

As I finally escape out the front door, I take my first full breath since waking up, filling my lungs with fresh air until they burn. Then I head toward my cab, toward a few hours of freedom.

Blood and Ink is buzzing with activity when I arrive. The place still smells like sawdust and fresh paint, but it’s starting to look like something real. Something we can all be proud of.

“Morning, Quinn,” Damon nods as I walk in, hammer in hand. He’s installing shelving behind what will be the reception counter. “The electrical got finished this morning. We’ve got power in every room now.”

“Fucking finally,” I say, dropping my bag on a stack of boxes. “And the plumbing?”

“They should be coming out tomorrow,” Cabby calls from across the room where he’s sanding down a wall. His arms are covered in white dust. “That asshole wanted more money up front, but I persuaded him our original deal was fair.”

I grin, knowing Cabby’s idea of “persuasion” probably involved showing the plumber the gun he keeps tucked in his waistband. “Good. We’re gonna be open for business soon, boys.”

I make my rounds, checking progress and giving orders, feeling more like myself with every passing minute. This is who I am. Not Malcolm’s puppet wife, not some broken doll. I’m still the leader of Enigma. I’m still my father’s daughter.

“Hey, your office downstairs is almost done,” Damon says, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm. “Just need to finish the?—”

He stops mid-sentence, his eyes fixed on something behind me. I turn to see Imogen standing in the doorway, her auburn hair gleaming and perfectly coiffed as always. But she’s not alone. Fucking Elliot is right beside her, sucking all the oxygen out of the room as his cold eyes scan the room.

My heart slams against my ribs. What the fuck is she thinking, bringing him here? We haven’t even sounded him out yet.

“Quinn,” Imogen says with a hint of apology in her voice. “I hope we’re not interrupting.”

“Not at all,” I lie, doing my best to keep my true feelings in check. “I was just checking on progress.”

Elliot snorts and looks around, clearly unimpressed. “This is what you’re so proud of? It looks like a fucking dump to me.”

My jaw tightens, but Imogen steps in before I can tell him exactly how to go fuck himself.

“She’s rebuilding from nothing,” she says with a sharpness in her tone that definitely gets his attention. “That takes guts. How many people get burned out and just disappear? Quinn doesn’t stay down. She fights back. That’s worth more than fancy furniture or a skyline view.”

Elliot grunts, but I catch something flicker in his eyes. Respect? Maybe. Or just surprise that Imogen is defending me.

“Let’s talk in my office,” I say, gesturing toward the stairs that lead down to the basement. “Such as it is.”

The men give Elliot wary looks as we pass, but I signal them to stand down with a tiny shake of my head. We’ve already gotten off to a rocky start. The last thing I need is for this meeting to get derailed completely by someone trying to defend my honor.

I lead them to the basement, making sure to steer clear of the hidden entrance to the tunnel. My “office” is still mostly bare—a metal desk, three mismatched chairs, and a cheap lamp. A far cry from the sleek setup I had before, but it’s still a work in progress.

“Charming,” Elliot says dryly, dropping into a chair without being invited. “Running your empire from a fucking janitor’s closet now?”

“I’ve worked with less,” I say, staying on my feet. “Why are you here?”

Imogen perches on the edge of the desk. “I thought it was time we all had a chat.”

“I have a feeling it’s going to be a quick chat,” Elliot says, leaning back in his chair. “As far as I can tell, this is a waste of my fucking time.”

Jesus, I want to punch him. Or stab him and let him bleed out here in my janitor’s closet of an office. That would be poetic justice, and probably a better use of all our time.

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