Page 102 of Princess of Vengeance

He studies me for a long moment, and I can almost see the calculations happening behind his eyes—weighing risks, measuring benefits, calculating his odds of survival.

Then, suddenly, Rafael throws his head back and laughs—a genuine sound this time, surprising in its warmth.

“What the hell,” he says, wiping his eyes. “You know why I got into this business in the first place? Because I love the odds. The rush of taking a chance when the stakes are high.” He spreads his hands. “And what’s a bigger gamble than this?”

Relief floods through me, but I keep my expression neutral. This is three down, with just one left to go.

“You realize you’ll probably get us all killed,” he adds, but he’s still smiling. “Malcolm has resources we don’t even know about. Connections in places we can’t touch. If we fail…”

“We won’t,” I say with more confidence than I should be entitled to feel.

Rafael’s smile turns knowing. “That’s what I like about you, Quinn. You believe your own bullshit.”

“So that’s a definite yes?” Imogen presses.

He nods. “I’m in. Things were getting boring anyway.” He gestures around at his warehouse. “All this… it’s just stuff. Merchandise. It’s been a long time since I felt the real thrill of the game.”

“This isn’t a game,” I warn him.

“Everything’s a game. The only difference is the stakes. And these?” He lets out a low whistle. “These are the highest I’ve ever played for.”

The next twodays are filled with tension and forced smiles as I wait for word from Imogen. When it finally comes, it’s just what everyone predicted—Owen is in.

That’s it. The final piece. Everyone in the Syndicate is united against Malcolm.

I should feel good. We’re well on our way to winning the battle that’s coming. Instead, I feel like I’m walking a tightrope with no safety net. One wrong look, one miscalculation on my part, and Malcolm will know.

And then we’re all dead.

I haven’t seen my men since that night with the bikes. I miss them like a physical ache—a hollow space behind my ribs that nothing can fill. I’ve been sending messages through the members of Enigma who are helping rebuild Blood and Ink, but it’s not the same. I need their hands on me, their voices in my ear, and their bodies surrounding mine.

It’s too risky to sneak out again though. Malcolm has been watching me more closely, tracking me around the house like a goddamn predator watching his prey.

Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night to find him just… staring at me. Not touching, not speaking. Just watching with those empty fucking eyes.

Without Atlas, Nico, and Killian around to ground me and give me the reset that I need, I feel like I’m fraying at the edges. I’m unsettled and too fucking jumpy, and it’s only a matter of time before another PTSD episode hits me.

These are the thoughts that are circling around and around inside my head this morning as I step out of the shower andwrap a towel around my body. The hot water helped a little, easing the tension in my muscles if not in my mind.

The bathroom door opens without warning and my heart nearly fucking stops as Malcolm walks in. I don’t turn to face him, but I can see him approaching in the mirror.

He steps up close behind me and presses me against the sink. “Good morning, wife”

I swallow the bile that rises up in my throat, but I can’t quite manage one of my fake smiles. Not this time. Not with him this fucking close to me. “Morning.”

His eyes meet mine in the mirror, and his hands settle on my shoulders, heavy and possessive. “My beautiful wife.”

I want to vomit. Or spit in his face. Or knee him in the fucking balls.

His right hand slides up to grip my chin, and he turns my face slightly. His fingers trace my cheek in what could almost pass for a tender gesture if it wasn’t for the cold, unfeeling look in his eyes.

His fingers stop at a spot high on my cheekbone, and he presses down hard. Pain surges beneath the pressure, and I fight not to react, not even to flinch or gasp. I won’t give him the fucking satisfaction.

“Perfect,” he whispers, releasing the pressure but leaving a small red mark on my skin that’s easily visible in the mirror.

Before I can process what the fuck just happened, he spins me around to face him, pressing my ass against the cold edge of the sink. “Kiss me,” he demands.

There’s no mistaking the threat in his tone . One refusal, and the fragile truce we’ve built will shatter. And I need more time—just a little more time until we’re ready to move against him.

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