Page 136 of Princess of Vengeance

His eyes find mine, and for the first time, I see real fear there. The realization that this is the end—that all his power, all his connections, and all his fucking money can’t save him now.

I twist the wedding ring off my finger and force his jaw open, taking a second to savor this moment before I shove the ring so deep into his mouth that he starts to choke and gag.

“And this,” I whisper, leaning in close so he can’t miss a single word, “is for me.”

I slam my fist into his throat with every ounce of strength I have left. I feel the ring crush his windpipe, collapsing his trachea as the diamond cuts through soft tissue.

His eyes bulge and his hands fly to his throat as he tries desperately to breathe. He falls backward, his body convulsing as he suffocates on the symbol of his control over me.

I stand over him, watching as the life drains from his eyes. His legs kick frantically, fingers clawing at his throat as he makes wet, desperate gurgling sounds. And then, finally, he goes still.

44

QUINN

I standover Malcolm’s body with my chest heaving as I try to catch my breath. My knuckles are split open and throbbing, and blood is running down my fingers. Some of it is his. Some of it is mine. I don’t give a shit either way, because the fucker is dead.

Finally fucking dead.

His eyes are still open, staring up at the night sky with that look of surprise frozen on his face. Like he couldn’t believe a woman—the woman he thought he owned—would be the one to end him.

It’s not just him I’m seeing as I look down at his corpse. It’s Ambrose. It’s every one of those Bullet motherfuckers who jumped me. It’s every asshole who ever thought they could break me, use me, or throw me away when they were done.

“You look good like that,” I tell his corpse. “Dead at my feet where you belong.”

Something in my chest loosens—like a knot that’s been pulled so tight for so long I forgot it was even there. I feel lighter. Like I can finally breathe all the way down to my toes. For the first time in weeks, I don’t feel a tightness around my lungs or an invisible collar around my throat.

The memory of his hands on me, that fucking ring he forced onto my finger, the way he looked at me like I was his property—it all seems distant now. Like a nightmare I’ve finally woken up from. The darkness that’s been dogging my steps since I first set foot in Noctura has lifted, and in its place is something I haven’t felt in a long time.

Peace. Not the soft, gentle kind they talk about in greeting cards. But the hard-won, blood-soaked peace that comes from standing over your enemy’s body and knowing they’ll never hurt anyone again.

I spit on his face, watching as my bloody saliva mixes with the crusted blood around his mouth. “Say hi to the devil for me.”

I think about my father, about how Malcolm manipulated him after my mother’s death—a death that Malcolm orchestrated. I think about how he tried to use me in the same sick fantasy he had about my mother. How he thought he could control me, break me, and make me into something I’m not.

But in the end, I’m still standing. I’m still the leader of Enigma and the Princess of Carnage.

And I’m free.

I take a step back, and suddenly my knees decide they’re fucking done. They buckle beneath me, and the world tilts as I start to go down.

Strong arms catch me before I hit the deck. Nico pulls me against him, cradling me against his chest like I weigh nothing.

“Easy there, mia cara,” he says. “Maybe take it easy for a bit. You’ve had a long fucking night.”

I laugh, probably sounding borderline hysterical as I look up at his face. One of his eyes is swollen completely shut, the skin around it a mess of purple and black. His lip is split in two places, and there’s a deep gash across his temple that’s still oozing blood.

“I’ll take it easy if you do.”

“Deal.” He presses a kiss to my forehead, and I can feel his smile against my skin. “As soon as we get off this goddamn boat.”

I lean into him, letting him take my weight. My body is finally registering every hit, every punch, every moment of torture from Elliot and Malcolm. My ribs scream in protest with each breath, and there’s a deep ache in my shoulder from god-only-knows-what.

“I think I might be a little fucked up,” I admit, wincing as I try and fail to stand up straight.

“Join the club,” Nico says, shifting to support me better. “I’m pretty sure Atlas and I both have some broken ribs, and Killian’s shoulder is definitely dislocated. I think we’re all running on pure fucking adrenaline at this point.”

“And rage,” I add. “Don’t forget that.”

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