Page 91 of The Prince of Power

And now, I think of Ava.

My pulse pounds in my throat as I force my voice to be steady. “And what would it take for you to respect me?”

“I think…” She nibbles on her lip. “If I knew that you’re the way you are because you have no other choice. Because someone—something—is threatening you.” She nods, her gaze clearing. “Yes. I could respect you if I knew you are doing the absolute best you can under very difficult circumstances.”

Something inside me twists. Of course she’d ask me to bare my soul to her as if it were nothing.

It’s her curiosity. Her need to unravel the mystery of the world she’s been drawn into. Whether she knows it or not, she’s manipulating me.

She can’t be aware of it. The thought would appall her.

And I hate that it’s working. The thought of speaking about my childhood is like knives pressing into my skin.

I exhale through my nose. “The world I live in is complicated. That’s all I can say.”

“Can you tell me if your organization is a cult?”

“It’s not.”

“Are you sure?”

I nod. “It can’t be a cult if it influences the entire world. You would never call Christianity a cult, because cults are fringe. They’re small, insular, and paranoid. What I’m a part of—what you’re a part of now—shapes governments, economies, wars. It’s not a bunch of arbitrary rules with promises of reward in the afterlife. The results aren’t theoretical. They’re the rules everyone follows, whether they realize it or not.”

Ava stills. Her lips part just slightly, and for a moment, there’s awe in her expression—like she’s seeing something massive behind a door she hadn’t realized was open.

Then her brow furrows, and the shimmer fades from her eyes. “That sounds too fantastical to be real.”

“Then I don’t know what to tell you.”

“Well, then tell me what happened to Ben Cartwright.”

My fingers tighten around my wineglass. “I don’t know.”

She scowls. “You do. It’s obvious you do.”

She says it like a threat. Like she still thinks she holds the power here.

“If you don’t tell me something concrete,” she says. “I’ll run away. From Thornecroft. And from you.”

For a beat, I just stare at her.

And then I laugh.

Not kindly. There’s no warmth in it. A flush creeps up her neck, and her posture stiffens. I rise from my chair slowly and walk to her, savoring the flicker of nervousness in her eyes. She doesn’t back away. Brave little thing.

When I kneel in front of her, her breath catches. I press my thumb gently beneath her jaw, and her pulse thrums against my skin.

“Ava,” I murmur, “if you ever leave, I’ll find you.”

I don’t raise my voice. I don’t need to.

“You can’t even begin to comprehend how easy it would be for me. The surveillance infrastructure you think protects you? I have access to the parts that don’t officially exist. Flight manifests, phone triangulation, transaction logs—there’s nowhere in the world you could go that my organization doesn’t have reach.”

I slide my thumb across her throat. She jerks back slightly, but I don’t release her. Not yet.

“You belong to me, Ava,” I whisper. “Accept it. Embrace it.”

And still—still—she looks at me with that stubborn fire behind her eyes. This time, I let her go.

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