Page 19 of Blood Queen

I glance down at the trembling man, considering. Letting him live sends a message—that ignorance can be used as an excuse. But if I make an example of him… well. It sends a stronger one.

I reach into my clutch and pull out a sleek blade, twirling it between my fingers. The man’s breath turns ragged.

“Please,” he whispers.

I crouch beside him, tilting my head. “Do you believe in mercy?”

His throat bobs. “Y-yes?”

I press the blade to his cheek, just enough to break the skin. “Then pray that I do too.”

The silence stretches.

Then I stand, wiping the blade clean on his sleeve.

Cruz smirks, pushing off the table. “I’ll take care of it.”

I don’t have to ask what that means.

I step out of the warehouse, the humid night wrapping around me. The wedding is probably still in full swing, alliances being forged over champagne and false smiles. My footsteps echo as I move down the alley, where shadows coil like snakes around the shipping containers.

The night smells of rot and rust.

12

Past

Branches whip my arms and legs as I clear the miles from home. My tank top is glued to my skin with sweat. The backpack has rubbed my shoulders raw.

I’ve long passed the meeting spot. But with no Papa, there’s no meeting, so I keep running. I wipe the sweat from my eyes. The tree stand is just a little further.

I can be safe there. A high vantage point in the trees will give me a three hundred sixty view below and chances are, those men won’t be looking up.

He’s gone. He’sgone. He’s never coming back. I don’t understand it.

The moment I lost Papa my world shifted. I shifted. I am alone. But I’ll keep breathing for him, for the life he wanted me to have.

Until my heart stops.

For him. For the life he wanted me to have.

I’m tired and confused. Who would want Papa dead? I slip while trying to climb the tree stand the first time, my muscles fatigued from the run and the heat and adrenaline.

The grief.

I sit, legs tucked up against my chest and listen for movement while tears sting my watering eyes. The sun sets low in the summer sky.

Hours pass with no sign of the men. I stretch out my legs and reach for the backpack, pulling it between my legs to unsnap the buckles. If I’m honest, I’m scared to open it.

Scared that Papa isn’t dead and will pop his face up in the tree stand to scold me the moment he hears the click of the buckles.

Panic spreads through me like a blast of icy air.

I inhale and pull.

No Papa.

I move to the zipper and yank.

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