Page 66 of Blood Queen

He clutches at his wound, his fingers red and slick. His breath comes in strangled gasps. “Your father… would never…”

My father. He dares use him as a weapon against me now? Fury surges white-hot through my veins.

“My father was a man I never knew,” I say, each word sharp as glass. “And you were the poison that caused that.”

I fire again. This time at his knee. A wet crack and another howl of agony. He’s crying now, tears mingling with blood.

I watch, detached, as if from a great height. What a sad, pathetic man.

“It doesn’t matter,” Leo hisses through gritted teeth. “You’re still…”

“For Papa.”

The final shot ends it.

I stand over him, breathing steady, no emotion in my chest. Cold. Calculated. All the blood is his, not mine, absorbing thevictory—empty and full at once—then turn away, leaving all of them dead.

I slink out of the room. Into the elevator. I numbly punch the ground floor button. I wait, unthinking, as I descend. I ease onto the street. Each step echoes in my ears—solid, alive. Figures linger under broken lamplight—kids, mostly, looking to make a quick buck off someone like me. They scatter when they see me coming. No chance tonight, boys. The city pumps electricly through me in rhythm with my heart.

I keep walking until this city can no longer tell one life from another. Until the crowds swallow me up and make me an invisible part of the mass.

Until I’m back at the hotel.

36

Past

The week before Thanksgiving, Truman gets the call from his parents.

He’s sprawled out on his bed, flipping a pen between his fingers while he listens, his voice low and even. I sit cross-legged at the desk, pretending to read while my stomach knots itself into something sharp and unbearable.

When he hangs up, he runs a hand through his hair and exhales. “They want me to come home for Thanksgiving.” His green eyes lift to mine. “They said you can come too.”

I grip the book harder. The pages blur. I knew this was coming, but I still feel like I’ve been sucker-punched.

“I don’t want to go back,” I say, my voice quiet.

His brows pull together. “Kid—”

“There’s nothing there for me, Truman.” I swallow hard, staring at the words on the page even though I can’t read a single one. “Papa’s gone. The cabin is empty. I—Ican’tgo back.”

The weight of his stare presses against me, heavy and warm, but I keep my eyes on the book. If I look at him, I might break.

After a long silence, he shifts, sitting up. “Then I’ll stay here with you.”

I shake my head, finally glancing up. “No. Youshouldgo home.” I force a small smile. “Eat a big Thanksgiving dinner. Fight with your siblings. Watch football with your dad.”

Truman’s jaw clenches. “Not if it means leaving you here alone.”

I get up and cross the room, pressing a quick kiss to his jaw before he can argue more.

“Tasha and I are going out for dinner tonight.”

Truman studies me for a long moment before exhaling through his nose. “Alright,” he mutters. “But we’re talking about this later.”

I nod.

The restaurant is cheap, but the food is good. Greasy fries, crispy chicken tenders, and burgers so thick they fall apart in your hands. It’s busy, but the kind of busy that feels warm and lived-in, like people actuallybelonghere.

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