Page 145 of Shattered By Grace

Victoria’s heart thudded painfully in her chest as fury ignited within her. Taylor’s hands were bound, her pale face marred by a red mark blooming against her skin. Justin’s grip on her shoulder was firm and possessive, like he was staking claim on something he thought was his. His focus never wavered from Tristan’s fight, eyes locked on the brutality of it all.

Victoria exhaled slowly, the ice in her veins doing nothing to cool the fire beneath her skin. Fingers tightening around the fragile stem of her champagne glass, she brought it to her lips and downed the rest in one slow, controlled swallow. The bubbles fizzed against her tongue, but she barely tasted them.

With a sharp flick of her wrist, she slammed the empty glass onto a nearby table, the crystal ringing through the noise like a gunshot.

And then, her gaze snapped to Justin.

The sleeves of his black dress shirt were rolled just enough to reveal fresh ink. The Scythe. A mark of loyalty. A symbol that he wasn’t just involved in the underground empire.

He was inside.

Chapter Sixty-Five

"Winner…Tristan Locke!"

The roar of the crowd was deafening, vibrating through the very bones of the arena. Tristan stood tall at the center, fists clenched, chest heaving with the adrenaline of his victory. Blood stained his knuckles, a trophy of his latest conquest, but before the announcer could even raise his arm in triumph?—

Click.

Click.

Click.

The sharp echo of heels striking the bloodied floor cut through the noise, silencing the crowd. Energy shifted, a storm sweeping through the arena. All eyes turned toward her as she moved with the confidence of a queen reclaiming her throne. The rowdy crowd quieted, whispers spreading like wildfire.

The announcer turned, mouth half-open to speak, but Victoria plucked the mic from his hand with effortless ease.

"I’ll take that, thank you."

Gasps rippled through the arena. Tristan tensed, his entire body snapping to attention. The referee froze, unsure whether to intervene or step the hell back.

But up in the raised platform, Cassian Locke didn’t move. He simply watched, dark eyes calculating. Still. Silent. The weight of his gaze pressed down like an iron hand.

And Victoria?

She felt it. She welcomed it.

Stepping toward Tristan, she closed the space between them, stopping just inches away. Close enough to feel the heat of his rage, to see the tension coiling in his shoulders, to watch the way his jaw flexed. Slowly,, she placed a hand on his chest. Not just to reassure him that she was okay, but to tether him to her. To remind him exactly who she was.

Then, soft enough for only him to hear, teasing and laced with wicked amusement,she murmured.

"Miss me, love?"

The reaction was instant.

Tristan’s entire body went rigid, muscles coiled like a viper ready to strike. His hands flexed at his sides, seconds from grabbing her, from doing something.

But Victoria didn’t give him the chance.

She stepped around him, the tension solid in the air. Her heels clicked sharply, echoing, as she walked toward the raised platform where Cassian stood, her back straight, her chin lifted in challenge.

Gripping the microphone tighter, Victoria’s voice blasted through the arena, amplified for everyone to hear.

“Cassian.”

The word hung in the air like a guillotine. The arena was silent.

Cassian’s eyes flashed with a volatile gleam and ruthlessness, but his face remained stoic as he leaned forward slightly. Hispresence was the type that suffocated, that made everything else shrink in comparison.

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