Page 61 of Christmas Mafia Prince
I change direction upon reaching the tree line, and now that I’m moving through untouched snow, my pace slows. The frozen layer keeps breaking under my weight with a loud crunch, but I trudge on, sweating inside my camo outfit, because for all intents and purposes Killian is my husband. He killed a man for me today, and I wouldn’t selfishly neglect his safety when it’s in any doubt.
I’m closing in on my destination when I pick up a shadowy pattern in the sunlit snow to my right. My mind suggests it must be the tracks of some animal, but as my path and the other converge, heading in the same direction, cold sweat covers my back, because the tracks were left by a human.
The greenhouse looms over the hill I’m climbing, and the closer I am, vapor escaping my mouth with each hurried step, the more imposing it seems with its large domed roof and sprawling facade. The window panes reflect the gray sky, making it look like more of a mausoleum than a place where fruit trees and exotic plants thrive even in winter.
I don’t pay any attention to the manicured hedges, speeding up now that I’ve reached a path and am no longer sinking into the snow. I shouldn’t be so nervous. I’m sure it’s a misunderstanding. And the quiet is in no way surprising either since Killian doesn’t have a tendency to talk to himself.
And yet the hairs on my nape bristle.
Someone better not be fucking with what’s mine, because I’m already in the mood to kill.
I speed up when I spot movement behind the frosted glass, but then Kill screams, and my feet fly through the air.
With my crossbow raised and ready to shoot, I dash in through an open door on one end of the structure. My outfit is designed to make little noise, so when I enter the damp warmth of the greenhouse, I can hear a male voice with frightening clarity.
“I told you I will hunt you down once I’m out of my cage. Happy to see me?”
I recognize that voice. Daryl. The fucking bastard.
Killian gives a soft cry, and I hear shuffling as I dash past the palm trees with my heart in my throat.
Kill is on the floor, a crossbow bolt protruding from his shoulder as he crawls, leaving a trail of blood. I’m about to shoot the man headed his way without thinking about it, but then he kneels on top of Kill. He tries to punch my baby in the face, but Kill raises his arm in time to shield himself. The blow to his arm must hurt like fuck anyway. No matter how it boils my blood, I can’t pull the trigger while they’re scuffling. It’s too risky.
I move like a ghost, with a hunting knife in my hand. Fast, silent, and filled with so much rage I enter the realm of the living.
His dirty fist is about to strike my husband again when I sink in my blade between his ribs, then smash the grip of the crossbow against the back of his head.
Daryl howls, sliding off Killian like an injured pig. He reaches for his own crossbow, but I punch him so hard he loses it for a moment. My instinct is to sink my canines into his throat and let blood flow, but his presence here cannot be accidental. He came armed, which means he’s either killed one of the hunters and stumbled on Killian by accident or was told where to find his victim.
My gaze captures the colorful lights draped over a bush growing in a pot next to us, and I hold the bastard down while tugging on the cable. I’d put the knife against his neck for the interrogation, but it’s stuck in his damn back.
I rip the cable out of the bush and wrap it around his neck, then tug on it hard, dragging Daryl over the floor as he chokes. He leaves a trail of blood, struggling against me weakly despite his size, but he’s also losing lots of blood. I don’t know how much time I have. My blade might have hit a vital organ.
It must have ripped out of him at some point, because I find it in a pool of blood right next to the bastard’s arm. As soon as the knife is in my hand, I let him breathe but keep my weapon at his throat.
Now that I have him secured, I allow myself a brief glance Killian’s way. He’s obviously in pain but can still move and nods at me in reassurance. Good.
I bare my teeth and lean over Daryl, forcing myself to not stab him to death right away. “Whoever set you up to this lied. You were all poisoned before we let you out, and you will die whetheryou fulfill this last-minute hit or not. Your employer is laughing at you as we speak!”
Daryl squints at me as realization stabs through his dumb fucking face. “He promised me freedom…” he utters between one gasp and another.
“Well, he lied. I promise you a quick death instead of hours of suffering in your own shit and vomit.”
He takes his time chewing through all this, but when I hear Killian stifling a sob, his time is up. I press the knife against Daryl’s throat.
“So what will it be?”
“…Titus. He gave me the crossbow. Told me where to go.”
A part of me already knew this, but it’s a level of betrayal I did not want to believe. Yet here it is, delivered from the horse’s mouth.
Furious, I grab the knife and stab Daryl’s temple with the force of my anger. He shudders, stirs, and finally stills.
I feel dirty.
“Kill,” I mumble, crawling off the dead bastard and hurrying to my husband’s side. “Come. You need the doctor.”
“What… happened? He… he shot me,” he utters as I try to remain calm at the sight of a bolt sticking out of his shoulder. “What’s going on?”
