Page 137 of Painted Scars
Venus dresses it up, operating beauty, medicine, and health. Everything you put in your body, on your hair, or skin. Fucking poison.
Saturn feeds you food from their agriculture supply. Old money and power.
I lean forward and brace my elbows on my knees. “Every part of your life from the pills in your cabinet to the news on your feed is theirs. It’s choking this city and needs to be eliminated.”
I look away from the blaring red light to Grayson’s outline. Cue for him to load the data we’ve accumulated. He clicks on a key. Enter. His monitors flicker with reports, files, and photos bridging the connections.
“The proof is on your screen,” I refer to the sample Grayson chose to reveal on screen. “Names, dates, times, transactions. Every rotten root you’ve been told is untouchable.”
Grayson flicks a finger through the stream of light.
Time to cut off Blackthorn’s airway.
“This is a message for Preston Blackthorn, heir of Order Mars.” I hold my voice as steady as I can with her life hanging in the balance. “You took someone from me tonight. A womanwho’s done nothing wrong but shine a light in places the Romans wanted left dark. Kate Williams, illegitimate daughter of Charles Huntington, came to me three years ago to report an assault by Blackthorn and he covered it up. Stalked, harassed, and threatened her and me as the detective assigned to her case.”
My pulse jackhammers in fear of pulling this off, because it can backfire so spectacularly.
I point at the camera. “You betterThink Twice, Blackthorn. If Kate isn’t released, unharmed, in the next thirty minutes and left at the address displayed on the screen, the rest of the drive will hit every headline, inbox, and feed, from here to Timbuk-fucking-tu. And I won’t stop there.”
The lens eats me alive. My face is a weapon. Eyebrows slashed into a brutal line. Lips set hard and merciless. Blue eyes colder from the black paint. I look like something unholy crawled out of the dark to deliver the message.
Grayson motions to wind up.
“I’m coming for you, Preston Blackthorn. This is war.I Drove All Night. Her father, Charles Huntington, is coming for you too.” I add the last bit to spread confusion between Order members. Let’s see if they turn on him, or if he’s got the balls to intervene again. “Because that’sThe Power of Love, assholes.”
CHAPTER 39 - KATE
My cell reeks of mildew and the disgusting pigs that kidnapped me. I’m curled on the floor, bolted to the cell bars, pretending I’m not about to die. Adrenaline hums through my body. I don’t let them see it. Don’t want to give them any ammo that they’re bigger, meaner, and in control of my fate. The air’s cold, the floor freezing, pressing damp into my clothes, leeching into my bones.
Two of the goons suck on cigarettes, awaiting orders from whoever’s behind this. Blackthorn, most likely.
My hands itch for something sharp to use when they come for me next. They confiscated my phone and handbag, stripping me of all my self-defense tools. All I’ve got are bobby pins pinning my hair in place. Small and pitiful but overlooked. Sometimes survival’s about hiding your queen behind pawns until the chessboard shifts. And I’m holding onto my secret weapon for the moment they turn away.
Heavy boots slap down the corridor. Keys jangle. The goons grunt, flick away their smokes, and pound over to me, heavier and noisier than buffaloes in a stampede. I smell his cologne before I see him. The scent of blood money and gunpowder. Hewants me to flinch and remember his thumb pressing into my arms when he ruined everything.
Fuck him.
The door groans as his goons open the cell.
He steps in, leans down, pinches my face, and yanks my head back to look at him. “You’ve grown into a mouthy little bitch. Didn’t I teach you a lesson last time?” His voice is silk lined with razors.
Bile burns the back of my throat. “What’s the matter, Preston? No interns left to bully?”
One of his men snickers. He shuts him up with a cutting glare.
His phone goes off, and he lets me go, retrieves it, and presses a button.
Static hisses, then I hear his voice. August. The gruff shadow who lurks in the shadows. Detailing who and what the Romans are and have done to the city.
Then comes the best part. “You better Think Twice, Blackthorn.”
Blackthorn’s men exchange glances.
My breath stutters. He’s quoting Celine Dion. Not once. Three times. On camera. Peeling back the mask to identify himself to every soul in the city. He burns his anonymity and entire operation on me. A laugh rips from me. It’s not just theatrics, it’s personal. He’s talking to me. Putting our enemies on the pyre.
Perfect moment to capitalize on the distraction. I tug two bobby pins with snapped ends from my hair, cold steel pricking my crushed palm. Improvised blades sharp enough for what I need. Pain and blood. A fraction of what Blackthorn’s caused me.
My heart does flips at August’s final line. “That’sThe Power of Love, assholes.”
