Page 52 of Ruthless Kings of Obsession

"You mentioned we need six Ruthless Kings now," I begin, measuring each word carefully. "Currently, we have four present or accounted for. I propose that before I prove myself worthy of my new title, we should complete our court."

"Interesting." Saint Joaquin inclines his head slightly. "You're correct that all four current Kings must confirm their association with the group. But as you know, we can't accept just anyone. There must be proven connection, history... relevance."

The crowd immediately begins questioning the validity of my current choices.

"How is she even connected to Hudson and Wright?"

"What possible history could justify?—"

Ren raises his hand with theatrical flair, his emerald suit catching the light. "Ex-boyfriend, remember?" His playboy grin makes several women fan themselves. "Rather memorable relationship, if I do say so myself."

I shoot him a side-eye that could freeze hell, making him chuckle with that insufferable charm that's probably gotten him out of more trouble than I want to know about.

Marcus steps forward slightly, his presence somehow both scholarly and dangerous. "Best friends since childhood," he states matter-of-factly. "I have photographic evidence if anyone requires proof." The casual shrug doesn't quite hide the steel in his voice – a reminder that the Wright family's influence extends far beyond mere medical research.

The crowd has no choice but to accept these connections, though I can see them reassessing everything they thought they knew about me. Good. Let them realize how little they actually understand.

"Very well," Saint Joaquin concedes. "But you still haven't told us who you propose as your sixth King." His eyes narrow slightly. "Or what favor you're requesting."

I draw myself up to my full height, feeling the weight of Knifey against my thigh like a promise. "The chosen individual must be granted redemption," I declare clearly. "Nothing from his past can be used against him. His slate must be wiped clean."

The whispers start immediately, speculation running wild through the crowd.

"It must be some criminal?—"

"A convict, perhaps?"

"Who could be worth such a request?—"

To everyone's shock, including my own, Saint Joaquin merely shrugs, a smile playing at his lips like he's enjoying a private joke. "Granted."

The crowd erupts in shocked murmurs, unable to believe he would agree so easily to such an open-ended condition. But I catch the calculating look in his eyes – he's playing his own game, one whose rules I'm only beginning to understand.

"Just like that?" someone dares to question.

"Just like that," Saint Joaquin confirms, his smile growing sharper. "After all, what better way to test our new Queen of Obsession than to see who she's willing to redeem?" He turns back to me, eyes glittering with dangerous amusement. "The question is, my dear, who are you so desperate to save?"

The answer catches in my throat, memories threatening to overwhelm me – childhood trauma, shared pain, years of complicated history leading to this moment. But I force myself to stay focused, to remember the end game.

"Before we proceed," I raise my hand with elegant precision, the movement causing my gown's crystals to cast blood-red reflections across the marble floors, "I believe a toast is in order. After all, we've kept you waiting so long – the least we can do is properly acknowledge your patience."

The request seems to catch everyone off guard, creating that delicious moment of uncertainty I've come to savor. Waitersappear from the shadows as if they've been waiting for this exact cue, moving with the practiced grace of people who've learned to be invisible until needed. Crystal glasses of deep red wine materialize on silver trays, the liquid looking almost black under the chandeliers' glow.

Hannah's medicine makes every detail sharp enough to cut – the subtle tremor in some guests' hands as they reach for glasses, the calculating gleam in Saint Joaquin's eyes, the way Mr. Leighton's posture shifts almost imperceptibly with interest.

"A toast?" someone whispers uncertainly.

"Now, of all times?"

"What could she possibly?—"

"This must be some kind of trick..."

The voices in my head are surprisingly quiet, as if they too are holding their breath for what's about to unfold. The drug coursing through my system makes everything feel heightened, more intense – every heartbeat a drum, every breath a symphony.

Saint Joaquin's eyes sparkle with dark amusement as he accepts his glass, the gesture carrying the weight of someone who knows he's watching a master play at work. Mr. Leighton follows suit with careful grace, his acceptance sending the crowd scrambling not to be left out of whatever's about to unfold.

Behind me, my Kings each take their glasses with perfect synchronization – Ares with model's grace, Marcus with clinical precision, Ren with dangerous playfulness. The crystals on my gown catch the light as I extend my arms, tilting my head back slightly in a pose that would make any runway photographer weep. The gesture deliberately showcases the bruises on my throat, making several guests flinch at this evidence of violence in their pristine world.

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