Page 246 of Psycho Pack

The gold and white filigree catches the dim light.

For the first time since I've known him, genuine shock flashes across Nikolai's scarred features. It's gone in an instant, replaced by that familiar predatory smirk, but it was there.

Then he drops into an exaggerated bow. "Forgive me, Your Majesty," he drawls in a thicker-than-usual accent. When he straightens, his eyes gleam with newfound interest. "Nowwe're talking."

I can't help but smile. For all his posturing about seeing through my act, he never saw this coming.

To be fair, none of us did, really.

"Indeed we are," I purr, falling back into my natural rhythm now that the cards are on the table. "So shall we discuss terms?"

Nikolai settles back into his chair, a new respect in his gaze as he studies Plague. "Terms," he echoes thoughtfully. "Yes, I suppose we should. So the feared medic of the Ghosts is none other than the long lost prince of Surhiira. I must admit, it's rare anything manages to surprise me, but this… this is interesting."

I catch the subtle shift in the room's atmosphere. The various "patrons" who were so ready for violence moments ago have relaxed slightly, taking their cues from their leader.

This is it.

The moment it's all hinging on.

"I'll save you the touching story of my family reunion," Plague says in his usual bone-dry tone. I notice the way Whiskey sticks close to him, the burly alpha's eyes fixed intently on Nikolai, one hand on his own weapon.

"Another time, perhaps," Nikolai says, flashing him a grin that could cut diamond. His attention drifts to within himself for a few moments as he studies the grains of the cheap wood on the table, and I can see the gears churning behind those lenses. The frenetic energy of madness behind his increasingly erratic movements.

Most people die in the Outer Reaches.

A lucky few survive.

Bastards like Nikolai?

They feed on the chaos.

And this is a feast.

Takes one to know one, I suppose.

I watch Nikolai tap his fingers against the scarred wood of the table, his red-tinted gaze distant as he processes everything we've laid out. The mercenary leader has always had a flair for the dramatic, but there's genuine consideration in his expression now.

"It's still foolhardy," he murmurs, more to himself than to us. His Vrissian accent thickens when he's deep in thought. "Though between my specially trained forces and the fuckingSurhiiranarmy..." He trails off, those metallic eyes focusing sharply on us again. "We might actually stand a chance. But it would still be a blunt onslaught, and the home team always has the advantage. A blood bath no matter how you slice it."

"We have an informant," I say smoothly, leaning forward. "One we'll be extracting shortly from Reinmich on behalf of Surhiira. In a prisoner exchange."

I catch Plague's slight nod of approval. Better to make it seem like Surhiira's involvement hinges on getting their man back. More believable than the truth.

That the queen simply wants to right past wrongs.

More believable to a man like Nikolai, at least, who'd probably sell his own mother if the price was right.

Nikolai's scarred face twists with interest. "And who might this informant be?"

"That's not your concern," Plague cuts in before I can respond. His tone carries that scalpel-sharp edge that leaves no room for argument. "We'll handle getting past Reinmich's defenses. All you need to do is bring your men to the border when the time comes. A strategic invasion, not a blind charge."

I have to admire how naturally he's slipped into the role of prince.

The authority in his voice is perfect.

Not demanding, but expecting to be obeyed.

It's working, too. I can see the calculations running behind Nikolai's red lenses.

---