Page 93 of Penny for Your Saints

Then it dawns on me. There's still something left for me to do. I still have a way out.

“Well, if I'm to cooperate, aren't you at least going to offer me a glass of that champagne?” I deadpan, flopping into a nearby chair. All I can hope is that they haven't noticed the bonding bites. That they don't know that right now my mates are hearing my plea for help down the bond and are on their way. I can tell by the frantic urgency on the other end of our connection.

“Of course.” Lowry smiles. “I told Ed you weren't unreasonable. You're a smart girl. I'm not going to pretend like this is going to be a walk in the park, Louise—but if you cooperate, you could have a future. Not the one that I had planned for you—but one still worth having.” She blinks away tears of pride, as if she might really be my mother.

Ed looks relieved, setting his crystal flute of champagne down on a sleek end table as he lifts out of his seat to get me a glass.

“If I go with you, what happens to the Saints?” I float the question, doing my best to make my interest sound academic.

“Neither Susan nor I—nor the rest of the Windmill cares what happens to those pissants. As long as we’re out of here before they return, and they stay away from our plans with the virus—they’d be a waste of resources to pursue.” He laughs.

“The Windmill, the Zietnot virus, the White Knight, the Red Bishop—what’s with all the chess names? Is the man in charge a failed grandmaster or something?” I do my best to change gears to keep them talking without showing my hand. On the other side of the bond, I can hear Sébastien, Quentin, and Caz frantically urging me to back down—to wait until they can get to the yacht and give me some backup.

Compton cuts me a cruel grin as he pours me a glass of champagne.

“Your father was the one who named the virus, actually.”

It stings, but my adrenaline is so high right now that I can barely hold on to reality.

Zietnot—ortime trouble.In timed chess matches, the word is used to describe the phenomenon of a player having too little time to complete their required moves. This time pressure increases the likelihood of making blunders.

This kernel of truth after seeing the recordings in the cottage brings new meaning to the name of the virus.

“Dear old dad, never could resist a good theme.” I smile tightly, doing my best to navigate this cocktail hour from hell.

“You should know better than anyone, Louise.” Lowry eyes me with intensity. “The more… traditional channels are so difficult for us to advance beyond—.” She turns her hand over,making a gesture that is meant to stand for the glass ceiling all women in leadership face.

“I don’t know Susan, section chief is nothing to be ashamed of.” I shrug—taking my flute of champagne from Ed from the other side of the small stone countertop. “What can the Windmill offer? Did they make you, ‘The White Queen’ or something?” I hold my glass lazily in the air before bringing it to my lips, watching carefully over the lip of the glass as Compton rounds the counter—coming within an arm’s reach.

Before Lowry can respond—I lunge forward, smashing the top of the flute against the edge of the marble countertop, sending champagne and bits of crystal spraying everywhere. I pivot on my heel and yank Ed Compton—a soft, desk jockey of a middle-aged man, toward me—pressing one long stiletto point of the broken crystal against his neck.

“Now if you don’t mind,” I huff, trying to catch my breath—my iron grip on Compton’s collar supported by the razor-sharp glass at his neck. “I’m just going to take Eddy here—and the two of us are going to make an exit while you sit here and wait for your little supervillain cronies to come pick you up—so you can go on being a ghoulish monster in the shadows or offering children Turkish delight, or whatever it is that evil queens do in their spare time,” I hiss, maneuvering Eddy towards the stairs that would take us to the outside observation deck.

Lowry pulls her gun, standing slowly from her place on the couch—her sights set on me.

“Louise, put Ed down. You really think we don’t have this boat surrounded?” I can tell she’s using that even-keeled tone she used to employ in negotiations.

I’m not having it.

“Surrounded by what, Suz? Creepers with guns?” I press the bottle hard enough against Compton’s sagging neck to draw a small stream of blood. “You just told me you need me to makea cure. That means you need me alive.” There’s a blossom of satisfaction deep in my chest as I see Lowry’s jaw set. “If I take Compton outside like this and slit his throat—I’ll be able to commit suicide by cop where you can’t intervene in public. If you put me down, you have the same problem—hell, I could drop Compton right now—just put this bad boy through the side of my neck and you’re fucked.”

I can see in her face that neither she nor Compton were prepared for me to care so little for my own survival.

My mates tear at the other side of our bond, desperate for me to find another way, but I am resolute.

I am prepared to resume my attempted escape, when something lights in Lowry’s cold gray eyes.

“Very well Louise,” she sighs. “Have it your way.”

It’s at that moment that something heavy and unyielding cracks against the back of my skull—and everything goes dark.

Icouldn’t stand another minute with the others, happily bonded and reeking of blissful connection.

Originally, I had meant only to grab some cigarettes, some booze—take a lap around the parking lot for ‘fresh air’—before sequestering myself in the back seat of the van.

Fuck that. They may be packed up now, but I’m still a goddamn alpha. I don’t need this shit.

Shuffling down the sidewalk, I shoot Quentin a text telling him I’m walking the few blocks back to the yacht. I text Q and not Seb or Caz because they’d just pull the damn van around and insist I get in. Q can’t do shit—so I can tell him without causing a panic by just being a no show. I don’t wanna blow things when we’re so close to the goal.

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