Page 67 of A Queen and HER Bad Boy
Her hand touched Achille’s shoulder, feeling the network of coiled muscles tensing against his back, his work shirt plastered to him. He hardly marked her, his glare on the man who wanted her blood. “They don’t want you dead,” she whispered. “Maybe you can save Yiorgos…”
His eyes narrowed on the approaching threat, like he hadn’t heard her.
The man entered the water… with a waiting shark, judging by the lethal focus that had transformed Achilles’s face into something primal and dangerous. But what could they do with no weapons?
“You can’t hide,” the assassin called, his voice bouncing off the stone walls. He wore a black tactical mask that covered everything except his venomous blue eyes. The man’s broad shoulders cut through the water, his angular, towering frame moving with military precision. He was tall—they were always tall—with hands wide and large enough to snap her neck easily. He moved carefully, perhaps looking for the perfect shot.
How could Bris make sure they didn’t change their minds about sparing Achilles?
The assassin raised his weapon with steady hands, dark water sloshing around his waist as he maneuvered around the massive tomb for a clear line of sight. Achilles suddenly hurled Bris’s phone across the flooded chamber. The moment the sleek device hit the water with a splash, their attacker spun toward the sound, aiming at the spot with such cold precision that Bris flinched.
Achilles sprang at him like a tiger. She should have known he’d seize any opening, and now he was fighting for control of the weapon. Her stomach clenched with terror as the struggle sent violent waves crashing over her. The gun went off with a deafening crack. Her lungs released a scream that overpowered any sounds of their pain, but there was some—definitely! Crimson blood from Achilles’s injured arm spread across the murky water as he fought desperately for possession of the firearm.
“Who sent you?” Achilles hissed, his voice strained with pain and exertion. Blood flowed freely from his arm now, and shecould see him weakening with each passing second. What could she do without getting caught too? This killer would use her as leverage to make Achilles do what he said.
“You can blame your father for this!” the assassin snarled to Achilles through gritted teeth.
“My father?” Achilles spat out. “What does he have to do with it?”
“Everything!”
Yiorgos made terrified whimpering sounds behind her, still clutching that textbook like a favorite toy, scrambling higher onto the tomb’s carved surface to get closer to the fighting. “You stay right there!” she shrieked at him over the chaos. The Earlier gunshots had cracked the stone ceiling above them, and now a steady stream of floodwater poured down like a waterfall, raising the level even faster.
“He’s bad! He’s bad!” Yiorgos screamed in his broken English, water streaming down his terrified face as he waved his book at the assassin. “He has ants! Maggie says ants bad!”
Bris noticed the distinctive tattoo of Myrdon ants crawling across the man’s exposed wrist as he struggled with Achilles for the gun. Confirmed—a very bad man. The weapon went flying, splashing somewhere in the cloudy water beyond their reach.
The two men continued their brutal fight, and reaching up with desperate strength, Achilles managed to rip the black mask from his attacker, first from an angular square jaw, then pale skin, followed by disheveled red hair that fell over handsome features warped by cruelty.
Achilles went completely still, shock replacing fury on his battered face. “Aggie Mnon?”
Bris felt her own blood turn to ice. Aggie—her cousin? Atreus Mnon’s son was supposed to be safely locked away in prison!
Aggie’s lips curled in a sneer, water dripping down his neck as he glared over at Bris. “Congratulations on your wedding,cousin,” he said mockingly. “You can thank me for moving up the date—they thought that could stop me!”
Achilles stepped back, the water splashing at his movements. “What are you talking about?”
“Chises Mnon didn’t want me to come and ruin the wedding by claiming what was rightfully mine. The crown belongs to me!”
Sadist, Psychopath, war criminal. He didn’t stand a chance of legitimate succession—he was the son of the youngest prince—even if he eliminated everyone standing in his path he’d never pass the High Consortium’s strict criteria. “I hear married life has been… challenging for you.” Aggie’s malicious grin sharply accentuated what would be simple cattiness anywhere else. He circled Achilles. “My cousin isn’t the easiest woman to be shackled to. Time to free you from that vicious little queen.”
He began moving toward Bris with confident strides, as if he actually believed Achilles would simply step aside after his explanation.
Shoving through the water, Achilles blocked his path, even while pressing his fingers against his arm to stop the bleeding.
Aggie rolled his eyes with theatrical exasperation. “Oh, you can’t seriously tell me you’ve developed actual feelings for my cousin… that’s adorable. Here’s a friendly tip: it’ll pass once the novelty wears off. Stand back, or I’ll add you to my hit list.”
Achilles’s fist connected with Aggie’s chin. Her cousin’s head snapped back. Snarling, Aggie swiveled on him, transforming into something inhuman—he blocked Achilles’s fist from swinging again, then punched him in the stomach, the jaw, followed by his injured arm. His movements became mechanical, every strike measured, every block executed with the cold efficiency of a trained killing machine. He sent Achilles crashing into the stone tomb with a sickening thud.
“You always telegraph your punches,” Aggie sneered. He wiped away blood with the back of his hand and locked eyes with Bris. “Your turn, Sugarpop.”
Someone has been watching Deedeelicious’s viral videos!
Achilles tackled him from behind, landing a brutal fist into Aggie’s neck that made him choke, then flipped him over his head. A loud splash echoed through the chamber. Bris released a shuddering breath, her chest tight with terror. Could her husband actually beat this monster? What kind of military training prepared him for this?
Achilles motioned frantically at her. “Bris, get out of here—” His words cut off abruptly as something yanked him down into the dark water.
A violent froth of bubbles erupted to the surface. An arm thrust up desperately, then more blood—so much blood—as Aggie emerged victorious like a flesh-eating piranha, his fist hammering relentlessly into Achilles’s injured arm, exploiting every weakness with ruthless precision. His father had trained him from the age of four to be one of his most ruthless soldiers, and Achilles’s agonized shouts tore through the air, then bubbled through the water as he went down. Bris stumbled forward to get to him, screaming at Aggie to stop, seconds before Achilles’s free hand broke the surface, trembling as he fought for breath, before he ran his elbow into Aggie’s nose.
