Page 96 of A Queen and HER Bad Boy
Peleus raised his hand in a sharp gesture, and his men closed in—rifles shifting, boots grinding against ancient stones. “It is time you introduce us to Chises Mnon’s daughter.”
A mountain of a man with arms like tree trunks barreled forward and grabbed at Bris’s arm. She cried out, her emerald dress catching on his rough hands as she twisted away. “Don’t you touch me!” The desperation in her voice made Achilles’s blood boil.
“You’ll come with me, princess,” Peleus said, his voice carrying the authority of a man accustomed to absolute obedience.
Achilles saw his opening—the giant of a man was focused on Bris, overconfident. Years of Myrdon training exploded through his muscles as he drove his shoulder into the big guy’s ribs, sending him staggering back. Achilles cracked his fist against his jaw to finish the job then slid out his gun before the bear hit the ground. “Bris!” he shouted. “Run!”
But O Skia lived up to his name—his hand striking from nowhere like the Shadow he was to knock the gun from Achilles’s grip. The weapon skittered across the ground as Achilles pulled out his combat knife. He slashed toward his father’s torso, fury driving the strike. “You made me think you were nothing to me; you vanished like smoke while I thought you were dead, and now you show up to kill my wife?”
“And why should I make myself known to you?” His father held his hands up, circling like a boxer, blood seeping through his torn sleeve where the knife had found its mark. “I heard what kind of man you are—how you’d joined the Myrdons and then grabbed the first taste of power offered by marrying Chises Mnon’s daughter.”
Bris’s sharp cry of outrage cut through the air—she hadn’t left? Achilles whipped around to see a wiry man with nervous hands had grabbed her wrist, though she was fighting him with everything she had, her painted nails digging into his flesh. Achilles lunged at him next, his fist connecting with the man’s jaw in a satisfying crack that sent him sprawling.
But his father was on him before he could do more, tackling him from behind with the fluid grace of a man half his age. Achilles whipped around, slashing wildly with the knife, opening another gash along his father’s forearm.
O Skia hissed in pain but used Achilles’s momentum against him, a move as old as warfare itself—grab, twist, leverage—and suddenly the knife was in his father’s bloodied hand instead.
“What did Chises Mnon teach you? All bite, no skill,” Peleus snarled, raising the weapon.
The blade caught the broken sunlight filtering through olive leaves as it arced toward Achilles’s skull. Bris’s scream tore through the grove as she threw herself between them, her body a fragile barrier against the violence.
“Bris,” Achilles shouted. He twisted to cover her instead. “No!” Her being used as a shield was the worst possible idea—his father wanted her dead. They only wanted Achilles injured, so he couldn’t fight back, but she didn’t seem to care! Her hand slid into his, her fingers steadying the raging fire coursing through him.
His father’s gruff shout sounded distant through the din. “Oh, come now! Does she really mean that much to you?”
He struggled for ways to keep him back from her, and finally settled for the straightforward truth, though his voice sounded too raspy through his fear: “I love my wife, father.”
“Do you?” the older man sounded unconvinced. “And do you love your people as much as you do her?”
He tensed. Would the psychopath try to make him choose?
Bris swung around to face the older man, her chin raised defiantly despite the tremor in her voice. “He loves our people more than those corrupt parasites in the High Consortium do, and more than you and your bloodthirsty guerrillas put together! We want something more for our people than starvation and endless wars!”
Peleus went dead silent. Too silent. Achilles pushed to his knees, his fingers guiding Bris further behind him, away from whatever madness was building in his father’s expression.
“I heard how you risked your lives for our people in the flood…” his father said. “I could scarcely believe it after all that I’ve seen you do.”
The backhanded compliment felt like glass breaking over his shoulders. He didn’t even know this man and if he could trust him.“… a very special mission for a very special boy…”He growled at the memory. “Save your manipulation for someone more gullible. I’m not falling for whatever game you’re playing.”
But he knew he’d do anything they said—he would because they had Bris. She was breathing hard, her dark hair falling in waves over her shoulders, the emerald fabric clinging to her as she leaned against him, her fingers clawed and waiting for anyone to get too close to him. He’d die to keep her safe.
His father watched him with calculating eyes, possibly reading every protective instinct written across his son’s face, then gestured at a burly man with scars crisscrossing his forearms. The man nodded and advanced, his assault rifle slung across his chest like a deadly ornament.
“We hear you have Tyr-Tech phones. We can’t have them tracking you here.”
“Don’t get any closer to her,” Achilles snapped.
His father’s bark of laughter cut him to the bone, making Achilles hold out his hand warily against him. “Relax, she’s ourguest. As long as you behave, we will continue to treat her as such.”
He didn’t trust that lying snake for a second. His eyes never left his father’s face as he spoke through gritted teeth. “Promise me you won’t hurt her. Promise me on everything you hold dear—if there is anything left in you capable of caring about anything.”
“I swear on the love I have for your mother.”
Achilles nearly choked on his own revulsion. “You’re going to have to do better than that.”
Another harsh laugh from O Skia. “Impossible, young wolf—besides you and Iphigenia, I care about nothing else.”
Without preamble, they snatched Bris’s phone from her hands. She gasped as rough fingers searched her dress with insulting thoroughness. “Not so close,” she snapped. “You think I can fit anything else in this dress?”
