Page 28 of Vicious Prince (Violent Kingdom)

And then his hands are holding my jaw, his grip unforgiving. He forces me to look up at him, tilts my chin up and forces me to stay like that while he speaks fevered words to me.

“Someone just put a bullet in your father, who do you think they’ll be aiming for next?” he snaps, looking out of his mind with worry. He lets go of me, stepping back and running a hand through his hair absently. “You stupid girl. Do you want to get shot, too?”

I do not want to get shot.

“Do you?” he presses.

I shake my head, thankful for the slap for pulling me out of my daze. “No.”

He points down the hall. “Then get in thegoddamnelevator.”

I push off the wall, teetering on trembling legs. Joshua reaches out to steady me, and this time, I don’t try to push him away. It might be a small victory that he’s won over me already, but I don’t think he’s keeping score right now. His smarmy mask has slipped off, and his singular focus right now is getting both of us to safety.

Which, as terrible as it seems, is actually kind of a comfort. Because I don’t need anyone as much as my father needs to be surrounded by family members. Enzo and Nathan being with him, and Jennifer nearby, gives me a great measure of comfort that if he dies, he won’t die alone. I hope they’re holding his hand. I hope someone is comforting him and whispering in his ear that everything will be okay, that help is coming. These are the thoughts crawling around in my panicked mind like half-trampled cockroaches as Joshua and I stand in the middle of a tight circle of security guards, in an elevator large enough for the comfort of only one or two people, but weight-capable of many more, designed for situations just like this. I know the drill. Much the same way as school children are taught to clamber into bathrooms and under desks in the event of an emergency, so have I been taught what to do in situations such as this. I know before the doors open that we will be on the ground floor, in the loading dock. I know that there will be a car waiting to whisk us away, more security guards, the city’s traffic on lockdown from the moment the alarm is raised to allow us a quick exit.

The doors open, and two of the security guards leave the lift, moving forward into the dark loading area, guns drawn. There is a sleek black limousine sitting in the middle of the otherwise empty loading area, a standard security inclusion for events such as tonight’s. The guards motion for us to come out, and that’s when the shit really hits the fan. As soon as all of us are out of the lift and its doors are closed, a man steps out of the shadows, seemingly from nowhere, a balaclava covering his face. He raises his arm, a series of muted pops followed swiftly by the security guards dropping like flies. Joshua pulls me in to him protectively — such a stand-up guy — his eyes bugging out as the balaclava-wearing assassin steps forward, yanking me away as he presses a taser into the crook of Joshua’s neck.

My fiancé goes down like a sack of shit, his entire body spasming as he lands unceremoniously at my feet.

Fuck! In the space of less than ten seconds, this guy has picked off six security guards who are ex-marines and highly trained mercenaries, and not one of them is moving.How is this happening?I back up, turning to run for the lift, but I don’t find the smooth metal of the lift doors that I’m expecting. Instead, I smack straight into a hard chest.There are two of them.That’s how they shot everyone so fast. Leather-gloved hands wrap around my wrists, bile burning in my throat as I tip my head back, looking up at this faceless man, taking in any identifying detail that I can find on my second assassin — who, ironically, is dressed exactly the same as the first one. Black clothes, black balaclavas, black leather gloves, black motorcycle boots. This man — or his accomplice — could literally be my own father and I wouldn’t be able to tell. Except, I know it’s not my father, because my father is bleeding to death on the roof of the building.

“Please,” I beg, the weight of my mortality like an anchor dragging me underwater. It’s all-consuming, this despair, the way I can’t stop my entire body from shaking with terror, the pain from the hands squeezing my wrists to breaking point. He spins me in his arms, too easily, so that my back is against his chest. He’s a whole head taller than me and then some, and his chin digs into the top of my scalp so I can’t even turn my head.

The first guy — the one I saw when the guards started toppling like dominoes — lunges forward, his gun nowhere to be seen. The one behind me pushes me forward roughly, and the one in front shoves something over my face. It’s a black bag, that feels like rough calico, and smells like pennies and leather. I open my mouth to scream, but the noise morphs into a strangled howl as something sharp stabs into the top of my arm. My suspicion that I’ve been injected with something is confirmed when a searing pain spreads across my bicep and down my arm, making my fingers go numb.

Jesus. What did they give me? It fucking hurts. Whatever it is, I don’t have too long to contemplate it’s origins, because the world outside my covered face goes quiet, sounds zooming in and out of my consciousness, my limbs softening like butter left out in the sun, until it’s as if someone has simply switched me off and sent me into a black, endless void.

Chapter Nine

AVERY

Islowly come to, and then I’m awake all at once. Awake, alone, and completely blind.

Is the bag still over my head? I wriggle around a little, trying to figure out where I am, where my limbs have gone, why I’m so slow to piece together my thoughts.

Drugs. I remember the sharp pain of a needle jabbing in to my arm, the burn that spread through my veins once whatever I was injected with began to move through my body like wildfire.

Somebody gave me something.

It knocked me the fuck out. Everything buzzed, and then shorted out. I have no idea how long I’ve been unconscious. Where was I? What was I doing? What was being done to me?

My thoughts are soggy, heavy, weighted down by the drugs. I tug at my arms again. Where are my goddamnarms? More feeling comes to me, in tiny increments.

I’m on a chair.

Wait. I’mtiedto the chair.

I try to twist my wrists out of whatever bindings they’re in, and I feel the tiny hairs on my arms protest.

Tape. Whoever it was used tape.

Where are my legs? I can’t feel them. There’s only a numb buzz below my waist. I concentrate as much as I can through my haze, straining at the same time to hear anything that might indicate where I am, and if there’s anyone else near me.

Where. Am I?

Then it comes rushing in, like ice water has been poured over me.They shot my father. A single gunshot that cracked everything apart. My father, in his tuxedo, dropping his whiskey on hard tiles, the glass exploding at his feet as blood blossomed across his white dress shirt. His trajectory into the pool, the heavy splash of his dead weight as five hundred people in ballgowns and designer suits screamed and scattered, nobody wanting to be gunshot victim number two. My desire to jump into the water after my uncle, to help him save my dad. The hands that clamped around my arms hard enough to cause bruises, as Joshua and my own personal security team whisked me away, to supposed safety, and straight into a trap.

Somebody shot my fatherjust so they could take me. As a diversion. And they didn’t fuck around. I saw where they shot him — right in the middle of his chest.

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