Page 35 of Vicious Prince (Violent Kingdom)

Rome laughs. “Jesus, girl. Where would be the fun in that?”

Now I feel cold. Part of me wishes he would kill me, but that would be kinder than what I’m sure he has in store for the girl who ruined him.

Rome licks his lips as he studies me. I think of how pathetic I must look: wild, on the floor, bled out like an animal. If my state brings him joy, though, Rome does an excellent job of not showing it.

“It’s been so long, I thought maybe you had forgotten me.” He makes the words sound almost casual, but I hear the undercurrent in them; the rage. He does think I forgot about him.

I bury my face in my hands so he can’t see the haunted look I know is in my eyes, the one that sparks back to life like a match against flint whenever Rome Montague slips into my thoughts.

“I’ve tried,” I say honestly. “Believe me, I’ve tried.”

“So. The little liar can tell the truth on occasion.”

“Rome,” I protest, looking up at him.

“Don’tRomeme,” he seethes. “You sent me to prison. For two years.You.”

“You almost killed my cousin,” I say, but there’s no conviction behind my words.

“What an evil man I am,” Rome says bitterly. “Perhaps I should have closed the door and walked away when I saw what Ty was doing to you. That little fuck deserved every broken bone I gave him, and more.”

I swallow painfully. “I know.”

“And yet, he got off, scot-free, and I got locked up.”

Neither of us says anything for a moment. I’m so dizzy, I need to take a beat just to catch my breath.

“Is that where you got those scars?” I ask finally. “In prison?”

Rome uncrosses his arms, gesturing to the raised silver and red lines that are almost, but not completely, hidden by his tattoos. “What, these?”

I nod.

“Some.”

“And the rest?” I press, not sure if I want to know the answer.

Something dark flashes in Rome’s eyes for a second. “There are more dangerous places to be a Montague than inside a prison’s walls.”

I think about that as my leg starts to throb, the pain more insistent now. The drug that knocked me out has started to wear off, and with it, the opiate cushion that separated me from my own nerve endings. I bite down on the insides of my cheeks as I think of my singular wound, and Rome’s countless scars. Did each of those hurt him as much as this one hurts me? How did he bear it? And did he curse my name with every sharp edge that split his flesh?

“I think you’re the one lying,” I whisper. “You are going to kill me.”

“If I was going to kill you, you’d already be dead,” he says finally.

In my wildest dreams — or my most terrifying nightmares — never once did I think that I’d be trapped in hell withhim.

Never once did I think I’d see him again.

Tears prick at my eyes as I think of his mouth on me. But — there were two of them in the loading bay at the Palatial Hotel. So maybe it wasn’t Rome who did that. Maybe it was his accomplice. Shouldn’t he have my blood all over him if it was him kissing me like that? I’m so confused, everything heavy and slow.

“What have you done?” I whisper. “What are you going to do?”

He doesn’t answer me. Instead, he tosses something at me. I don’t catch it — I’m too weak and bloodless for that — but it rolls to a stop at my feet anyway. Water.

“You lost a lot of blood,” he says. “You should drink something.”

I tear at the bottle’s lid greedily, not taking a second to taste it cautiously before I start gulping it down. It’s cool and fresh and satisfying and … drugged.

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