Page 37 of Vicious Prince (Violent Kingdom)

I’m in a room with no outside light. There’s a mirror that runs along one side of the room. I swallow as I realize what it is.

That’s one-way glass, not a mirror.

I’ve spent my fair share of time in interrogation rooms over the years, and that’s not a fucking mirror. I can only see the dull reflection of the room I’m in, but I have no doubt that whoever is on the other side of that glass can see in here perfectly well.

I look around, searching for an exit. There are two doors in this small room. One looks like it’s made of steel, and is set into the wall.

The second door is slightly ajar, and leads to a small bathroom. Also windowless. A place designed for one thing: to keep me from getting out.

Well, to keepusfrom getting out, I think, as I stand up and realize I’m not alone.

“Well, well,” I mutter, clenching my teeth so hard they might crack in my mouth. “What do we have here?”

A beautiful woman, completely naked, and tied to a chair, legs spread and wearing a pair of patent leather fuck-me-now stilettos. Normally I’d call that an open invitation, but something about the way she’s teetering on the edge of death stops me from trying my best pick-up lines on her. I like to be in charge in the bedroom, but I prefer my girls to fight back. This one looks like I’d be risking necrophilia if I got too carried away.

I open my mouth, addressing nobody in particular. “If you’re trying to Punk me, Ashton Kutcher, this is a little much.”

I stare at the girl in front of me. She’s covered in blood, a nasty wound running along the inside of one thigh that seeps blood onto the chair. The same blood rushes to the edge of the seat and plinks down onto the floor in time with my thundering pulse, drip, drip, drip.

I reach instinctively for the gun I always shove into the back of my jeans. Gone. The stash of my drug is gone from my left pocket. Motherfuckers. The switchblade from my right pocket is gone too, leaving me with nothing but the clothes I’m wearing, the red heart-shaped pills Rosaline tried to steal stashed deep in my pocket, and a girl whose identity is rapidly becoming apparent to me as I study her face with my adjusting eyes. Everything from the Palatial Hotel comes rushing back, even as I try to convince myself this isn’t happening.

Fuck. It can’t be her.

Itisher.

Avery.

Avery Capulet.

The urge to rush to her side and get her out of these binds bubbles up inside me, frenetic and anxious. But my desire to help her is quickly tamped down by my memory of everything that’s transpired since the last time I saw her. In the years since our families went from loyal allies to bitter enemies, our meetings, fleeting as they were, always happened under the cover of secrecy. A hall pass in study period to meet in locker rooms and bathroom stalls. A shared cigarette behind the stables where her beloved horses were kept. A stolen glance between a sophomore (her) and a senior (me) in the hallways of Verona’s most exclusive preparatory college. We were supposed to hate each other back then, but I could never bring myself to fall in line with the hate I held for the rest of her family. I knew she was her father’s pawn. I still burned for her anyway.

* * *

And after her sister died, I only saw her one more time — the day she got on the stand in court and perjured her little Capulet heart out. The day her lies sent me to prison. The day she destroyed whatever feverish teenage love I thought I’d had for her, and replaced it with a cold, brutal hatred.

That was almost ten years ago, and the most I’ve ever seen her since then is in momentary flashes through the window of my ruined mansion, as she parked her car or dove into her pool — at least, until they put up the privacy hedges and destroyed my view. After that, the best chance I had of catching a look at her was on gossip sites and in the newspapers. It didn’t matter, though. I still remembered how the little hollow of her collarbone tasted, how her hair felt in my fist. A fuckingprivacy hedgewasn’t going to take those things from me.

Now somebody — who, I can’t even begin to figure out — has served her up to me like Thanksgiving dinner with all the trimmings, the kind so delicious you’d glut yourself to the point of sickness just to devour it. I’ve never been that interested in food, but I’d gorge myself on a girl like Avery Capulet until there was nothing of her left, and still want more.

Even with the blood.

Maybeespeciallywith the blood.

I push away the lust in my belly, seeing her laid out like this. Because really, she does look like she’s about to bleed to death. I’m groggy from the drugs, my head pounding from being kicked while I was down, but I’ve still got my bearings enough to know that if she dies, I’m going to look like the bad guy.

A set up. Is somebody setting me up?

Who?

I begin to mentally catalog my mortal enemies, until I realize there are too many and I’m not yet privy to whatever this game is. I can’t make a move until I’ve been dealt all the cards, so I do what my conscience has been screaming at me to do: I help the damn girl.

Right now I know nothing. Can presume nothing. Just because we’re enemies, doesn’t mean she has anything to do with this. We also share other, mutual enemies. Some of the other influential families in this city dislike both of our families. Then there are the Russians. Cameras and serial killings are probably too sophisticated for them, but what the fuck do I know? There are rival drug cartels who don’t like the way her father launders blood money from certain associates through his banks and refuses to touch funds from others. All of these enemies don’t even cover the legitimate business dealings her father has that could have gone awry and triggered a revenge plot against the family.

Let he who is without sin cast the first stone, my father would say to me. I’ve been a sinner all my life.

So I do what I can for her; I make sure for now, that Avery Capulet doesn’t die.

I untie her from the chair, wincing as she slumps in my arms, naked and bloody and deep in some unconscious world I’m not privy to. I realize as I lay her on the thin mattress that I haven’t touched this girl in almost a decade. She still uses the samefuckingshampoo. I lean in a little without realizing, breathing in the fresh smell of oranges that clings to her dark hair, and then I set to making sure she doesn’t bleed to death in front of me.

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