Page 38 of Vicious Prince (Violent Kingdom)

I bandage her wound with dressings I find in a medical kit in the bathroom. The kit is small, but stocked with all manner of things — gauze, rubbing alcohol, superglue.Scissors. My eyes light up when I see those. I slide them under the mattress as casually as possible, trying to ascertain which of the seven goddamn cameras I can block with my body. Whoever is watching us probably saw me. Whatever. As if they’d expect me to give up without a fight.

I have to superglue Avery’s thigh wound shut to stop the bleeding. I have no idea if I’ve made things worse, if she’ll somehow keep bleeding subcutaneously, if superglue is going to slowly poison her. She’s shaking, shivering, her whole body covered in gooseflesh. Her nipples look hard enough to cut through the glass window that separates us from freedom, even though I try really, really hard not to look at them. I take off my t-shirt and dress her in it, covering her as best I can, wincing every time I accidentally touch one of the fresh bruises that continue to spring up on her pale skin like some macabre watercolor painting.

The whole time, she stays limp, her pulse slow and thready. I try to pretend I don’t care. That it wouldn’t destroy any semblance of a life I have left if she died from this. But I guess I’m a liar, too. Because deep down, I know if anything happened to her, if she died, I’d most likely lay down on this dirty floor, swallow the pills I still have in my pocket, and die right beside her.

I sit in the corner and watch her breathe. It’s so dark in here, I can’t make out any detail of anything. Just the steady rise and fall of her chest, the proof that, moment to moment, she’s still alive.

Then, after what seems like forever, Avery Capulet wakes up.

Fear in her eyes as she shrinks away from me. That fills me with a grief I’ve never known. Does she really think I could ever hurt her like this?

She does, I can tell, at least at first.

Because eventually, the real madman in all of this comes back into the room, a gun in his hand, a mask covering his face.

And that’s when the nightmare really begins.

His gun holds me at bay at first. As he picks Avery up and throws her down on the table that sits in the middle of the room. She’s still wearing my shirt, but she’s got my jeans on, too. I’m the half-naked idiot in the corner, my palms raised in false surrender as I watch him put a revolver in her fucking mouth and push it so far, she gags.

A gun? You’re putting a fucking gun in her mouth?

He cocks the hammer and I crouch down, reaching for the scissors tucked safely under the mattress.

The next part happens in slow motion. I yell something at him — I’m not sure what, now. Get away from her, or Don’t fucking touch her, or something like that. Whatever it is, I’ve got the scissors in my hand, and I’m moving toward him, every muscle in my body coiled and ready to attack. I have momentum. I have speed. I have a weapon in my hand.

And then the world explodes.

Not the whole world, you understand? Just mine. The gun isn’t in Avery’s mouth anymore. It’s pointed at me, and I’m slammed against the wall by the force of a bullet.

I bite down on my tongue when the bullet enters my flesh. I taste blood in my mouth as I bleed rivers from a dirty hole in my bare shoulder. I crumple like a rag doll, choking on the pain as my thoughts pulse in time with my heart.

I’ve been shot. I’ve been shot. I’ve been shot.

It’s bad for me. I might die. But it’s worse for her. There is a violence in tenderness, and whoever this man is, he shows it to her. I want to move. I want to save her. But all I can do is watch.

I’ve been shot. I’ve been shot.I’ve been shot.

Chapter Fourteen

AVERY

I’m woken by rough hands, picking me up and dragging me to my feet. In the split-second that I first come to, I forget what’s happened. Confusion floods me as I question everything — where I am, what’s happening, who’s grabbing me. Instinctively, I strike out with my closed fist, looking to hit whoever has hold of me.

Why can’t I see anything?

My fist hits what feels like a hard cheekbone covered in cloth, and the person holding on to me grunts in pain. That’s satisfying. But my satisfaction is short-lived, as a fist returns the blow out of nowhere, hitting me square in the nose. I gasp as blood explodes from my nostrils, the pain white-hot and unexpected, and for a moment I can’t hear anything but a static buzz.

“Hey!” I hear a male voice protest. Rome. It’sRome. My ears are still ringing, and his voice sounds faraway. Like I’m underwater. Like I’m drowning. Can’t see. Can’t see. It’s like one of the nightmares I have almost every night. Nightmares where it’s me drowning instead of Adeline, and it’s Rome Montague’s hand fisted in my hair, holding me under until I take a breath and fill my lungs with cold water.

“Leave her alone!” Rome roars.

That’s odd.

Isn’t Rome meant to be the one punching me? Not the one defending me? Wouldn’t my pain please him?

I don’t have long to think about that before I feel hands at my throat, dragging me.

“Don’t touch her. Don’tfuckingtouch her!”

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