Page 43 of Vicious Prince (Violent Kingdom)

“I thought you were dead,” I say, still holding one hand over his bullet wound, my other coming to rest on the side of his face.

Rome’s eyes roll back in his head. “I will be in about five minutes,” he coughs, fresh blood appearing on his lower lip. Shit. I think blood in his mouth means he’s got a punctured lung, or something.

“Bullshit,” I say, even though we both know he might be. “Rome Montague isn’t about to let one little bullet kill him. Montagues are more stubborn than that.”

He coughs again, more blood trailing from the side of his mouth. “Are you okay?” he asks with difficulty. I fight the urge to roll my eyes. Really? He’s literally dying in my arms, and he’s asking how I am?

“You should see the other guy,” I mutter.

“Avery,” Rome says slowly. “I’m sorry. If I can’t stay awake. I’m sorry.” He’s pressing something into my hand with his. I look down to see what it is — a pair of scissors.

“Hide them,” he mumbles, taking a ragged breath in that makes his whole body shake. “Stab him. Get yourself out of here.”

I grit my teeth, closing my fingers around the scissors. “Don’t fucking die on me,” I demand, but really, I’m begging. For a girl who’s never begged for anything, today sure has been full of it. I hate it, but I’d beg Rome for the rest of my life it meant he wouldn’t die right now. We might be enemies, but I loved him once, a very long time ago. And he only got shot because he was trying to protect me from that fucking psychopath who put us here.

“I’m trying really hard not to,” Rome mutters. Still a smartass, even with his dying breaths. Well, fuck it. I’m not going to just sit here with him in my lap and watch him slowly fade to nothing. I look up at the cameras, formulating a plan. I ease Rome off me as gently as possible so he’s laying on the mattress, getting to my feet. My legs are shaking uncontrollably, and I’m on the verge of passing out, but somehow, the thought of losing Rome and being left in this room by myself gives me the strength to stand.

“Hey, motherfucker!” I yell, my voice hoarse, but still loud. I pull my hair away from my neck with one hand, aiming the pointy end of the scissors at my jugular with the other. “Get him a doctor or I swear to God, I’ll kill myself right now!” Would I have the courage to stab myself in the neck? I’m not really sure, but my voice sounds confident enough.

I look down at Rome, whose eyebrows are raised slightly as he watches me silently. It occurs to me, in that moment, that it probably wouldn’t be the worst thing for Rome to see me kill myself with a pair of surgical scissors. He blames me for ruining his life, after all. What’s a little suicide between mortal enemies? But he doesn’t look amused. He’s shaking his head. “Don’t— " he says to me. I don’t get to hear the rest of his sentence, though, because the heavy steel door in the wall bursts open, the man in black brandishing a new gun. I blink, staring at the weapon he’s pointing at me. I’ve seen one of those before. It’s not a gun with bullets in it. He pulls the trigger and I feel a sharp sting in my chest. “Ow,” I say, staring down at the tranquilizer dart now lodged neatly above my left breast.

It hurts. Everything seems to move in slow motion. I yank the dart out of my chest and it clatters to the ground, forgotten. The sedative burns as it spreads through my chest, as my already weak knees buckle and I end up kneeling on the mattress beside Rome. The scissors are still clutched in my hand, my arm hanging loosely by my side. It takes a couple of minutes for the sedative to work its magic and send me off to sleep. I crawl around on the mattress, moaning, trying to stay conscious, and then I feel a hand over mine. I look down to see Rome’s hand clutching mine. That’s the last thing I see before I fall face-first on the thin bedding beside him.

Chapter Seventeen

ROME

For someone who shot me, the motherfucker wearing a mask sure does go to a great deal of effort to keep me alive.

After he shoots Avery with the tranq dart and she passes out cold beside me, Masked Motherfucker dresses my bullet wound silently, with more gauze and bandages from the never-ending medical kit. I’d like to say I get him into a headlock and break us out of here, but this isn’t a fucking Tom Cruise movie. I’ve beenshot.In a very fucking painful place. I couldn’t put a kitten in a headlock right now if I tried.

After he’s done playing doctor, he cuffs my wrists and ankles, throws a bag over my head, and drags me out of the room by my feet.

I fight him as much as I can, but every time I jerk around, I feel more blood spurt up out of my bullet wound. A few ill-placed kicks that barely hit the asshole, and I’m almost dead with blood loss.

I decide to stop fighting and play dead instead. Or, at least, play unconscious. At least if this guy is dragging me out of here, an almost-corpse for him to dispose of, he can’t hurt Avery. I mentally catalog everything as I drag along the ground; from the rough concrete floor of our dungeon for two, to another room, the one that’s behind the one-way glass, where I presume this sick fuck has been watching over Avery with his dick in his hand. The floor in here is carpeted, soft. It smells like fresh paint, and I wonder what kind of person paints a room with a fresh coat of paint in preparation to turn it into a viewing platform for their own personal torture chamber. I mean, what kind of fucking color swatches does one pick up from the Hardware store for such a room? Did he go straight to the reds, or has he chosen a more ironic shade?

I hear more locks, more doors. My head bounces on something hard, maybe a brick, and then over damp grass. I’m outside. I hear the rustling of trees, the thunk of a key turning inside a metal barrel, and then, before I know what’s happening, I’m thrown into what I think is the trunk of a car.

I feel someone close to my head as I lay awkwardly on plastic sheeting. Great. This is the part where I get wrapped up with a bunch of bricks and thrown off the Golden Gate Bridge. I hold my breath, squeezing my eyes tight, waiting for the split second of recognition that a bullet has been fired into my skull. It never comes, though, just a distorted voice in my ear, a threat uttered through the calico bag over my head. “Try anything, and I will gut her and make you wear her skin.”

I very much doubt I would fit into Avery Capulet’s skin, her narrow frame no match for my bulk, but that’s not the message contained in the threat, is it? No. I imagine her being splayed open as punishment for my disobedience, and part of me dies, a part I didn’t know was still buried underneath all of the festering hate I have for the Capulets. The trunk slams shut, and despite every cell in my body screaming to attempt some kind of escape, I don’t try a damn thing.

I pass in and out of consciousness as we drive, straining to hear anything outside that might indicate where we are. At one point I think we might be on the Golden Gate Bridge, but I can’t be sure. It could be the Bay Bridge. It could be the goddamn surface of Mars.

Eventually, we come to a stop, the trunk is cracked open, and I’m lifted from one car to another. Something stabs into my arm, and I don’t wake up again or what feels like a very, very long time.

When I do rouse again, it’s so fucking bright, I assume I’ve died. I’m on my back, cold steel underneath me. Am I dead? Is this my autopsy? Jesus Fuck, am I trapped in my own dead body?

“Is this hell?” I mutter.

A deep voice sounds beside me. “Probably.”

I blink rapidly, trying to get my bearings. It’s so damn bright. I can vaguely make out two heads, faces wrapped in surgical masks. As my vision clears, I look from one side to the other, of what must be a metal gurney I’m laying on. Two dudes, both black, both tall, performing surgery on me, without any goddamn anesthetic, judging by the pain in my shoulder. I try to gauge if I recognize them, taking in their features as best I can with my screwed-up vision. One is slightly taller, his head shaved, dark eyes the only thing I can see above his blue surgical mask. The other one, digging around in my fucking shoulder, has dark hair, cut close to his skull. As soon as I see them, I have my suspicions about who they are. But I don’t say anything.

“Some drugs wouldn’t hurt,” I say, coughing. “Since you’re digging around in my fucking shoulder.”

One of the guys leans over to address me. “You’ve got enough downers in your system to kill a horse,” he says. “I give you any more, you’re gonna die right here.”

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