Hands grabbed me under the armpits, hauling me up to my feet. More guards had entered the pit, seizing me. My gaze found Istvan. His fiancée righteously peered down at me as if I deserved it all and more.
“You did what needed to be done.” Istvan dipped his head at me as if he were prideful of my actions. “I’m pleased with you.”
“Fuck you,” I sneered, spit spraying from my mouth.
“Ah-uh,” he tsked me. “Be careful. I am allowing you your incentives. Be grateful to me you get to live another day. Next time I might not be so generous.”
The feel of the gun still echoed in my hand, and anger at myself for letting it go tightened my shoulders. If I had only pushed myself beyond my grief and thought about the man who made all this happen. He might not be standing here anymore.
I would never let that opportunity pass again.
“Next time, I might not be either,” I replied evenly as the guards hauled me out of the arena.
Craning my head right before they pulled me into the tunnel, I glanced back at my uncle’s body. It was empty now, his soul gone. I hoped wherever he was, he was with Ling.
I was just afraid that in sacrificing himself—no matter the reason—he took a vital piece of me with him.
My humanity.
Four guards towed me from the tunnel, their grips digging into my arms, dragging me up the stairs to the lavatory.
“Your lucky day, 839.” One strolled closer, licking his lips, his eyes bright. “You earned a shower.” He twitched abruptly, his tongue constantly flicking over his mouth. Something felt off about him, his mannerisms abnormal. It took me a moment to recognize it was Kristof. The guy who taunted Rosie. The one from the marketplace who almost caught me.
Two other officers ripped off my boots and socks before shoving me into the open running shower stall. The water soaked my soiled uniform, making it cling to my frame.
“Now strip—slowly,” Kristof sneered. The other three cackled, moving closer to me, their voices and movements reminding me of a clan of spotted hyenas getting riled up. “Last shower time with you, me and my friend here didn’t get to participate.” He motioned to a lean, blond soldier on his right. By his statement, I took it they had brought me up from the hole. When I came out, I had no understanding of anything around me, including myself. They were all just faceless figures. “We can’t look as if we don’t take our job seriously enough.”
The four of them inched nearer to me, circling like predators around their victim.
“Think it’s about time I get a taste of the so-called princess of Leopold.” Kristof mocked. “The girl who could ensnare noble men and leaders with her beauty.”
Why did people think just because men were noble or leaders, they weren’t just as infallible as every man with a dick? I found their egos and entitlement made them more so. Weaker to praise and admiration.
“Yeah, I know you. Heard about the stunning and perfect Brexley Kovacs for years now.” He smirked at me. “Look at you now. Pathetic piece of fae-loving trash.” He snarled at me. “Your fae friends shot my buddy. Think you need to be punished for it.” Kristof’s shoulders rolled, hostility perfumed off him in waves, affecting the three around him like a drug. “Though we all did get promoted and treated as heroes for protecting the market.” He waved around to the group, and I realized all of them had been at the market that night. “Now we get to watch puncik get wet every day.”
Knowing Istvan as I did, he wouldn’t promote any of these lazy shit-dicks because of the market. They were being used as test subjects, knowing or unknowing. To Markos, they were discardable. Easily humored with a pat on the back while he was the one fucking them over.
“Strip!” Kristof yanked his baton from his belt. “And face us while doing it.” His eyes ran down my figure, the men around him stirring and making wild, shrill sounds.
Men in groups fueled by testosterone could be terrifying enough in situations, but the way they looked at me, the way they moved, their energy bouncing off each other, building, raked terror down into my bones. They weren’t right, as if the pills were creating a chemical imbalance or something in the fae essence was turning them feral.
Unhinged.
“Now!” Kristof ordered, already rubbing at his crotch.
I peered down at the blood, dirt, and charred streaks smeared across my wet gray uniform. Flecks of ashes from my uncle’s burnt skin stuck to my top like confetti of death.
“Fucking, spoiled bitch! When I order you, you do as I say.” Kristof swung his baton, stomping for me.
Tonight, I stabbed a comrade in the chest with a hairpin, watching her suffocate on her own blood, oxygen leaking out like a balloon. Knocked out one of my best friends to keep him alive, almost died at the hands of another. And then witnessed my uncle being burned alive before shooting him in the head. The remains of him are still on me, on all of them, staining deeper than the fabric.
Now, these little boys were trying to take what was left of me.
Water dripping off my lashes, I lifted my onyx eyes to Kristof. The lava roiling deep in my gut bubbled and spat. I could feel nothing inside me but hate, rage, revenge, and empty darkness which could never be filled. They could do nothing to me. I was already too far gone.
And when you have nothing inside, other lives become insignificant.
The four came at me, their frenzy feeding off their arrogance and ego. Not one of them believed, even after seeing me kill, I could possibly take them down.
Men never understood a woman’s strength, the carnage which would paint the world when she broke. I had no more fucks to give. No more fear, pain, or grief.
Once again, my brain stepped out of my body, my ingrained training taking over, striking out first. A loud crack clapped off the tile walls as my fist struck Kristof’s nose. My mind centered to such a point nothing existed outside of my movements, each one exact and lethal.
I didn’t want to walk the shadows of death. I wanted to be it.
The Grey.
Cold. Meticulous. Precise.
Kick. Punch. Hit.
Swing. Duck. Strike.
They ripped at my clothes, struck at my face, my body, their shrieks and howls of anger growing louder, bouncing off the tile.
One of them grabbed at my breasts, his hand trying to slide down my pants.
The fire inside roared with a vehemence.
I tasted their blood which sprayed over my face, felt their skin split across my knuckles, heard the crunch of bones, and watched each one crumble to the floor. The sharp smell of blood and bleach stung my nostrils, my breath heaving loudly in my ears.
Staring blankly at the four men sprawled across the bathroom, red liquid trickled past my bare feet, trailing to the drain. They were alive—though they wouldn’t be getting up for a while.
I wanted them dead, to feel their lives expire, their pulses weakening against my palm.
“Kovacs?” I heard my name, trying to tug me back to myself. I didn’t want to go. I wanted to stay where I was. Where there was no emotion. No conscious. No pain.
Let the darkness consume me.
“Brexley…” The power of my name curled and wound through me. His dominance forced my head to lift, my gaze landing on him.
The Legend. The Wolf.
Like the first time he found me in the bathroom at Halálház, Warwick stood inside the doorway, bloody and bruised, his knuckles cut open, looking as if he had fought his way to get to me. The string of unconscious or dead soldiers trailed a path to us, and it was only a matter of time before they came for us.