“So that’s what this is about,” I stall, seeing the gleam of the gun in my periphery. If I lunged for it, I could turn it on her. But could I use it? Could I kill her? If I bluffed, would she believe me? “You just want the power. The control.”
Her expression softens as she stands. “Not me. Us.” She curls a wisp of hair over my ear, eyes wistful. “We’ll rule this place together. The right way. And we’ll never have to get on our knees again.” Her smooth hand cups my cheek. “You’re my world. My sweet little fairytale. I made you a promise, and I’m going to kill them for what they’ve done to you.” Her lips curve. “I’ll start with Tristian Mercer, for shoving his cock in your mouth all those years ago. Then that little street urchin for thinking he can carve you up like a piece of meat.” Sighing, she lifts my wrist, thumbing at the bronze skull. “And then I’m going to kill your brother, because he’s the one that let them do it to you.”
I see the lie for what it is now. Killian is the heir. He’s the King. She’ll kill him because he’s what’s standing between her and the life she wants. None of this is really about me. It’s about her desire for power.
“No, you won’t.” I pull my wrist away easily, remembering how Dimitri sounded in the parlor earlier when I walked in on the meeting with the Kings. So blasé and cold and vicious. It’s as embedded into my flesh as his knife once was, because that’s what they are to me now. A part of me. “I came here for a reason. They’re not yours to kill.”
She watches me, eyes searching my face. For a long stretch, there’s nothing but silence. And then she grabs the gun, tucking it into her waistband. “You don’t need to bloody your hands with this. You’re not capable of such a thing. It’s what makes you so special, Story.”
“Show me where they are,” is my bland reply, “and I’ll show you exactly what a Lady is capable of.”
32
Killian
That millisecond of stone-cold serenity in her eyes is gone in a blink.
I see it for what it is. Delores is sick of hiding. She’s done with a life of laying low, watching the clock tick toward her end years. She’s finished with being the defenseless old lady who lives behind our pantry, and oh, most of all…
She’s done being a victim to stupid, cruel men.
Even with his hands bound and kicked off-kilter, Rath almost gets there before it happens.
Almost.
Ms. Crane moves so fast that I doubt even Tweaker Ted sees it coming. A lot of people don’t know this about Delores Crane, but she’s actually a pretty proficient fighter when it comes to self-defense. They think because she got her teeth kicked in by her old man all the time that she’s just some frail little doormat with a bad attitude.
They’re wrong.
She snatches his wrist and twists, jamming the blade right into his gut. “Eat shit, you motherfucker!”
“Ah!” he howls, lurching forward to grab for her, but the sound of a metal click stops everyone where they stand.
We’d know the sound of a hammer being cocked anywhere.
“What in the heavens is going on in here?” a voice rings out, footsteps thumping into the room. I have to blink through the rush of receding panic to make out a face. When I do, I don’t feel relieved. I don’t feel afraid.
Mostly, I just feel really fucking confused.
“Posey!” Tristian works his way to his knees, nodding at the guy, still hunched over and panting. “Shoot him! Quick!” He tosses me a glance, and I see the same hope in his eyes. Story is still safe upstairs behind that locked door.
Posey’s face sets into a deep frown as she approaches the intruder, and it clicks for me before she even rests her palm on his back. She’s wearing black, from head to toe, hair mussed—probably from the mask.
She gives the guy an affectionate little pet.
“Son of a bitch.” I watch, stunned and off balance, as she raises the gun—not to the guy, but at me. “You’re together.”
Tristian and Rath catch on next, both collapsing in disbelief against the wall. “What the fuck,” Rath breathes.
“Put the knife down, Delores,” she says serenely.
Ms. Crane stares at my stepmother for a long beat, then throws the knife to the ground with a defeated clatter. “Well, this just turned into a different fight.”
“She fucking stabbed me!” the masked man exclaims through gnashed teeth.
Posey carefully lifts his shirt, cooing, “Let’s have a look.” This wound is a hell of a lot gushier than the first one, and from the way Posey pauses at the sight of it, she’s probably not expecting something this severe. Sighing, she slips off one of his gloves and presses it into the wound. “You know better than to let Delores Crane near a knife, sweetie.”