Chapter 13
Valentina
A Few Weeks Later
Flashbacks of the tattoo artist inking my chest keep popping up. I breathe through it, relieved that Fiona's coronation is over. The Underworld filters out of the aisles, disappearing through stone corridors in waves, while the chanting fades.
When it's time to exit, Brax puts his hand on the back of my waist. I lean into it, then shake it off.
It's been a few weeks since the night I went to his apartment and let him push me against the wall. Too many days have passed since his knuckles scraped down my thighs and his mouth brushed my jaw. And every night, I replay how I allowed my carefully constructed control to shatter in his hands.
But I was reckless and can't go down that road again.
I'm his mentor, and I'm fighting an uphill battle for my seat at the table.
I'm not naive. Hundreds of others will kill for the spot.
So I have to stay focused. Otherwise, the scar on my chest was all for nothing.
So I don't allow myself to climb back into the danger zone and forget the only thing that matters, which is my seat.
Plus, I'm pissed at Brax. Sean, too, but Brax is the one I'm in charge of, and he could have allowed the entire coronation to go up in flames.
What was he thinking?
He splays his hand on my back again, but there are too many people around us for me to get away from it.
We turn down the main corridor. The flames flicker gold against the wall.
Small, almost-invisible crowns carved into the corners of each block serve as a reminder that this corridor belongs to royalty.
The crowd turns a corner, but I turn the opposite way, then shake off his grasp and speed up.
"Slow down," Brax mutters behind me.
"Try harder to keep up," I snap.
"Try walking like a human and not like you're racing to murder someone," he fires back.
I am racing to murder someone. He just doesn't realize he's first on the list.
The massive, royal skull on Fiona's chamber door comes into view. I push it open, and as soon as Brax steps inside, I shut it. The heavy wood slams with a hollow thud, shaking the sconces.
Brax removes his skull mask, then slinks toward me with his brows shot up. "If you wanted me alone this badly, you could have just asked."
Tingles race down my spine, and anger churns hot under my ribs. "How could you let Kirill and Sean fight before the wedding?"
He blinks, then gives me a slow once-over as if we're having a different conversation entirely. His gaze trails over my throat, the exposed line of my shoulders, the hem of my dress, then back to my face. It's the same heated focus from his apartment. It burns there, infuriatingly unbothered.
He carelessly shrugs. "The king wanted to box. You stand in front of him and tell him no next time. I'll watch. Could be fun."
I stare at him, disbelief warring with the urge to strangle him. "This isn't about fun. You could have ruined the entire coronation!"
He leans back against the nearest column, arms crossing over his broad chest, smirk deepening. "You sure? Looked pretty fun to me. Two guys working out their issues with gloves instead of knives. Seemed like the upgrade option in your world."
"You think this is a joke?" I step closer, the fury I've held in since I interrupted their brawl unravels.
His jaw ticks. "He asked who wanted to fight. Sean jumped in before I could."
I hurl, "He's the king. You don't let him do anything that puts him at risk. That's your job. If you fail, do you know who they'll punish?"
"Let them punish me," he arrogantly asserts.
My voice rises. "You idiot! They'll punish me too!" Tears well in my eyes, and I turn, blinking hard and hating how emotional I get ever since they branded me.
His voice softens. "Shit. I'm sorry."
I get control back and glare at him. "You're sorry? You almost cost me my seat. Everything I've clawed my way toward for years could have gone up in smoke because you decided to play gym coach while the king traded punches with the queen's brother!"
He pushes off the column and closes the distance between us in three long strides. His height and bulk crowd my space. The heat of his body hits me like a wall.
"Yeah. I'm sorry. But you don't get to act like you're the only one with something to lose. Everything in my life has been ripped apart since I got pulled into this little secret society circus."
"Shh," I warn.
He moves closer so his mouth's an inch from mine. He adds, "I'm still here, doing what I'm told, keeping my mouth shut. So don't stand in front of me and tell me I'm not taking it seriously because I let the king throw a few punches to clear his head."
My heart races faster. His breath hits mine, taunting me to break the vow I made not to touch him again.
He lifts my mask, letting it rest on my head, then drags his finger over my jaw.
I don't breathe.
He continues in a firm tone, "All you think about is your seat at the table. Maybe you should try remembering I had to give up my life to be ruled by it."
"Lower your voice," I whisper.
His gaze flickers down to my mouth, then back up, challenging just as loudly, "Make me."
My pulse slams against my neck.
He slides his hand down and grips my neck, lifting my chin. He studies me closer, the gold flecks in his irises flickering from the wall torches.
I manage to get out, "I am not losing my seat because you aren't making smart decisions.
You want to be angry about your life? Fine.
Join the club. But you don't get to turn that rage into stupid decisions that put the king at risk.
Next time he says he wants to box before a ceremony, either redirect him or find me, and I'll do it. Understand?"
Brax murmurs, "That's the thing about kings. They don't care about anyone's seat but their own."
My temper spikes so high it makes me dizzy. "For someone who walked in here from the outside, you certainly have a lot of opinions about how this world works."
"For someone who was born in it, you're shockingly blind to how much it costs the rest of us," he states.
"It's a privilege to be here," I remind him.
"It is? From where I stand—" His gaze cuts toward the door.
Sharp, muffled voices get louder.
The hairs on the back of my neck rise. My fingers curl around Brax's wrist, and I drag him across the chamber. I dive into the cedar wardrobe and pull him next to me. I shut the door so there's only a crack.
Silk gowns and ceremonial cloaks swing gently on brass hangers.
Brax's hand automatically finds my waist in the tight space, steadying me.
I slap my palm over his mouth before he can speak. His body goes rigid from the surprise, muscles tensing against mine, but he doesn't push me away.
The door creaks open. Two men stride into Fiona's chamber wearing the same masks Brax did.
Why are they here?
We shouldn't be here either.
It's Brax's fault. He makes me lose my mind.
The queen's quarters are sacred. Unless you're invited, you shouldn't be here.
I know damn well these men weren't.
My breath tightens, and I lean toward the crack in the wardrobe doors, careful not to shift too much of my weight against Brax's body.
His chest rises and falls behind me, tense and controlled.
A low, male Russian accent announces, "The fifty thousand came through. When they return from the honeymoon, we will have twenty-four hours to kill her."
I know that voice.
A sharp, icy tremor slices down the length of my spine. I don't breathe as my pulse stutters, then slams into my ribs. I tilt my head just enough to look up at Brax while trying to figure out where I've heard that voice before.
His pupils tighten, shrinking to sharp pinpoints inside the darkness. The skin around his eyes pulls taut, and his shoulders angle forward as if he's preparing for war.
The second man answers. His voice is American with no hint of an accent. Yet it's smooth with a slightly nasal ring, which is just as familiar. "Where's my deposit?"
"It's coming," the Russian replies with irritation.
"I don't work without it."
Brax steps closer to me, but I push him back against the wall. His fists curl at my waist.
"Don't," I mouth silently.
His jaw flexes with hatred, but he doesn't push past me.
The Russian insists, "Don't worry. It's coming any moment."
The American scoffs. "I'll believe it when I see it."
"It's coming."
A moment of tension mounts.
The American asks, "When do we get the other four-hundred-fifty-thousand?"
"When we send her head to them," the Russian answers without hesitation.
My blood freezes.
Them?
Brax's fury radiates around us.
My own rage rises, pressing hard against my sternum, threatening to burst. Someone inside the Underworld who has enough access to be in the royal hallway is plotting Fiona's execution. The treachery is enough to wipe out entire bloodlines.
A soft electronic ding slices through the room. There's another pause, then the American's tone shifts. In a satisfied voice, he declares, "Money's in my account. I'm in."
The Russian jeers, "No shit. Stop doubting me."
A dark chuckle escapes the American. "Let's go sharpen our knives."
Footsteps scrape across the stone. The chamber door clicks. Silence follows.
I keep still for ten long seconds. Only when I'm certain they're gone do I ease my hand off Brax's mouth and push the wardrobe door open a fraction.
It's empty. Still, I step out cautiously, scanning every inch of the chamber.
Brax storms past me, heading toward the exit.
I grab his arm. "Stop!"
He halts with violent restraint, turning back toward me with a glare that matches the rage vibrating under his skin. "We could have taken them both out by now."
"And gotten killed since we have no weapons."
"I could have strangled both of them," he sneers.
I add, "We need to get out of here. If anyone finds out we're in the queen's chamber, there will be consequences."