Chapter 48
brYLEE
The swarming mass of people behind the throne scatters, and as they break apart, I see my father framed by the golden door trim like he's part of a living royal portrait.
But unlike a portrait, his face is ashen, his eyes wide with shock. His chest arches forward, and the tip of a knife protrudes right through his heart.
My own chest explodes in pain as he crumples to his knees. Blood sprays from his wound, and the expression on his face is already slackening, his head lolling as his hands smack to the floor. A second later, he goes limp, face cracking against the marble, his soul ripped from this world by a blade.
Air cleaves through my lungs as I pant, disbelieving.
My fingertips come to my lips and drag down as I stare at him, mentally urging him to rise, to pull the handle from his back. I beg the universe to rewind.
Just a few seconds, that's all. Please. PLEASE.
But my dad is gone.
Wisps of memories glide through my head—him teaching Ted and me to play catch, chasing us through the castle, lighting the candles on my birthday cupcake, the hug he gave me last Christmas when I got him a vinyl from his favorite band.
My throat tightens.
His killer steps through the doorway and over his body like it's an inconvenience. My gaze trails up over black combat boots, Noth military garb, gun in hand and rifle hanging from a sling across his torso, up toward a scarred face covered with a gray bandana below the eyes.
But I'd know those eyes anywhere.
Those black pits.
My muscles constrict and freeze as shock pours through me from head to toe.
Pedro.
The devil isn't dead. And he's brought hell here with him.
A horrified gasp escapes from my lips as murderous fury blazes up my sides, heats my cheeks, and has me turning to Kylian.
"Give me your gun," I order, hand shooting toward him.
My psychopath turns from the Noth he was firing on behind us. His head tilts as he studies me before he grins, unaware of the cause of my bloodlust. Completely clueless that his king is dead.
But my mate recognizes the wild gleam in my eyes. The vengeance thrumming through me.
He doesn't hand me the weapon in his grip, but reaches behind himself, into a holster in his waistband. The gun he brings out is clearly his pride and joy, a custom red Beretta.
"Princess." He bows his head slightly for a split second before leaping onto a chair and firing at a Noth slinking up the aisle. "No you don't, motherfucker!"
Checking the magazine as I've been trained to do, I find myself surprised to note that I'm not shaking. Single-minded determination burns the back of my throat and fills me with a sense of purpose that overrides everything else.
My vision sharpens, as does my sense of smell. Dust, gunpowder, and the morbid scent of blood fill the air, along with the raging clash of alpha pheromones. But my focus narrows, everything surrounding Pedro dimming, as if that bastard stepped into a spotlight.
I take a step forward only to find Ridge blocking my path, the bulletproof vest he wears brushing against my chest. My blond alpha's jaw twitches. Our eyes war with one another, his will against mine.
"Let me," he murmurs in a tone that would soothe any other omega, maybe make her melt at the protectiveness, the instantaneous and willing sacrifice.
But my nostrils flare, primal need driving me as I shake my head, denying him, not because I don't love his offer. I do. Never in my life did I think I'd have men who'd risk everything for me. Who'd want to use their last breath to protect me.
It's the most precious gift he could ever give.
But I have to refuse it—because I don't want my alphas to fight for me, but with me.
"Together," I whisper.
He inhales sharply, and I can practically feel the reticence wafting from him in palpable waves. I know instinct immediately drives him to deny me, and his neck strains as he battles internally. Alpha drive versus omega request.
But then Ridge gives me a single nod of agreement, and that particular gesture is like the sun breaking over a mountain peak, casting warm light across my soul.
He steps aside, and we both raise our weapons. But we pause as someone flies at Pedro, tackling him from behind and making him stumble.
Clinging like a rabid animal, Mom wraps her manicured fingers around Pedro's face, scratching and pulling, clawing like a cat, dislodging his bandana and revealing a series of ugly, raised pink scars that stretch up from his jawline and stripe the lower half of his face.
They fall, tipping toward the steps. Her hair flies up, wide curls turned to frizz, perfect eyeliner smudged with tear tracks, lipstick smeared across her teeth as a feral scream belts out.
If her eyes were glowing blue, I'd think she'd been infected with the Harpax drug. She looks nearly as mad as they did. But she's only mad with grief—an alpha who has lost her omega.
For a split second, she's someone I admire, someone willing to fight for her loved one.
Pedro's gun arm swings up, and he fits the muzzle to her thigh.
The blast startles me even though I expect it.
Her failure to scream surprises me even more.
It's almost as if she doesn't feel the wound, even though a deluge of red, thick as a wave, starts to leak from her leg. She's too busy gouging at his eyes, one pink fingernail gliding into his eye and swirling.
Unlike her, Pedro doesn't hold back. His screech rings out wildly, and his hands flail and clench, firing off a random bullet. It pings into a column near me and sends plaster flecks flying.
Immediately I train my gun on him, trying to find a target that doesn't include my mother in the shot.
But she's slowly sliding down his back, clinging only by that hand that's dug into his socket. With a rage-filled yell, he flings her off, and she flies like a napkin, limbs crumpled.
I shoot, and the gun kicks back in my hands, the scent of lead hot in my nostrils.
He winces as his arms curve over his gut. They come away red, and his gun swings toward me. One eye is a bloody mess, matted with tears and red and ooze. The other is the same dark abyss I faced during my kidnapping. An eye devoid of sympathy that squints as he tries to focus on me.
I can tell the second he recognizes me because his posture stiffens for a split second before he leers.
He cocks his gun and trains it on me. "Can't wait to return the favor—"
His good eye craters as Ridge sends a bullet zinging through it.
I don't even wait for Pedro's body to hit the floor. I dart up the stairs, toward my mom. Both her hands clutch her thigh, which is slowly oozing blood. Her gaze is foggy, breath shallow as I kneel next to her.
"Get a medic!"
Colter dashes to my father, bending once to check his pulse before disappearing through the doorway into the hall, gun at the ready. I know, without a single glance shared between us, that he's on his way to find help for the queen. God, I hope he's quick.
Something wet grips my wrist, and I look down to see Mother's hand, so slicked in blood, unable to even cinch firmly around my arm.
Her gasps become tighter, smaller, and a sheen coats my eyes.
I set down Kylian's gun as my psychotic mate places himself in front of me, his gun spraying out a constant barrage of bullets so that I can clutch my mother's hand in both of mine.
"Only two left!" Kylian shouts with a fist pump.
He reloads as Ridge takes over cover fire.
But my focus has completely skewed away from the battle. I lean down, and words puff lightly from Mom’s lips.
"Brylee. I'm not a good mother. Not a good person. But I did try to be a good queen. You see? You see what happens when you trust…"
The light fades from her eyes.
And the queen of Hypso, a woman who's been both hero and villain, joins her king.
I'm left with my mates in a broken throne room that's become the site of a massacre to deal with the aftermath of her reign.