The Reaper Prince

CHAPTER 33| The Blood Throne

Nikolai steps fully into the moonlight, and I forget how to breathe.

He doesn't walk like a normal person. There's something predatory in the way he moves—smooth, controlled, every step deliberate. The moonlight catches on his dark shirt, on the black fabric, on the emerald of his eyes that seem to glow in the darkness.

He looks exactly like the monster from children's nightmares. The ghost parents warn you about. The thing that hides in shadows and feeds on fear.

But his eyes—

God, his eyes.

They lock onto me across the massive arena, and for the first time since this morning—since he looked at me with that clinical emptiness and told me I was just a project—the deadness vanishes.

Completely.

What replaces it is so intense it makes my chest physically ache.

Hunger. Obsession. Devotion so absolute it borders on religious fervor.

My Nikolai is back.

The feral, possessive, completely unhinged psychopath who looked at me like I was the only thing in the world worth observing.

He's back.

And he brought hell with him.

A soldier steps forward from the perimeter—one of Nikolai's lieutenants, judging by the insignia on his tactical vest. He's carrying a heavy assault rifle, and he raises it smoothly, aiming directly at the cluster of Corsican guards who are scrambling to form some kind of defensive line.

The message is clear: he's ready to mow them all down in a hail of bullets.

Nikolai raises one hand.

It's a gentle gesture. Almost lazy. His palm presses against the barrel of the rifle, pushing it down toward the ground.

The lieutenant looks at him, confused.

Nikolai shakes his head slowly, his eyes never leaving mine.

"Non," he says, and his voice carries across the arena with perfect clarity. Even from this distance, I can hear the French rolling off his tongue like silk. "Pas de balles. Pas pour eux." No. No bullets. Not for them.

The lieutenant lowers his weapon immediately.

Dante, still standing near the dais with Giuseppe and Carlo flanking him, actually laughs. It's a sharp, disbelieving sound. "You're going to fight my entire guard force hand-to-hand? Boy, you may have brought an army, but you're still just—"

He doesn't get to finish the sentence.

Nikolai reaches down with both hands, and in one smooth motion, pulls two curved knives from sheaths strapped to his ankles.

They're not normal knives.

They're vicious—slightly curved blades with jagged edges near the hilt, designed to tear rather than cut cleanly. The metal gleams in the torchlight, wicked and hungry.

Nikolai straightens, rolling his shoulders once like he's loosening up for a workout.

And then he moves.

He doesn't run.

He glides.

There's no other word for it. One moment he's standing at the entrance to the arena, and the next he's covering ground so fast my eyes can barely track the movement.

His footsteps make no sound. His breathing doesn't change.

He just flows forward like water, like shadow, like death itself given form and purpose.

The first Corsican guard who gets in his way doesn't even have time to raise his weapon.

Nikolai's blade flashes—one smooth arc—and the guard's throat opens in a spray of arterial blood.

The man drops.

Nikolai doesn't even slow down.

What follows isn't a fight.

It's a slaughter.

A massacre.

A systematic dismantling of human bodies executed with the kind of precision that makes it clear this isn't Nikolai's first time doing this. This is what he was born to do.

A guard rushes him from the left, swinging a baton.

Nikolai ducks under the swing without breaking stride, brings one knife up in a vicious uppercut that catches the guard under the chin and drives through his jaw into his brain. The guard convulses once and goes limp.

Nikolai pulls the blade free and keeps moving.

Two more guards try to flank him from both sides.

He pivots—beautiful and terrible—and his knives become extensions of his arms. Slash, stab, twist, pull. Both guards go down in under three seconds, their blood painting the ancient stone floor in dark, spreading pools.

The hooded figures are screaming now, their ritual robes flying as they scramble to get away from the carnage. Some of them trip over each other in their panic. Some just freeze, too terrified to move.

Nikolai ignores them completely.

His focus is singular.

Absolute.

He's carving a path straight toward the three Corsican kings, and nothing—nothing—is going to stop him.

A guard manages to fire a shot.

The sound is deafening in the enclosed space, echoing off stone walls.

The bullet misses Nikolai by inches.

He doesn't even flinch.

He just adjusts his trajectory slightly, closes the distance to the shooter in two long strides, and drives one of his blades through the man's eye socket so hard the tip comes out the back of his skull.

Blood sprays across Nikolai's face.

He doesn't blink.

Doesn't wipe it away.

He just pulls the blade free, lets the body drop, and keeps moving forward.

I'm frozen on my knees in the center of the arena, hands still bound, watching this unfold with a mixture of absolute terror and something else I can't quite name.

Because this—

This is what Nikolai really is.

Not the charming boy who spoke French in my ear and made me feel seen for the first time in my life.

Not the obsessive psychopath who studied me like I was the only puzzle worth solving.

This.

This is the Reaper Prince.

The heir to two of the most powerful criminal empires in Europe.

The boy who was born without the ability to feel normal human emotion, who learned to turn that emptiness into a weapon sharper than any blade.

And he's using that weapon now.

For me.

Because of me.

The thought makes my chest tight.

More guards rush him—five this time, trying to overwhelm him with numbers.

It doesn't work.

Nikolai moves like he's dancing. Like this is choreographed. Like he's done this exact sequence of movements so many times his body knows them on a cellular level.

Duck. Slash. Pivot. Stab. Twist. Pull.

One guard down.

Spin. Block with one blade. Drive the other through a kidney.

Two down.

Backstep. Let them overextend. Come up under their guard.

Three down.

It's beautiful in the most horrifying way possible.

There's no wasted movement. No hesitation. No mercy.

Just pure, clinical efficiency wrapped in a package that looks like art.

Blood splashes across his dark shirt, across his face, across his hands. It drips from the blades as he walks over the bodies like they're nothing more than obstacles in his path.

His emerald eyes never leave the dais.

Never leave Dante, Giuseppe, and Carlo, who are backing up now, their earlier confidence completely shattered.

The arena floor is a massacre scene.

Dozens of guards down. Dead or dying. The stone is slick with blood, the torchlight reflecting off the spreading pools in wavering patterns.

And Nikolai just keeps walking.

Not rushing.

Not hurrying.

Just... walking.

Like he has all the time in the world.

Like this outcome was inevitable from the moment he stepped out of that black supercar.

He reaches the base of the dais and stops.

Looks up at the three Corsican kings.

And smiles.

It's the same psychopathic smile I saw earlier. Empty and wrong and absolutely terrifying.

"Gentlemen," he says pleasantly, as if he isn't covered in blood. As if there aren't dozens of corpses behind him. "Shall we discuss the terms of your surrender?"

Dante's face is white. Actually white. All the color has drained from it, leaving him looking like a ghost.

Giuseppe has pulled a handgun from inside his ornate mantle. His hands are shaking so badly the barrel is wavering.

Carlo has drawn a knife—expensive-looking, probably ceremonial rather than practical.

Three grown men. Syndicate leaders with decades of experience. Armed and supposedly dangerous.

Against one nineteen-year-old boy with two knives and absolutely nothing to lose.

It should be a fair fight.

It's not.

Not even close.

Nikolai ascends the dais steps with the same leisurely pace. Not running. Not charging. Just walking up like he's arriving at a dinner party.

Giuseppe fires.

The gunshot is impossibly loud.

The bullet catches Nikolai in the shoulder—I see the impact, see his shirt tear, see blood bloom across the dark fabric.

He doesn't stop walking.

Doesn't even slow down.

He just... keeps coming.

Giuseppe fires again. Misses.

Tries to fire a third time.

Nikolai closes the distance, bats the gun aside with one blade, and drives the other through Giuseppe's wrist.

Giuseppe screams—a high, terrible sound—and drops the gun.

Nikolai yanks the blade free, spins, and kicks Giuseppe's knee with enough force that I hear the bone shatter from across the arena.

Giuseppe goes down hard.

Carlo lunges with his ceremonial knife.

Nikolai sidesteps, catches Carlo's wrist, twists it with a sharp crack, and forces Carlo to drop the weapon. Then he sweeps Carlo's legs out from under him, sending the older man crashing to the stone dais floor.

Dante tries to run.

He actually turns and tries to sprint away, his ornate mantle flying behind him.

Nikolai moves faster than should be humanly possible.

He catches Dante by the back of his mantle, yanks him backward so hard Dante's feet leave the ground, and slams him down onto the stone with enough force to knock the air from his lungs.

Then Nikolai stands over all three of them—Dante gasping for breath, Giuseppe cradling his shattered wrist and broken knee, Carlo clutching his twisted arm—and the look on his face is pure satisfaction.

"Kneel," Nikolai says softly.

None of them move fast enough.

Nikolai's boot connects with Dante's ribs—I hear something crack—and Dante chokes out a sob as he struggles to his knees.

Giuseppe is already down, unable to stand on his destroyed leg.

Carlo tries to maintain some dignity, but Nikolai grabs him by his silver hair and forces his head down.

All three Corsican kings are kneeling now.

Broken.

Bleeding.

Defeated.

Nikolai stands behind them, his curved blades still dripping blood, and his voice carries across the arena with absolute authority.

"You wanted a ritual," he says. "Let me show you what a real one looks like."

He presses one blade against Dante's neck—not cutting, just resting there. The threat is clear.

"Abdicate," Nikolai says simply.

Dante's breathing is ragged. "What?"

"Your power. Your territories. Your entire syndicate. Abdicate it. All of it. Verbally and officially. Transfer everything to me." Nikolai's smile widens. "Or I start removing pieces of you until you agree."

"You can't—" Carlo starts.

Nikolai moves the other blade to Carlo's neck. "I absolutely can. And I will. The only question is whether you make this easy or whether I have to get creative."

There's a long moment of silence.

Then Dante—his voice shaking with pain and fear—starts speaking.

"I, Dante Benedetti, hereby abdicate all power, territories, and holdings of the Corsican syndicate to Nikolai de Rivel."

Giuseppe follows, his words slurred through pain. "I, Giuseppe Santoro, abdicate all power and territories to Nikolai de Rivel."

Carlo is the last. His voice is bitter. Defeated. "I, Carlo Grimaldi, abdicate—"

The words aren't even fully out of his mouth before Nikolai moves.

One smooth slash across Carlo's throat.

Blood sprays.

Carlo makes a wet, gurgling sound and pitches forward, dead before he hits the stone.

Dante and Giuseppe both scream.

Nikolai doesn't react at all. He just steps over Carlo's body, grabs Dante and Giuseppe by their hair—one in each hand—and starts dragging them across the dais.

Down the steps.

Across the arena floor.

They're screaming, begging, trying to resist, but Nikolai is stronger than he looks and he's moving with purpose.

He drags them all the way across the blood-slicked stone until he reaches me.

And then he drops them at the base of the stone slab I'm kneeling on.

His eyes meet mine.

Up close, I can see the blood splattered across his face. Across his neck. Across those dual family crests tattooed on both sides of his throat.

He looks like a nightmare made flesh.

But his eyes—

His eyes when they look at me are warm.

Soft.

Full of something I'm terrified to name.

"Leah," he says, and his voice is gentle. "Close your eyes, mon papillon. Just for a moment."

I should be terrified.

I should be running.

But instead I find myself trusting him completely.

I close my eyes.

I feel his hands on me—careful, deliberately avoiding touching my skin with his blood-soaked fingers. Instead, he slides his arms under my knees and behind my back, lifting me effortlessly.

My bound hands rest against his chest. I can feel his heartbeat—steady, calm, completely unaffected by the massacre he just committed.

He carries me across the arena.

I keep my eyes closed, feeling the movement, hearing the sound of his boots against stone, feeling the controlled strength in the way he holds me.

Finally, he stops.

"You can open them now," he says softly.

I do.

We're standing in front of a massive stone throne.

It's ancient—older than the rest of the arena, carved from a single piece of dark stone and covered in intricate symbols. The back rises high, imposing, designed to make whoever sits in it look powerful.

This was Dante's seat.

The seat of the Corsican king.

Nikolai sets me down on it gently, arranging my bound hands in my lap, he slices the bound in my hand with his knife, making sure I'm stable.

The stone is cold through my thin dress, but I barely notice.

Because Nikolai has descended the throne steps and is walking back toward where he dropped Dante and Giuseppe.

He grabs them by their hair again—both men sobbing now, broken and terrified—and drags them back to the throne.

Forces them to their knees at the base of the steps.

Right at my feet.

Then Nikolai positions himself behind them, one curved blade resting against each of their necks.

The entire arena has gone silent.

The American princes, now freed from their chains, are standing at the edge of the dais, watching with expressions ranging from satisfaction to outright approval.

The European soldiers lining the perimeter haven't moved. They're just watching. Waiting.

Nikolai's voice rings out across the arena, clear and commanding.

"Beg," he says simply.

Dante and Giuseppe both start talking at once, their words tumbling over each other.

"Please—"

"We didn't know—"

"We were just following orders from ancient—"

"Shut up," Nikolai says calmly, and they both fall silent. "Not to me. To her."

He nods at me.

They turn their heads—as much as they can with blades at their throats—to look up at me on the throne.

"Beg Princess Leah Donovan for forgiveness," Nikolai continues. "For murdering her parents. For erasing her bloodline. For terrorizing her. For trying to sacrifice her. Beg."

Dante starts first, and he's actually crying. Tears streaming down his face, snot running from his nose. All the dignity of the powerful syndicate leader completely stripped away.

"Princess Donovan," he chokes out. "I—I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. We were wrong. We were so wrong. Please. Please forgive me. Please spare my life. I'll do anything. Anything you want. Just please—"

Giuseppe follows, equally broken. "Princess—Lady Donovan—please. We made a mistake. A terrible mistake. Your parents—we shouldn't have—please. I have children. Grandchildren. Please don't let him kill me. Please—"

They're sobbing now. Full, body-wracking sobs. These powerful men who orchestrated the murder of my entire family, who controlled my life from the shadows, who tried to sacrifice me in some twisted ritual—

They're begging me for mercy.

I sit frozen on the throne, unable to process what I'm seeing.

Unable to speak.

Unable to move.

Nikolai waits until they've exhausted themselves. Until their begging has dissolved into incoherent sobbing.

Then he looks up at me.

His emerald eyes meet mine.

And he smiles.

That same empty, psychopathic smile.

"Thank you for your apologies," he says pleasantly to Dante and Giuseppe. "They were very moving."

Then—

Before either of them can react—

His blades flash.

Two smooth slashes across two throats.

Arterial blood sprays across the stone steps of the throne.

Both men make wet, choking sounds and pitch forward.

Dead.

Their blood pools at the base of my feet or more like at the thorne, dark and spreading, and I can't look away from it.

Nikolai killed them.

He let them beg for mercy, let them pour out their fear and desperation—

And killed them anyway.

The arena is completely silent.

Not a single person moves.

Not a single sound except for the quiet drip of blood from Nikolai's blades onto the stone.

He straightens slowly, pulling a black silk handkerchief from his pocket—somehow still clean despite everything—and wipes his blades with careful, methodical movements.

Then he tucks the knives back into their ankle sheaths, pockets the handkerchief, and turns to survey the arena.

His eyes sweep across the scene.

The bodies on the floor.

The blood everywhere.

The hooded figures cowering against the walls.

The European soldiers standing at attention around the perimeter.

The helicopters still hovering above, their searchlights illuminating everything in harsh white light.

And finally, he looks up at the open sky.

Raises one hand in a sharp, precise signal.

Immediately, the soldiers snap to attention.

Two hundred elite forces moving as one, forming tight, synchronized rows around the arena walls.

Perfect discipline.

Perfect coordination.

They're waiting for something.

Nikolai turns back to me on the throne.

And does something I never, in a million years, expected to see.

He walks up the blood-slicked steps.

Stops directly in front of me.

And drops to his knees.

Not stumbling.

Not collapsing.

Deliberately.

Gracefully.

He kneels at my feet, his emerald eyes looking up at me with an expression that makes my heart physically hurt.

It's not the empty psychopathic look.

It's not the clinical observation.

It's pure, absolute, obsessive devotion.

Like I'm something sacred.

Like I'm something worth worshipping.

His voice rings out across the arena, echoing off the stone walls with perfect clarity.

"I, Nikolai de Rivel, son of Lucifer and Ana de Rivel, grandson of Vincenzo Valentini—"

He pauses, and that psychopathic smile spreads across his blood-splattered face.

"—bow to Princess Leah Donovan of the Donovan Empire."

The words hang in the air.

Princess.

Princess.

I'm not—I can't be—

But Nikolai isn't finished.

His smile widens, and his voice drops an octave, becoming something darker, more possessive, more absolutely certain.

"And the future Mrs. de Rivel."

The arena explodes with sound.

Nikolai rises to his feet in one smooth motion, turns to face his army, and his voice becomes a roar that shakes the very foundations of the gothic arena.

"KNEEL!"

Two hundred soldiers drop to one knee in perfect synchronization.

The sound of their movement is like a wave crashing—armor clanging, boots hitting stone, a wall of noise that makes the ground vibrate.

And then their voices join together in a shout that makes my ears ring.

"HAIL PRINCESS DONOVAN!"

The sound is deafening.

Overwhelming.

Absolutely terrifying.

The helicopters above dip lower, their searchlights all converging on the throne where I'm sitting, illuminating me like I'm standing center stage.

"HAIL PRINCESS DONOVAN!"

The soldiers shout it again, their voices shaking the earth.

Up on the dais, the four American princes have also dropped to one knee. Evander. Lucius. Tristan. Landon. All of them kneeling, acknowledging what just happened.

The entire underworld just bowed to me.

To my bloodline.

To the family I didn't even know I had until tonight.

I can't breathe.

I can't think.

I can't process any of this.

Nikolai turns back to me, and he's still smiling that wild, unhinged smile.

But as he lowers his head—as he bows before me one more time—

His lips move.

Silently.

Forming words that only I can see.

Crown Princess de Rivel.

Not just Princess Donovan.

His.

He's claiming me in front of his entire army, in front of the American princes, in front of the smoking remains of the Corsican syndicate.

Marking me as his the same way he marked those men with his blades.

Permanent.

Absolute.

Undeniable.

And the terrifying part—the part that should send me running—

Is that I don't want to run.

I want to stay.

I want to let him keep looking at me like I'm the only thing in the world that matters.

I want to believe that a boy born without the capacity for normal human emotion somehow learned to feel something for me.

Even if that something is obsessive.

Possessive.

Dangerous.

Even if it's wrapped in blood and violence and the kind of devotion that destroys everything it touches.

I want it anyway.

God help me.

I want him anyway.

Nikolai rises from his bow, and his emerald eyes lock onto mine with an intensity that steals whatever breath I have left.

"Mon papillon," he says softly, and somehow his voice carries even over the noise of the soldiers, the helicopters, the chaos. "Are you ready to come home?"

Home.

Not to my dorm room.

Not to the foster system or the life I've been surviving in.

Home.

With him.

With the monster who just massacred dozens of people.

With the psychopath who brought two empires to war for me.

With the boy who kneels at my feet and calls me his future wife like it's already a done deal.

I should say no.

I should be terrified.

But instead, I find my voice—small and shaking but mine—and give him the only answer that feels true.

"Yes."

His smile softens.

Becomes something almost human.

Almost warm.

"Then let's go," he says.

And he reaches down, gently helps me to my feet.

My legs are shaking.

I'm not sure I can walk.

But Nikolai solves that problem by simply scooping me up into his arms again, carrying me like I weigh nothing at all.

He descends the throne steps, stepping over the bodies of Dante and Giuseppe without a glance, and starts walking toward the arena exit.

The soldiers part for him.

The American princes fall into step behind us.

The helicopters maintain their formation overhead.

And as we leave the gothic arena—as Nikolai carries me out into the night air, into the moonlight, into whatever comes next—

I realize something that should terrify me but instead feels like coming home.

I'm his.

Completely.

Irrevocably.

And he's mine.

The Reaper Prince and his butterfly.

The monster and the girl he learned to worship.

And I wouldn't have it any other way.