40. Venetia
Venetia
I watch them scatter, each a perfect instrument of war, moving to my command.
My assassin, my brute, my strategist. A vicious smile tugs at my lips.
Cravenmoor has no idea what he’s walking into.
He thinks he’s coming to crush a rebellion; he’s actually walking into a perfectly laid trap, orchestrated by his worst fucking nightmare.
I need to see the whole board, not just one part of it. But I need to be armed first.
Heading quickly to our room, I grab my toolbox and push back the lid.
Nothing close quarters will work, so I need firepower.
“Dammit,” I mutter when I come up empty.
Viper has wiped me out. I narrow my eyes as I scan the room and then smile.
Moving out, I take the stairs quickly and cross over the car park to Viper’s Range Rover.
Popping the boot open, I lift the false bottom and smile. “Jackpot.”
The compartment is a fucking work of art.
Lined with custom-cut foam, it holds an arsenal that makes my cunt twitch.
A compact Heckler even the wind seems to have gone still. By my best guess, twenty minutes have passed. My legs are getting stiff. My hands are cold and locked around the rifle. My nipples are like pebbles pressing against my top.
I shift my weight, a tiny movement to fight off the encroaching stiffness.
The cold is a living thing, seeping through my jeans, trying to find purchase in my bones.
I welcome it. It keeps me sharp and keeps me focused.
Down below, the quad is a pit of shadows, leaving the castle covered in a darkness that is a shield and a shroud. We are a ghost fortress, waiting.
Movement in the distance, far down the hill, catches my attention.
My head snaps up, my gaze scanning the dark ribbon of road that winds up to the academy.
At first, there is nothing but the oppressive black of the English countryside.
Then I see it again. A flicker. A pinprick of light, then another.
Vehicles are twisting their way up the road directly to our moat.
My heart gives a single, hard thud against my ribs. A hunter’s thrill, sharp and clean. I raise the rifle, ready to light up the sky.
“Showtime,” I murmur into the wind, my breath pluming white in the cold air. The game is on.