Page 48 of Ruthless Kings of Vengeance
I could care less.
Her pain is irrelevant, her terror meaningless in the face of the cold purpose driving me forward. The courtyard seems to be frozen around us, students pressing themselves against walls or diving behind benches, creating a perfect open stage for the drama unfolding.
By the time she lifts her head up, I'm in her face, grabbing the hand with the knife and moving in close with eyes that show no emotion.
I watch how her eyes dilate massively, pupils expanding in primal fear as she looks at me like I'm her worst nightmare.
And maybe I am.
"You want Domino? He's all yours. I don't remember the fucker anyways," I say loud and clear as if making a verbal announcement to the entire courtyard. The words emerge crystal-clear, each syllable perfectly enunciated to ensure maximum impact.
I lean in closer, close enough that only she can hear my next words, close enough that my breath disturbs the perfectly styled baby hairs at her temple.
She smells of expensive perfume and fear-sweat, the combination oddly satisfying as I watch her composure crumble entirely.
"But if you ever get in my way, I'll enjoy pulling out my pink gun and shooting your brains out!"
She wants to speak back, I can tell from how she opens her mouth, rehearsed vitriol ready on her tongue, but a scream escapes her as I pull the blade out.
The sudden extraction sends a fresh spray of crimson across the pristine white of her blouse, the contrast vivid and artistic against the fabric. I thank Knifey for its service in my mind before I toss Amara to the ground.
She cries out, looking up at me like I'm some sort of villain, and maybe I am in this cynical moment, knowing everyone is watching, taking photos, and videos of this interaction.
Her perfect image is shattered now — designer uniform ruined, hand mangled, dignity in tatters as she sprawls inelegantly at my feet. Tears cut through her expertly appliedmakeup, leaving trails of mascara that transform her from enviable beauty to cautionary tale.
I think how vital this moment is, with the emphasis I don't recall Domino, but I want to paint a different message.
To prove I've lost my fucking marbles. To show everyone watching—students, faculty, and whoever else might be monitoring this display—that the Ruthless Queen has fully embraced the ruthless part of her title.
That I can no longer be controlled by social expectations or manipulated through conventional means.
I am entirely willing to burn Leighton to the ground if that's what it takes to get Matteo back.
My lips curl as the idea pops into my mind, and I move the blade to my mouth before I slowly lick the blood off the slick side, leaving the courtyard speechless while I grin sinisterly.
The metallic taste floods my mouth, copper-bright and vital. I make sure the performance is thorough—tongue flat against the blade, eyes half-lidded in mock ecstasy, movements slow enough to ensure every phone camera captures the moment in perfect clarity.
"You orchestrated this grand collaboration, and dare act normal when the man that's precious to me is being held away from me? His Ruthless Queen?" I giggle manically, the sound high and unhinged as it echoes across the stunned courtyard.
My eyes narrow while I twirl Knifey between my fingers like it can slice a finger off with one wrong miss.
The blade catches sunlight as it moves, flashing silver and crimson in hypnotic patterns. The display is both threat and promise— evidence of skill honed to perfection and willingness to deploy it without hesitation.
"Whoever takes what's rightfully mine gets to enjoy the stabbing consequences." I point the blade at her and grin, the expression all teeth and no warmth. "So don't get in my wayagain, or this blade will be going through your throat, and I'll gladly parade with your head hanging by the threads of your ugly hair."
With that, I look back at my Kings, waiting to see their eyes and expressions of disgust, but all of them are surprisingly neutral, even Domino which doesn't seem very impactful to me anyway.
There's no shock in their gazes, no horror at my display of savagery. Instead, I see understanding, acceptance—perhaps even approval.
Zander watches with that particular intensity that always makes my skin prickle, his forest-green eyes tracking my every movement like a predator memorizing prey. But there's pride there too, satisfaction at witnessing the Queen he's helped shape embracing her power so completely.
Ares stands slightly apart, his usual perfect posture somehow more rigid, tension evident in the set of his shoulders. But his expression remains carefully neutral, giving nothing away to the observers surely analyzing every reaction.
Marcus studies the scene with a devious grin, cataloging reactions and implications with the same precision he applies to his medical research. His eyes flick briefly to the wound on my cheek, assessing damage and probable treatment with a single glance, a habit he surely can’t help.
Ren lounges with deceptive casualness, his posture suggesting boredom while his eyes miss nothing. The slight curve of his lips might be amusement or appreciation—perhaps both.
Warren stands protectively close, his body angled slightly toward me in a position that would allow him to intervene instantly if needed. His expression carries understanding that borders on encouragement, recognizing the strategy beneath what others might dismiss as mere brutality.
