Page 47 of Ruthless Kings of Vengeance
I catch fragments?—
"...was shot..."
"...disappeared for weeks..."
"...looks different somehow..."
The words wash over me without impact. Allow them to speculate. Their opinions mean nothing compared to the urgent mission pulsing through my veins.
I'm almost at the main building when someone gets in my way.
Amara from the Elwing Empire, that cunt from the courtyard from our last confrontation.
Her mere presence has people pausing in their conversations to look her way, some in fear, others in curiosity, knowing she's probably gonna make a display of some kind like last time.
She stands with calculated casualness, hip-cocked, perfectly manicured hand resting on the curve of her waist. Her uniform—more expensive than standard issue, tailored to hug her curves in ways that push the boundaries of the dress code without quite violating them—marks her as someone accustomed to bending rules.
Her smile is sharp as a blade, her eyes cold despite the warmth she pretends to project.
"Well, well," she calls, voice carrying across the suddenly hushed courtyard. "Look who finally decided to grace us with her presence. We thought you'd transferred...or worse."
She raises her arm, which has that familiar metallic weapon in her grasp, and I know from one look that it isn't a toy gun this time around.
The sun glints off polished steel, the barrel looking impossibly black and final as it points in my direction. A few people curse, while some girls scream to take cover, but my strides are still going, nothing has slowed down.
I can feel my Kings' presence behind me — the shift in their collective energy as they register the threat, the subtle rearrangement as they move to more strategic positions. I don't turn to look, don't need visual confirmation of their readiness.
That's the beauty of what we've become — extensions of each other, operating with instinctive coordination that requires no verbal communication.
"C'mon, don't try to act like you're blind. This isn't a gun!"
She tries to sweetly state, her voice carrying that particular cadence of someone who believes their audience is stupid enough to be convinced by transparent lies. The weapon in her hand clearly indicates otherwise, its deadly purpose undeniable despite her words.
I hear someone curse behind me, which I can only assume is Domino because I can't recognize his voice by instinct. His words carry an urgency that doesn't penetrate my single-minded focus.
"Wait, Eva!"
I don't wait.
I don't even slow down.
My strides maintain their relentless rhythm, each step carrying me closer to the obstacle that dares stand between me and finding Matteo.
I've survived bullets and poison, endured emotional manipulation and gaslighting, overcome attempted murder, and the cruelty of memory loss. This girl with her gun and misplaced confidence is nothing but a momentary inconvenience.
"If you give me Domino, I won't shoot you u?—"
I don't even wait for her to finish, my hand retrieving my weapon of choice before it glides through the air and pierces into her hand, causing her to scream as she drops the gun that goes off.
The throw is perfect—fluid and precise; the blade embeds itself directly through her palm, pinning her hand with the gun in a single devastating motion. Time seems to slow as her fingers spasm, the weapon discharging as it falls.
Screams ignite all around us, the sound wave rippling outward from the center of violence we've created together.
I feel the slice of a bullet grace upward along my cheek, its path close enough to burn across my skin without penetrating flesh.
The projectile continues its trajectory upward, hitting a bird that shrieks and falls to its demise, a small puff of feathers marking its final moment before it plummets to the courtyard stones.
Blood trickles warm down my cheek, but I'm still walking toward the bitch who's screaming hysterically while the blade is pierced through her hand.
