34. Leni

“Isurrender,” I call out quickly, desperate to be heard before anyone can stop me.

Kneeling in the burned grass, Cross curses viciously, dull black shadows wisping off his hands, glossy crimson blood pouring from his thigh. Choking with anguish, he swipes for me. A last effort to protect me.

Silly little Kingsguard.

He’s been trying to protect me for weeks and trying to help everyone else for centuries, and it’s only hurt him.

In a rush, Sin presses steady hands into Cross’s spurting leg, directing a furious and beautiful glare at me as he pleads for Cross to cease moving.

Despite the agony and turmoil sinking in my stomach, I feel a tiny sense of relief when Atlas’s dark blue eyes meet mine. Silently conveying that he understands the sacrifice was necessary.

The spymaster will heal, Atlas seems to say. I’ll ensure it.

A couple punches and a turf war, and I think he and I are finally friends.

“Take him far away,” I order, my voice shaking with emotion. “Farther than you think. Take all of them.”

Only after Atlas nods do I firm my chin and turn to Kleio. “Take me to His Grace.”

The blonde grins wickedly, revealing white teeth as sharp as nails. “Hurry up, princess. Hubby’s waiting, and he’s not the patient sort.”

Drained, I propel myself forward, storming over the charred grass and sizzling debris, leaving behind the Blackguard to enter a fold of royal green. The entire yard smells like smoke and acrid burning plastic.

Thick, hot blood leaks across my pant leg, my fingers are numb, and every step feels like I’ve been hit by a truck, but I push through the pain.

I embrace it.

Blondie takes my arm, gentler than I expected, mindful of my injury. She whistles once and the sea of green leather clusters together, cowls and blades and efficiency.

“We’re done here,” the commander says, in a tone so unlike what she threw across the lawn, I do a double take. “I’ll deliver the goods. Everyone split. Leto stays with Sashira. No contact.”

Direct, commanding, detached. She sounds so much like Atlas, I feel a ridiculous urge to laugh.

As the Queensguard disperses into the woods, I struggle to stay upright. My vision blurs and fades as the pain gnaws at me. Yaya’s voice echoes in my mind, urging me to run, but my body can barely move, let alone run.

The cut in my arm is too deep. I messed it up, sliced something critical. I stagger.

Little bird, run,Yaya would beg.

I don’t want to run. Yaya’s running set me on this path. Just as generations before her ran and abandoned her.

How much suffering has resulted from our running? Because we’re weak? Because we’re not fighters?

Luke’s mortal, he fights. Atlas is a Chire. Cross doesn’t know his own name, and he fights.

It’s past time we fought.

At the edge of the forest, Kleio hands me off to a trio of sentries with a triumphant, “And that’s how it’s done, kiddos.”

They drag me through the trees, trudging over thorny sticks and stamping out patches of scratchy snow.

I unleash my most valuable gift: procrastination. I stumble and limp and trip, delaying the inevitable until the biggest male grows impatient and hoists me roughly over his shoulders.

Blood rushes to my head and slams everything black.

The next coherent thought that crosses my mind is that Draven looks oddly small in front of a helicopter. Almost disproportionate. As if he rolled out of a gumball machine in a little clear ball.

We’re in a narrow clearing, wind howling across dead yellow grass. The helicopter’s blades slice through the air with a guttural mechanical buzz.

Hands clasped at his waist, Draven’s puffy face reveals no hint of emotion, only cool detachment as he regards me being lugged towards him like a sack of rotten potatoes.

I’m dumped unceremoniously at his feet, a tangled heap of limp limbs and torn clothing, dried pine needles sticking to my skin. The prince surveys me with beady blue eyes, a predator deciding if it’ll risk consuming rancid meat.

Run, run, run!Yaya screams in my head.

I teeter to my knees, cradling my injured arm.

I hope Cross runs.

“My wife,” Draven’s cold voice cuts above the helicopter’s din. He’s not wearing a suit as he prefers, nor armor like his sentries. He’s wearing slacks as if it’s a regular day. Like I’m nothing special.

I feel faint. The needles stuck to my palms are turning dark pink, but I glare up at him defiantly. “If I recall, we haven’t signed the papers.”

His lip curls in a sneer. “It’s over, angel. Time to beg for my forgiveness.”

“We’re not getting married. You don’t want to marry me.”

“Oh angel,” he tsks, amused by my feeble mind. “Just because you’ve gotten fat and graffitied your body, you believe you’re free. I’ll peel all of it off you, inch by inch, imperfection by imperfection.”

I serve him a big, toothy grin. “You don’t want me. I’m not a virgin anymore.”

He hits me across the face with a force that makes my head spin.

Black dots my vision. I gasp and spit blood onto my thighs.

“Don’t you dare speak back to me,” Draven sneers, yanking a handful of my hair and pulling me to my feet. He scowls at the blood gushing down my forearm, splashing onto his loafers. “You’ve made a mess of yourself when this body isn’t even yours to play with. It’s mine.”

“Let go of me.”

He grabs my chin, forces me to meet his gaze, fingers like hot branding pokers. “Never.”

“I’m ruined,” I rasp, loose strands of blue whipping across my face. “Did you not hear me? It’s over.”

“Yes, you’ve rutted like a nasty whore.” Pain lances up my arm as he twists me, assaulting me with the scent of plastic and leather. “But who will tell the queen? You? You won’t dare to ever defy me again. I’m going to whip you with my name. When you see me coming, you’ll drop to your knees and open your mouth for me like a good little bitch.” His words are venom, his tone is pleased. “And if you ever disobey me, I’ll spend weeks ending you. Again and again. And all the while, I’ll just keep fucking that tight virgin cunt.”

I sway into him, closing my eyes, dizzy, angry.

So many of my plans have failed. Starting a forest fire on the royal estate. Getting caught stalking the Blackguard. Burning down a beloved city block.

“That’s it, angel,” the prince taunts as he rips at my hair once more. “To think, I was told your breed was biddable.”

Despite everything, I can’t help but laugh.

Draven shakes me. Hard. “You shut up.”

“I just realized you’re right.” I stare up at him, feeling like one big bruise. “It didn’t occur to me earlier, but it should have. Who is going to tell the queen?”

“Fucking Tartarus, you’re dumber than you look.”

“Actually,” I spit, hating this male with every fiber of my being. “I’m quite smart.” And everything, for once, has fallen into place.

This isn’t his check, it’s my check mate. It’s a royal flush. It’s my high score. My final plan has come together. Brilliantly.

Yes, the explosion was larger than intended, but it stopped the hand to hand combat from escalating, allowed discourse to begin. Carved out a temporary reprieve for me to say goodbye and prevent Cross from chasing me. And yes, the slash in my arm is an inch deeper than I wanted, but it works.

It’s all working.

I’m sleepy, the sky has turned milky purple and there’s rich, creamy raspberry chocolate sticking to my tastebuds. I don’t read medical journals, but they’d undoubtedly confirm these are sure signs of excessive blood loss.

I smell apples, or maybe oranges, something fruity, and I’m freezing. Colder than the Baltic.

It’s so close, but just to be sure, I retrieve the knife from my back pocket. “You’re going to spend the rest of eternity wishing you’d treated me the way I deserve,” I croak as I grab the Sixth Prince of Hope’s hand and stab myself in the heart.

The pain is excruciating.

My vision fades. Towering trees become hazy and distorted, the blades of the helicopter seem to rotate distressingly slow.

This is the end, and I am finally in control.

Warm dark shadows envelop me like an old friend, and I relax into it as Cross’s midnight voice curls around me, dangerous.

He knew. Right from the start.