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My hands clenched tighter around my gun.
“Yes, well. This time, I upped the ante.” Victor tossed the final few assault weapons to his guests. They sailed through the air looking exactly like AK-47s. “Usually, the winner gets to enjoy a night of their choice in the snuffbox or dungeon, painting their jewel with a few more bruises if they feel so inclined. They’re still bound by my guidelines, and I don’t tolerate unnecessary violence, but…it’s always been good fun.”
“What do the winners get today, then?” Patrick asked, swiping his hand beneath his nose, looking cracked out with eagerness to begin.
Grinning like a puppeteer pulling everyone’s nasty strings, Victor announced, “I’m aware some of you might be feeling a tad, shall we say…stifled under my many rules. And so…my gift to you is…no rules.”
Men looked at one another in confusion.
But then...that confusion slowly switched to understanding and finally to fucking glee.
“You mean it, Vic?” Charles asked. “You truly mean we can do whatever the fuck we want?”
Nodding, Victor slammed a crate closed and leapt onto it like a goddamn spider monkey. Spreading his arms, he glowed beneath the sunshine. “Each gun will be loaded with a particular colour. That colour will determine the winner. The one who manages to shoot and paint a jewel the most—layering him or her with bruises at the same time—will win the right to do whatever their blackened heart desires.”
“Even mutilation?” Ferdinand asked quietly.
“Yep.” Victor nodded. “With my blessing.”
“Asphyxiation?” Charles asked.
“Of course.”
“Hook play?”
What the fuck is hook play?
“Mm-hmm.” Victor smiled.
“Death?” Roland smiled like a psychopath. “What about that?”
Victor didn’t reply for a moment, dragging out the suspense and my damn heartrate. Finally, he clasped his hands and pinned all of us with a blank, deadly serious stare.
His temper rose without warning—his frustration and intolerance, and every sick emotion he harboured that was usually so well covered with careful veneer—crawled to the surface and rained over us like acid.
“You hunt to eat, don’t you? You shoot to kill, yes? Well, my beloved friends…today is that hunt. Today is that kill. So yes. Whoever wins this game has my unequivocal permission to do whatever he fucking wants. My gems have been protected by my rules for long enough and deserve a refresher for just how good they have it.”
He swiped away a fake tear. “Am I not good to them? Do I not provide them comfy beds, healthy food, and good healthcare?”
“You do, Vic. You’re a fabulous father.”
“And so why must they keep chipping away at my magnanimity? Why must I stoop to their level to remind them that they are fucking nothing to me? They are mine. My flock. My sheep. My little herd to do whatever I fucking well please with. They’re spoiled and ungrateful, and after today…they will remember their place.” Breathing hard, he raked both hands through his hair and smiled. “After today, you’ll see…we will have peace again, and all this nasty tension will be behind us.”
Leaping down from the crate, he grabbed his own gun. “Now, arm up, gentlemen, the hunt is about to begin.”
Chapter Nineteen
………………………….
Ily
I STUMBLED OVER THE KITCHEN’s threshold, unable to believe my eyes.
I’d thought Rachel was taking us to the jewel quarters.
A part of me longed to return to all those rows of neat beds where everyone supported one another. Where no one judged and all shared a safe space to air their fears, worries, and pain.
I wanted to share so many things.
I wanted to apologise to Peter and make sure he was okay.
I wanted to talk to each jewel and prepare them for an uprising.
But Rachel guided me away from that wing and toward the back of the citadel instead.
She kept her fingers locked tight around mine, tugging me farther and farther from Henri. Down long, drafty corridors and around ominous bends. Tapestries gave way to stone blocks, and fancy sconces became bare lightbulbs by the time we popped into the working heart of this trafficker’s palace.
I felt as if I’d fallen through time as I blinked at the controlled chaos.
At least ten people bustled about in a huge kitchen. The ceilings were curved and low, soot-stained and weathered like similar manors I’d explored in England. Huge ovens and stovetops, massive chopping blocks with knife marks and rusty spots of blood. Big windows spilled sunlight onto racks of gleaming knives while the coppery glow of polished pots and pans hung from large hooks.
Unlike in the ancient eras, where whole hogs were spit-roasted in open fireplaces and pheasants were plucked in buckets by the back door, Victor’s kitchen blended modern with old.
Stainless steel tables cut the kitchen in half, some covered in flour while staff kneaded dough and layered huge trays full of intricate fruit pastries ready to go into the oven.
Someone stirred a giant cauldron, giving off steamy tendrils laced with tarragon and garlic. Another poured melted butter over a roasting pan full of chicken breasts.
