Page 224 of Lethal King

Rozalia

The idiot doesn’t even realize I can see him.

Fuck.

That just makes this all so much worse.

How the hell did an amateur like Leander Onasis get the jump on us? It hardly makes sense. Sure, the ambush could have been planned by any one of his mercenary lackeys, but that doesn’t excuse what’s happening now.

The first lesson any good criminal learns about kidnapping a person is that when you take them, you put a bag over their head, or at least a blindfold over their eyes—even if you think they’re unconscious.

It keeps them from learning the layout, recognizing the location, and gaining even the slightest bit of an advantage.

But Leander hasn’t done that to me. And none of his hired guns have tried to fix that mistake.

It makes me feel like even more of a failure, and it takes a concentrated effort to not let my anger and frustration seethe from my limp face as I try to pretend I’m still knocked out.

Still, I can feel my cheeks twitch every time I think of what happened. I’m desperate to sneer. To spit. To rage.

Leander should have killed me when he had the chance. He should have stabbed me in the back, just like he did to Drago.

Drago.

My heart lurches as I fight away the sharp grief cutting through my chest. I’ve cried enough for one lifetime. I don’t want to feel bad anymore.

But that’s easier said than done.

Growing tears blur my vision as I stare ahead through half-closed eyelids. I’m not sure where Leander dragged me while I was still unconscious, but I have a great view of the inside.

It’s a hell of a lot comfier than any place I’d have brought him to.

The carpet at my feet is thick and luxurious, and the paintings on the walls are modern and grand. There isn’t much furniture, but there is a window. The blind hasn’t been closed all the way. In the dark slab of glass, I can see Leander’s reflection.

That golden skin has turned white.

He’s pale as a ghost.

Squinting, I try to make out more of his blurry reflection. I want to see why he’s so pale. Is it fear? Disgust? Nerves?

God, I hope it’s fear. I hope he’s shitting his linen pants right now.

But what could he be scared of? Drago is dead. I’m bound to this chair. He’s not in any danger.

… Not unless Tytus escaped.

My aching heart twists with dreadful hope.

My head is still pounding from the tranquilizer, but I can remember exactly what I saw before I passed out.

Tytus. Fighting for his life.

He was ripping Leander’s mercenaries to shreds.

But there were so many of them…

“Are you awake?” a deep voice asks, stepping up from behind me.

I don’t answer, not even as the cold barrel of a rifle dips beneath my chin and lifts my head. I keep my neck limp.