His own father?
"When you look at who owns more," the leader continues, clearly enjoying himself now, "An heir is just that. An heir. The real deal is still alive and in power, wanting his own son dead. Sowhat better arrangement than to use you as bait—which is whom he wants."
He gestures to me like I'm an exhibit in a museum.
The Eastman girl. The enemy. The target.
"You'll be dead before the hour, and then we'll clean him and that lot of fools. We get both sets of prize money and no evidence left behind."
He laughs proudly.
Like he's just explained the most brilliant scheme in history.
And maybe it is.
From a certain perspective.
Use me to lure Kai and his pack into a trap. Let the poison kill me so there's no witness to what happened. Eliminate the entire Ruthless Pack in one fell swoop. Collect the bounty from a father who wants his own son dead.
Clean.
Efficient.
No loose ends.
I bob my head, considering.
"It's a pretty good game plan," I admit. "Brilliant."
The leader preens.
"There's only one flaw."
His expression flickers.
"What's that?"
I let the smirk spread across my face—slow, deliberate, the kind of smile that promises violence.
"Well," I say, leaning back in the chair with a casualness I don't feel, "why did you bring me to the audition spot?"
The question hangs in the air.
"Which is obviously," I continue, "my domain."
He laughs.
"Your domain? When you're tied to a chair, hopeless, and about to die?"
I nod.
"Well, yeah."
The lights begin to flicker.
One-two-three-four.
One-two-three-four.
