“Want to tell us why you want to kidnap your father?” Halo's voice cuts through the awkward silence.
I force myself to breathe, one deep, steadying breath then meet his eyes with all the conviction burning inside me. “Cutting off their supply train will only slow them down, not stop them. But taking my dad out? That means his entire operation grinds to a halt. Xaden will come looking for him, which means his empire stops running too.”
“How can you be so sure?” Vatican challenges, skepticism dripping from every word.
“Because I'm going to tell him it was me.” The admission hangs in the air like a live grenade. “I'm going to tell Xaden that I took my father.”
“And why the hell would he care?”
I turn to Carnage, a wicked smile curling across my lips despite the fear coiling in my gut. “He'll think I'm trying to protect my dad. Xaden will come for him just to prove a point, just to hurt me.” The words taste bitter but true. “When he finds him, we let them tear each other apart. While they're distracted, bleeding each other dry, we make our move and rip their empires out from under them. They'll never see it coming. By the time the winner crawls out of the wreckage and realizes what happened, it'll be too late because I will have replaced them both and stolen their crowns.”
“They have men who are loyal to them,” Pope interjects, his tone sharp. “Men who will fight against you.”
I nod, the weight of that reality pressing down on my chest. “I know. That's why I need to take my father's spot first so I'll have the financial backing to buy some of Xaden's men. Everyone has a price. We just have to figure out what it is.”
“And when is this supposed to happen?” Omen's question is careful, measured.
“You continue with your plan to take out the supply trains. After the game, we grab my dad and let Xaden come to us.”
Carnage looks at me with something blazing in his eyes, pride, maybe even admiration, and a wicked smile spreads across his handsome face that makes my heart skip.
“Now you're thinking like a queen.”
Warmth floods through me, dangerous and intoxicating.
“Let's get to work, boys. If we're doing this, we need more manpower.”
“Alex?” Omen questions.
Carn shakes his head firmly. “Not yet. For now, we just have us. When we capture Steven and take out the supply trains, that's when we call because shit will move fast after that and we'll need all the help we can get. We're outnumbered at the moment.”
Guilt sinks its claws into me, tearing at my insides. These guys are risking everything to help me. I should tell them to stop, to go home, to save themselves but the words die in my throat, choking me with my own selfishness. Carnage told me they're under strict orders from Alex not to start a war or attach their names to any trouble. I suspect they have their own war raging back home, but none of them will confirm it.
“I can make a call.”
We all turn to face Harper, the sudden shift in her voice making my blood run cold.
“To who?” I ask, dread already pooling in my stomach.
Shadows of despair dance in her eyes like ghosts rising from a grave, and I see the phantoms of her past haunting her, tormenting her. Shame crashes over me. I'm a terrible friend. I don't know much about Harper's past because she neverwillingly shared the details, and I never pushed. God, I wish I had.
“I can get you the manpower you'll need for Saturday.” Her tone is completely void of emotion, hollow, empty, dead.
“How, Harp?” My voice comes out barely above a whisper, fragile with worry.
Her eyes are blank, lifeless. Her normally vibrant smile has vanished like it never existed.
“You have your devil, and I have mine.”
The ominous words send ice racing down my spine. Something about the devastation in her eyes tells me this call for backup is going to cost my friend far more than she's willing to give, maybe more than she has left to lose.
CHAPTER THIRTY
XADEN
The weight of the hockey stick in my hands is the only thing keeping me grounded, the only thing preventing me from completely losing my fucking mind.
Coach got us excused from classes for the week, a small mercy that feels more like a curse. We're supposed to be working from home, catching up on assignments after hours when our minds are too fried to think straight. But all I can focus on is Saturday. The game. The war that's been brewing between us and the Somerset Eagles for years, festering like an open wound that refuses to heal.
