Vengeance (The Prince's Games Book 1) by Rebecca Grey (electric book reader TXT) 📕

clamp down on all my emotions, forcing myself to the numb state of being I prefer to live in. If this feeling is hope, then I'd rather not let it take hold of me. I'm bound to be disappointed. I always am.

"Now go," he snaps, his face twisted in frustration. "Get Juilliard and go to the ship. I'll meet you there with Hedda."

I turn on my heels with nothing left to say. I don't have anything in me to argue or fight back. Maybe this had been another mistake. Maybe when I'm around Marcello I can't do anything right. Maybe the Elf sucks the luck out of everyone else around him to keep for himself.

Embarrassment is hot on my neck and I'm glad the cloak covers it. I force myself back into the main lobby of Hedda's brothel and move toward Juilliard where he's already stepping away from the wall. He reaches for my arm as I storm by him.

"What did you do?" He follows at my heels.

I slam my palm into the door, letting it swing dramatically open for us to exit. The ship waits for us against the littered dock and I point myself toward it.

"I did what I had to do to stay alive. I did what I've had to do every day for the past twenty-four years. You fucking Elves wouldn't understand."

"We'll I'm sure we'd happily give it a try. Why are you so brash all the time, Nilsa? Just chill out for fucks sake."

"Go to the ship Juilliard. Marcello told us to go to the ship. I'm doing as I'm told, and I wish this could just be the end of it."

We cross the street and I growl, kicking angrily at the gravel. Rocks fly from the toe of my boots and scatter in front of us, hitting empty liquor bottles loudly. The edges of my vision blur as my frustration rises. Fisting my hands, I force it back down.

Numb. I want to be numb.

"Marcello is going to want to talk about it. He'll probably understand it too, if you just explain it to him. I mean, you don't have to tell me, I'd rather remain ignorant." He rushes to catch up to me and keep pace at my side. "Marcello spent plenty of years fighting for his life. He'd know better than anyone else what you're dealing with."

An Elf fighting for his life? Now that sounds absurd. Even an Elf who could possibly be put in the same situation as me can't relate to the hardship of being Human in this day and age. Whatever picture Juilliard is trying to paint for me, I'm certain it's only for the sake of keeping me around for the Games.

"You don't have to lie to me."

"I'm not. Ask him yourself."

And learn more about these Elves? Try to make a connection with them? No, I’d rather not. I scrub at my face, stopping when we reach the dock that leads us to our ship. Juilliard huffs and walks by me, heading up the gangway.

I look back at Hedda's business. The front door opens and Marcello escorts Hedda out of the building with a smile plastered to his face. Even at this distance I swear that his gaze meets mine. Even though I don't want to, even though I tell myself I'll never ask... I wonder why and how Marcello ever had to fight for his life.

 

I hate the way the damn boards bounce as I storm up the gangway. I hate the way I feel some lingering sense of shame. SHAME, goddamn it. I hate feelings. I hate emotions. And I hate most of all that someone like Marcello is making me feel at all.

Juilliard points me to Marcello's office where the door is cracked open for me to enter. The look on his face tells me I should count my lucky stars. For what? For us getting away with Hedda in tow without me getting caught? The boat hasn't left the shore just yet.

Not far behind Marcello, the rest of the crew begrudgingly drags their feet and holds onto the liquor that they purchased. Frowns and scowls litter the entire lot of them. But had they truly expected to stay so long? Had Marcello intended to stay longer?

I brush past Juilliard, huffing a mild snarl under my breath. My boots stomp against the deck, resounding in the night and I'm sure it isn't missed by the entire swarm of Elves making their way to us. But I don't care. I couldn't give the slightest fuck what these worms think of my little fit.

I want to break something. I want to cut something. Or shout. Maybe I'll scream out in rage.

At my apartment the other mercenaries there have gotten used to me screaming inside of my room on particularly rough days. Sometimes I'd pound my fists into the bed or kick at the walls too. I know it makes me look and sound like a toddler, and I hate that too. I hate myself for these fits of anger that eat me up with no way out except with the slashing of my fists.

My hand wraps around the edge of the office door and I throw myself inside, slamming it shut behind me. I feel the handle for a lock, hoping I can keep Marcello and Juilliard out for a single minute longer. Plus, the fact that they would hate being locked out of this stupid room gives me the slightest ounce of joy. No lock.

Pressing my back into the door, I take a deep breath in. Juilliard's cloak pulls against my neck. The four walls of the room feel as though they are tilting in. They're too close. They're suffocating. I tug at the strings, stepping forward so that the material flutters to the