The Gender War (The Gender Game #4) by Bella Forrest (the beginning after the end read novel .TXT) 📕

from my position I could see Tabitha give Elena a thunderous look, and Elena responded with an imperious smirk. “There you have it,” she said sweetly. “Are the troops in place and ready to go?”

Tabitha nodded. “As soon as Desmond confirms the target is dead, we’ll be ready to go.”

“Excellent. Now please, see to Mr. Croft. Ms. Bates seems confident he’ll rescue her, and I would very much like to disabuse her of that notion.” She touched her nose—it was swollen and purple, marring her elegant features.

So Violet really had punched the queen. A smile grew on my lips. It was so much more satisfying to see that bruise than I’d anticipated. Only Violet could make someone that angry.

Which, in turn, only made my concern grow. Violet had clearly harmed the queen, which might explain why they had brought her up here, rather than back to the cells—maybe she had been deemed too dangerous, so they had been forced to keep her contained elsewhere.

At least, I hoped that was it.

“And Tabitha, have someone get the security system working again—this is a most inopportune, very likely deliberate, time for it to go down. I’d not anticipated them having inside help, but I want to cover every possibility…”

That meant the queen and her sister didn’t know Ms. Dale was out too—which could only be good for us. Although, I wouldn’t have minded a little distraction from being the prime target… I watched as the two women parted ways, and then held my breath, counting in my head until I reached sixty. I made a quick check to make sure the coast was clear, then moved down the hall, back in the direction the women had come from, silently checking doors.

I had to duck into another alcove as someone else approached, and I was surprised to see Desmond breeze past. I waited until she was long gone, cursing at how much slower this was with the area under such heavy guard, and then stepped out into the hall, continuing to check the rooms as quietly as possible. They seemed countless, more sitting rooms, conference rooms, bathrooms, and laboratories than any person could ever hope to use. At least the excessive quantity of fancy, footed furniture gave me plenty of things to hide under.

I couldn’t say how many rooms I checked before I found her. The time I’d been prowling around this level of the palace was starting to feel unreal. What finally alerted me was the stone-faced warden standing guard outside a door along an otherwise very typical suite of what looked like studies. Why guard the door to a library…?

I had no time to be subtle. When the coast was clear, I stepped clearly into the hallway with my gun pointed at the woman’s head.

“Out of the way,” I told her, in the voice I’d used to command criminals to stand down as a Patrian warden. Her eyes flicked to the radio at her belt, and I continued, moving steadily closer. “Don’t even think about it.” Slowly, she put her hands up in the air, and as soon as she did, I lunged, the butt of my handgun connecting with the top of her head.

The woman went down quickly and hard, and I burst through the door—and saw Violet.

I was relieved to find her alive. I’d been worried about discovering a body. But my relief soured when I took in her condition. I turned the lock on the handle of the door behind us and stepped farther into the room.

She had been strapped to a table, secured by her wrists and ankles. Her eyes were closed, and it seemed like she was trying to meditate or control her breathing. I could see that she had been crying—tear trails cut down her cheeks. As my gaze dragged over to the massive, inch-wide blade pinning the palm of her hand to the table, pure, animal rage seared my insides. Blood flowed thickly from the wound, streaking down her arm in ribbons and dripping into a small puddle on the stone floor.

Shoving my gun into the waistband of my pants, I rushed over to her.

“Violet?” I whispered, trying hard to keep my voice gentle, and she opened her eyes, looking at me. Her gaze was glazed and distracted, and it took her a minute to focus on me. When she did, she squinted, as if she thought her eyes were lying to her.

Licking her lips, she swallowed. “Took you long enough,” she rasped. I could hear the pain in her voice, in spite of her weak attempt at humor.

“Too long,” I agreed. I studied the knife still lodged in her hand. “Violet… baby… this is going to hurt.”

She gave me a long look, her expression flat. “Do it,” she breathed.

I didn’t waste any time, just reached out and yanked the knife free as quickly as possible. Violet bit back her scream, but her back arched against the restraints, her legs and arms shaking. I did my best to soothe her, but I knew my voice would be lost amidst the pain she was in.

I tore through the drawers in the room and finally found a roll of electrical tape. Her blood was flowing more freely from the open wound, coating her hand like a single, crimson, elbow-length glove. Cursing, I tore off a piece of my shirt and wound it around her hand several times, using the tape to secure the makeshift bandage to the palm of her hand.

Violet took it like a champ. The only sounds she made were soft and barely discernible, but I knew it had to hurt like hell.

When it was done, she slumped against the restraints, soaked with sweat and tears of pain. I carefully removed her bindings, feet first, and helped ease her down from the table. She panted and wiped her forehead with the back of her left hand, clearing her face as she clung to my shoulders, barely able to support her own weight through the pain.

“Well,”