Mahana tipped his head. “You were always my favorite, Nyssa, so strong-willed and feisty. For a while, I entertained the idea of inviting you into my confidence. You talked your father into modernizing the palace, the hotels, and the harvest. I thought you were my ticket to taking over. But you are stubbornly loyal to your family.”
“As a good Zimradian should. Your disloyalty is the black mark on your soul.” She held back from spitting on him, though tradition called for it.
“Your father’s archaic beliefs are a black mark on our country. I can take us to new heights—make us into a powerful nation.”
“You envision rainbows amidst hurricanes.”
“I envision a future for our people.”
“With you standing above them like a god.”
A slow, sleazy smile spread across his face. “If that is how they see me, who am I to correct them?”
“You disgust me.”
“As soon as the royal family finishes their afternoon tea, I won’t have to worry about what any of you think ever again.”
Nyssa’s mind raced right back to the palace, where her family would gather around Mother as she poured them peppermint tea—a cooling blend that helped with the heat; the leaves were grown in the queen’s herb garden and dried in the cellar. It was a cherished time for her family to be together. For Mahana to poison the tea was striking at the very heart of her family.
“Speaking of tea—won’t you try yours, Princess?” The gunman’s leathered cheeks crinkled with a sick smile.
Nyssa eyed the water cup, having thought it looked refreshing only moments before, when she didn’t know the deadly liquid lurking inside. She shrank back from the table.
Marius took advantage of the distraction and went for the gunman’s middle. The gun, caught between them, went off, and time stopped as Marius groaned in pain. Nyssa prayed it wouldn’t be his last. She didn’t want anyone to die—especially not protecting her. She wasn’t worth any of this. She was the family failure. The fact that Mahana would even consider bringing her into his confidence showed how little people really believed in her.
The gunman shook Marius’s body off his like a heavy fishing net, dropping him to the floor. Marius wasn’t moving and a foreboding stain began to spread across the carpet.
Kingston’s beefy hand landed on the back of her neck, and he pulled her to her feet to face Mahana.
Mahana sneered down at the prince, nudging him with his foot. “Fool.”
Nyssa lunged forward, claws barred, and was stopped by Kingston’s firm grip.
Mahana lifted a cup to her mouth, the glass bruising her lip. She spit and blew and twisted her head. The lukewarm liquid dribbled and fell and splashed onto the carpet.
Tatum sprang to life, tucking into a ball and rolling into Mahana’s legs like a bowling ball taking down a pin. The cup flew from Mahana’s hands, spraying water and poison through the air.
Nyssa’s eyes followed it until it crashed against the wall. By the time she looked back at Tatum, he straddled Mahana’s chest and was choking the life out of him—Mahana’s face turning red from lack of air and Tatum’s face turning red from the effort.
“Stop—or I’ll kill her,” growled Kingston, his fingers curving around her neck like a noose. He set a gun on her shoulder, pointing it at her neck.
Nyssa should have been frightened. She should have been paralyzed with fear. Instead, she found his comment funny, considering they had come to kill her in the first place. What kind of a threat was it to kill her now when they were going to kill her later? In her humor, she found clarity. Scraping the pointed heel of her sandal down Kingston’s shin bone, she landed on his ankle and gave a twist. A gun went off next to her ear, and she gasped as searing heat grazed her collarbone. She dropped to all fours and scrambled under the table. Kingston recovered quickly and grabbed at her feet, no doubt ready to inflict an equally painful wound to her shin and ankle.
Nowher fear kicked in, making her crazy in her efforts to get away. She used her free foot to kick at Kingston’s face. Her shoe connected a couple times with his nose. With the next kick, the contact felt squishy, and she knew she had inflicted some damage. Kingston bellowed like a hog. He crushed her legs beneath his chest and called her names that would make her mother blush. She clawed at the carpet in an effort to get away, but he was too heavy.
Chapter Seventeen
Tatum wasn’t trying to kill Mahana—though he’d considered the option was available and he might want to take it. As soon as the purple-faced man went slack, he relaxed his hold, allowing enough oxygen into his system to keep him alive but not let him wake up. The would-be murderer would be out for a few minutes, and when he came to, he’d have a massive migraine.
He lifted his pounding head to find the brute lying halfway under the table, one small brown foot poking out from under his arm. Without even thinking, Tatum pulled his gun and shot the brute in the back of both knees. His firearm was quieter than the other two that had gone off in the room that absorbed sound. The thick carpet, the paneled walls, the heavy drapes were all meant to absorb sound and keep it from seeping through the walls. Unless a staff member was on the other side of the door, they were unlikely to be alerted to the emergency by the thundering nose that accompanied a bullet.
The brute screamed like a muddy pig, his hands flying towards his legs.
“I never liked you,” Tatum growled. Neese’s foot was still trapped beneath the man. “Let her go or I’ll shoot again.”
With as much noise as he could make, the brute rocked to the side. Tatum couldn’t see his face because of the tablecloth. He could only imagine the hatred pouring from those black and soulless eyes.
The foot disappeared, giving Tatum’s strained heart a break, and a moment later Nyssa popped up on the other side of the table, her hair a mess and her eyes wild.
