Page 75 of The Royal Art of Revenge

‘Righty,’ as she just dubbed him, jerks his head up. “A hundred grand? You were paying me five!”

“Oh, dear,” Harriet says, cocking her head to the side. “Seems you’re underpaying your lackies. Oh, and thanks for the confirmation of your ringleader,” she adds, flashing a look towards Righty. “You really are the smart one.”

I’m a little impressed.

Little scared.

Little turned on.

Shit, she even has Alec’s full attention since Lefty has passed out, and that I do not like.

“I’m offended,” she continues, turning her focus back to the guy in the middle. “Only a hundred grand to have your way with me. Bet you wish you’d asked for more now, huh?”

He sneers. “You wouldn’t be so bold if we weren’t tied up and injured.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.”

A faint click sounds, and in the short time it takes me to blink, she’s produced a retractable blade from somewhere on her person and has the tip of the knife pressed to the guy’s neck.

“I might not be able to take all three of you, but I can fuck one of you up so badly that you’ll never use a hand again,” she says in a low voice. “Would you like a demonstration?”

Fuck.

Her free hand fists in his hair, yanking his head right back so his neck is fully exposed. One slip and the switchblade in her hand could slice deeply into his flesh and make it so that he bleeds out before anyone could stop it.

Nobody moves.

The only sound is of his harsh breathing as realisation finally dawns on him that he’s completely at her mercy with a blade mere millimetres from his jugular.

Her eyes are blazing as she stares at him—full of disgust, of anger, gleaming with a dark edge I’ve never seen before. Her hair falls over her shoulder, the blonde strands glowing in the low light, and for a moment, I’m awestruck.

Mesmerised.

Completely and utterly fucking captivated by her.

She looks like an angel.

An angel of death, but an angel all the same.

“See, not all little girls are raised on tea parties and lace,” Hattie says, her voice still low, still deadly, so ice-cold it sends a shiver crawling down my spine. “Some of us are raised with blades and bastards like you. So, start talking, motherfucker, or I’ll see to it that you never speak another word.”

“I don—don’t know,” he rasps, fear emanating off his trembling body. “They really never told. Just said they were hired by the crown prince to ‘handle’ you. Said you were ours to do with as we pleased.”

She presses the blade into his skin, and blood beads at the tip of the knife. “Is that all you’ve got?”

“They hated you. A lot. I didn’t ask questions,” he continues, and she eases off ever so slightly as his throat bobs, making the blood trickle down. “Didn’t think it was any of my business. We just planned to rough you up a little, send a photo, then take the money.”

My jaw clenches.

If she didn’t have that blade against his throat, I’d slit it my fucking self.

“I hope it was worth it,” she says, then leans in close to him. She whispers something in his ear, and he blanches.

Harriet takes a step back and retracts the blade, staring at him. A cold, satisfied smile stretches across her face, and she laughs. It’s equally as chilling as her smile is, and I can’t take my eyes off her.

There are so many sides to this woman that I don’t know which one is real.

But fuck me, I need to know.