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His eyes widen with disbelief. Because men like him don’t believe harm can reach them. Money is supposed to provide protection.
Red creeps into his face, staining him with panic. His mouth opens as he tries to drag in air that won’t come. Weak hands grab at my wrists while his feet slide on the stone. Nothing he does will get me off him.
I want him to understand what it feels like to have his life decided by someone else.
I squeeze harder. His guards move in. I just need a few more seconds. Let me crush his trachea.
Two men rush up and grab my arms, trying to pull me off him. I won’t let go. If I do, Zaiya’s last look at me becomes permanent.
My brothers take their cue. They grab whoever they can, shoving, punching. The chamber erupts into chaos. Green cloaks twisting, masks falling to the floor.
Someone else joins the men trying to pry me from Patrick. When they rip me away, I start swinging, hitting whoever I can.
A hard blow lands against my shoulder. One of Patrick’s buddies, it seems. He slams into me with enough force to knock me to the floor.
His men keep coming to his rescue. They outnumber us.
Hands clamp onto my arms. Someone hooks an arm around my waist and tries to pull me back. I fight anyway. I twist, drive my elbow into a chest. His grunt follows.
But there are too many.
Patrick stumbles to his feet and away from the fight, one hand at his throat, coughing. I wish I had five more seconds.
Liam’s voice rises over everything.
“Enough!”
With both hands up, he tries to calm this storm.
“Stop this,” he roars. “Now.”
Some of the men hesitate. There’s shuffling and rustling of cloaks as everyone is separated.
Liam points at my brothers and me. “Go home.”
Like we’re children being scolded for a bit of roughhousing in the parlor.
Patrick is slow to straighten. Blood drips from his nose. His cheek is already bruising. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and looks at the smear of blood like it’s insulting.
Then he laughs once.
“Liam Hayes,” Patrick says, his voice rough, “your time as pseudo-Sovereign is over. You don’t have that authority anymore.”
Liam takes a breath, trying to swallow the fact.
“I’m Sovereign,” Patrick says, louder now. “The vote has been cast. I won. I don’t need your assistance, High Councilor.”
He steps towards me.
I try to move. A guard’s grip tightens on my arm.
Patrick’s eyes gleam as he reaches beneath his cloak. I don’t process it at first because I don’t expect to see it.
Then the metal catches in the firelight. A gun.
Patrick raises it and points it at me. The room freezes again. Pleased with the effect he’s created, he smiles with a split lip.
“Don’t move,” he says. “You’re already making enough of a scene.”
