Vanquish (The Prince's Games Book 2)

  Vanquish

  The Prince’s Games

  Vanquish

  Copyright 2021 Nikki Hunter

  All Rights Reserved

  Imprint: Independently published

  Cover design by Seventhstar

  Editing by Write Now Creative

  The content of this book is protected under Federal Copyright Laws. Any unauthorized use of this material is prohibited. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without express written permission from the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales are entirely coincidence.

  To anyone learning to love again.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  About Rebecca Grey

  I feel nothing.

  Inside the space where I hide from all emotions there is nothing but darkness. It's me, myself, and I. I see things but I don't act, don't care, and I certainly don't bother to think. It's almost freeing. Except when I emerge from the numb feeling, I know what I left behind will try to overtake me in the worst of ways.

  I wish I could feel anything.

  For a fraction of a second—much faster than the blink of an eye—there had been something. A sensation I wanted to take a hold of but was too fleeting for me to really grasp. In The Oasis Games there had been death, hatred, and fear. There had also been a glimmer of things I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Couldn’t find a name that fit the feelings.

  Please.

  A single word skitters through my thoughts like a stone skipping across a lake. Each soundless corner of my mind the word bounces off of creates a ripple, creates more words. Then the dark isn’t so quiet anymore.

  Somewhere there’s a rough banging of a fist against wood and I can’t tell if it’s in my head, outside my body, or even just the beating of my own heart. The past day, the past week even, comes rushing back to me in a series of haunting images that flash behind my tightly squeezed eyes. Red hot anger tints the edges of each haunting vision.

  The Games. King Caspar on his throne smiling with that same cunning smirk I'd seen Juilliard offer on more than one occasion. Queen Aradel with her blue-black hair as stark as Jefferson's. Fancy dresses and masks that were traded for insults and sneers.

  Blood. Davison's blood.

  Death and names crossed off the screen at the back of the room. Temptations. Lies. Injuries. All of it forces its way back into my mind. It presses on me with a weight that makes my bones ache.

  It's the memories laced with some sort of pleasure that remain the most dangerous. They feel the most traitorous. Marcello's witty sarcasm. The brief gentle touches. Sex with Jefferson, with the fucking prince. I had suspected yet I didn't even care. I hate myself most for that.

  Then there was the kissing. Kisses with Marcello and the warmth of his embrace, so comforting that being next to him had lulled me to sleep. I wish I could say now as the knocking somewhere on the edge of my consciousness persists, that I wouldn't do it again. I wish I could swear off his kisses forever, but I know I won't. If given the opportunity, I'll fall back into his touch.

  In the end, Marcello had only really said one thing of meaning to me. I know very well about the plans you have. I also know that I can’t allow you to follow through with them.

  Kill King Caspar. Kill Juilliard and Jefferson. Kill. Them. All.

  Finally, one last memory rushes forward. Marcello stepping behind me, his hands hot as he held me still. I’d wanted that touch so badly. I’d needed it and hated it all at the same time. Then a bite of a needle being thrust into my skin, the sting of liquid being pushed into my veins. The world was ending. My world felt like it was ending. Everything I'd worked the last few weeks for suddenly shattered. In minutes. Not minutes... seconds.

  The moment didn't grip me with the same panic I feared it could as the world grew dark around the edges. No, not when all I could focus on was the way Marcello's hands had almost slipped away from my waist. His hold was so featherlight that at any moment I knew he'd let go. His features were cold and blank while my pulse began to slow.

  A miserable sob fell from my lips. A noise I wasn't certain I could ever even make with so... so much feeling. It echoed the sound of heartbreak.

  Now I’m ashamed.

  I'd known it all along. Told myself from the beginning we weren't meant for each other. Still I tried. I let myself try when he sparked something like hope inside of my chest. He'd shown me that not all Hybrids were bad. Not all Hybrids hated. He'd shown me what it felt like to be cared for. How much of it had been true?

  There wasn't anything but apathy in his gaze then. The heartbreak, the ache, was my own, not his. The world was ending, and he didn't even care. Like he’d put on a mask. Or taken one off…

  I feel nothing. And yet, I feel everything.

  A tingling sensation, sharp as if it’s the shock of static electricity, starts at my toes and my fingertips. Awareness expands inside of me until the connection between my mind and body is taut. Heavy blankets press down on me, heat trapped underneath.

  The world hadn't actually ended, I realize. Saints, I wish it had. The injection site on my neck pulses with a dull ache. Those motherfuckers had drugged me. Whatever it was they gave me knocked me out cold and wreaked havoc on my emotions for the seconds of consciousness I'd had.

  Bang. Bang. Bang.

  Fists pound against a door. Light filters through my lashes—too bright, too painful. With my fists, I rub the sleep from my eyes, try to shrug off the numbness that’s settled in my bones. Tangled maroon sheets cover me. They suffocate me. The bed I lay in is far too large to be mine. The curling brass footboard that shines under the chandelier above confirms that further.

  With a stiff neck, I take my first glance at the space around me. To my right is a closed door with a vanity on one side and a colorful bookshelf on the other. The banging doesn't come from there, likely just a bathroom. On my other side is a set of matching sitting chairs neatly arranged over a patterned carpet with a small table between. Behind those, curtains are drawn over the windows that occupy the entire wall.

  The castle. I'm in the castle.

  One shaky breath and I’m reminded that The Oasis Games have not ended, they’ve only been put on pause. This creates a well of questions when I’d already had so many before. I can’t afford to be numb anymore.

  "Are you decent?" a voice calls from the hallway. Female. Sharp words, not harsh by any means, but demanding nonetheless.

  That voice creates a new sort of frenzy in me. Panic. It creates panic. Scrambling from the sheets, I damn near fall from the bed to the polished wood floorboards. My throat is tight and the air thin. The black form-fitted outfit I'd worn for The Oasis Games still clings to my skin, dusted with dirt and blood splatter. My hips are light without the weight of my belt. My heart trills without the presence of my twin daggers as I recognize that I've been trapped in the lion’s den. A sheep led to her slaughter.
>
  The pads of my feet are but a whisper under me as I make my way to the windows, pulling at the curtains. I don’t answer the calling voice immediately. But it comes again. The banging of the door, the repeated question. I try my best to project my voice to some other part of the room. A skill I have never quite mastered.

  "What do you mean by decent?" My sarcasm, in most scenarios, does me little good but perhaps today it will buy me some time. Time. I just need time to get out of here or to find a weapon.

  Bright morning light floods the room, momentarily blinding me. Long lines of shadows streak across me and the chairs behind me where metal bars block the sun from entering and keep me from exiting. I sigh, testing the windows to see if they can still be opened. Not a chance. The bastards don’t budge. Nearing frantic, I tiptoe across the room again.

  "Are you dressed?" The woman punctuates each word.

  My braid, frazzled and loose, slips over my shoulder while my hands open and close every vanity drawer and find nothing but dust. Not a comb with the long end meant for parting hair or even one of those fancy bits of decorations girls sometimes wear that are held in place by pointed pins. My shoulders sag.

  She bangs on the door again as I reach for the only other door. I stifle a groan as I find nothing but an empty bathroom on the other side. It looks painfully bare.

  "Why do you insist on knocking against the door? I'm not keeping you out. Have you forgotten you are the ones that have locked me in?"

  "You didn't answer the question."

  Gently, I pull the bathroom door closed and make my way to the bed. I swallow down the concoction of emotions buzzing under my skin. The fear. The guilt. The betrayal. None of that does me good to dwell on. Instead, I give her another minute of silence as I rearrange the sheets around my feet as if I'd never gotten up. Forcing myself to look as if I've only been slow to wake, I refuse to think about how utterly soft the bedding or the mattress is. Acting, like voice throwing, has never really been one of my more honed skills, unfortunately. But I try my best.

  Fleetingly, the thought of stripping myself down naked passes through my mind. Would my bare ass really prevent her from coming into the room? I would think not but she seems rather worried she might get some sort of a glimpse at my womanly form. Though the idea is amusing, with my racing heartbeat I know I’m far too worried now to allow myself to be that vulnerable. Especially with a stranger.

  "There is material on my body. Yes, if that is what you mean."

  I can feel her distaste even through the door. The grind of a key in lock wakes up everything inside of me. I force myself to slouch further into the bed, for good measure I rub at my eyes as the woman enters followed by guards carrying an entire arrangement of boxes.

  One finger pushes wire-rimmed glasses up her large beak-like nose as she glares down at me from her impressive, likely seven-foot, height. Pointed ears stick out of her cinnamon-colored hair, swirled into an elaborate updo. I shouldn’t expect anything but an Elf, yet somehow she still feels like a surprise.

  "Get up. We must get you washed and dressed." She snaps her long fingers at me.

  "Who are you?" I use all of my willpower to keep my eyes from wandering toward the wide-open door. Surely guards are waiting on the other side, if they're smart. Or, in true Hybrid fashion, they very well could be underestimating the Human. Even winning the Games—if I can even call it that— I don't suspect I've gained much favor in their eyes.

  "Do not bother yourself with the need to know who I am. I certainly won't bother to know anything about you." Her floor-length dress, cinched at her slender waist, flicks around her ankles as she turns and points around the room. The men that usher in behind her follow the quick gesture and set the boxes down.

  "I want to talk with Marcello," I demand.

  "You can talk to him when you are clean and at dinner."

  No. No, I need him in private. I need him to clear up the fucking mess of thoughts he set off inside my head. Without Marcello I don't have the answers to my questions.

  The Elven lady walks to the end of the bed, her heels clicking with every step. She mirrors my ever-present scowl. "Up. To the tub, immediately."

  "I will not." Stubbornly, I grip the bedding. I'm alone. I'm without weapons. And I'm surrounded by Hybrids. If Marcello knows of my plans, though I can't be certain he does, then who else could know? If they knew they would certainly be hanging me at the gallows instead of sending me to bathe.

  Still that same nervous panic seizes me. I'm caged. I'm too wild of an animal to be caged and the startling emotion makes a tremor run down my spine.

  "If you will not then we will make you. Simple as that." And for her it really is as simple as that. She points one of her well-manicured, but not overly done, nails at me. "Please assist the lady out of bed." She tuts to the men still lingering in the room.

  Before I have time to move or even so much as blink, two Elves are on me, wrapping their fingers tightly around my arms. The sheet falls away as I'm hoisted up like a child, no like a rag doll, and my feet stretch to reach the floor. With every ounce of defiance within me, I drag my toes against the ground begging for even the smallest amount of purchase.

  None of it does me any good as the bathroom door is flung open and they toss me inside. My knees smack against the white tile and I hiss.

  "Now, will you opt to take your own clothes off, or shall I ask them to do that next?" Her figure becomes a shadow in the doorway before she stretches and flicks on the light.

  The two Elves who had dragged me in here, smirk to one another as if they'd be happy to oblige. I'm sure that they would. I wrap my arms around my body, holding onto the hem of my shirt.

  "No. Send them away. I can undress myself."

  Edging her way in, she pushes the men out whispering harshly before she slams the door in their faces. As she turns back to me, she smooths down her dress though it does little to help soothe the wrinkles across her forehead as her eyebrows veer together with disapproval.

  "Well, get to it." She motions to my clothes and glides by me to the large tub. The knob squeaks as she twists it then tests the water until she is satisfied and props herself on the edge of the large white bathtub.

  Everything in the bathroom is white, porcelain, perfect, and unstained. The room sparkles and shines in a way nothing in The Bend does. I hate it. I’m amazed by it… but I fucking hate it.

  At this proximity I'm able to see the deep blue-violet hue of the woman’s gaze, a unique and otherworldly color. The longer she stares down on me the more I feel her patience wane and I start to peel the clothes off my body. Try as I might, I still wince as I pull past my stitches along my ribs. They shouldn't have much healing left to do but my entire side is still littered with bruises from repeatedly busting the sutures open.

  "I want to talk with Marcello," I say again as I let my shirt drop beside me.

  “While you are half-naked?” The Elf stares at my face before she sighs. "Marcello has no power here. He may be Prince Juilliard's dearest friend, but I can tell you he will not save you from anything. It will be by the grace of the Saints that you survive your stay here."

  That begs the question, which Saint? Which Saint would so humbly save me from the situation that I’ve thrown myself into? The Saint of Judgment? Self-Control? Punishment? Or will the task fall to me?

  I fumble with my buttons thinking about what she’s said. Prince Juilliard. He, of all the Elves, was lowest on my list of suspects. With his tattoos, flippant attitude, and general lack of charm...he could very well have been brought up alongside me in The Bend.

  I slip my pants down my legs noting every bruise along the way. The Elf does the same as her eyes tear down me then back up. She looks away as I peel off the last of my clothes and climb into the bath.

  Hot bubbles glide up my legs, stinging every minor cut. Almost instantly the water turns a murky brown. She lifts a sponge, reaching for me, pausing as I pull away.

  "You must be called somethin
g?" I growl. "If you'll clean me like an infant the least you can do is tell me something about yourself first."

  She grabs my arm, yanking me toward her and begins scrubbing me down with soap I hadn’t noticed she’d retrieved. She allows us to sit in silence while I ponder how I’ve gotten here. When her fingers sink into my hair and begin scrubbing my scalp, she clears her throat.

  "You may call me Dia," she says quietly. While she looks young, as all Elves do, something about her suggests she has seen many years.

  "Dia, can you tell me if I'm to be locked in this room every night?" The time for drugged stupors is over. Now I need to concentrate on finding my way around the castle, finding a way to kill the king and his two sons. Being trapped in this room will do me little good, so if I have to pretend as if I'm a good little girl to get that door unlocked... so be it.

  "That is not for me to decide."

  "And what exactly are you for?" I scrunch my nose as she pushes me down to rinse my hair.

  "I do whatever the king wishes of me with no particular role or title.” She bristles. “I am here because I have a talent for turning even the most heathen-looking citizens into what the king would consider upstanding members of society. You'll look almost Elven when I'm through with you."

  My stomach turns at the thought. I'm not Elven. I'm Human.

  "I want to talk to Marcello," I repeat.

  Dia raps a knuckle against my head causing me to blink hard. "I heard you the first time. Stop with that nonsense."

  I can’t help it. The words keep leaving me just as soon as my thoughts start to run wild again.

  "I won't. Not till I speak to him."

  Dia's thin lips pucker. Her fingers dig into my cheek as she makes me look at her. "You are a stupid girl." She drops my face and stands from the side of the tub, returning with a towel from some unseen place. "Maybe this will make you happy. Maybe this will shut you up." She holds the towel out in front of her waiting for me to stand. Water sloshes around me as I push myself up and let her wrap the material, somehow warmer than the water, around me. "That other girl. The other winner has been invited to stay in the castle too."