Queen (The Blackcoat Rebellion #3)(71)

“That’s all any successful politician cares about,” he said. “You would do well to remember that, Lila.”

“I care about the people. Greyson cares about the people.”

“And look where that’s gotten you.”

“Held prisoner against our will and forced to do your bidding so you don’t kill us,” I said. “I’m aware, thank you. But you know what we have that you don’t? The people’s support. They’re out there rioting for us, not you. Andthey will keep rioting until you’re no longer a problem for them.”

“What, do you truly believe I’ll ever allow you or your idiot cousin to take my place?” he said, then chuckled. I could smell stale coffee on his breath. “You were never going to outlive me, Lila. You or Greyson.”

“What was your plan, then? To live forever?” I spat.

“All great men do.”

I choked out a laugh. “You think you’re a great man? Celia was great. Knox is great. Greyson will be great, and they will all be remembered as heroes. But you are nothing more than a weak, scared little man who had to step into the shoes of a tyrant in order to be anything in this world. History won’t remember you as a great man. History will remember you as a coward.”

He hissed, and his hand flew to my throat, squeezing until I couldn’t breathe. My eyes widened, and I clawed at his hands while fumbling the handle of the knife, struggling to slip it out of my sleeve.

“That’s it, Lila,” he murmured, his dark eyes dancing with sadistic joy. “Fight me. Go on. Try to show me which one of us has the real power.”

The edges of my vision grew dark, and his grip tightened even more. But I refused to let this be the end. He had killed Celia, he had killed Lila, and he had done his best to kill Benjy and Knox. But he wasn’t going to kill me.

I kicked him in the knee as hard as I could, and his grip immediately loosened as he cried out. I stumbled away, gasping for air and finally pulling the knife from my sleeve. Blood rushed to my head, and the room spun, but I gripped the back of the couch and forced myself to hold it together.

“You stupid, stupid bitch. I could have made it infinitely less painful for you, but you’re out of luck now, aren’t you?”

He surged toward me, his hands reaching for my throat again, but this time I was ready. I ducked and thrust the knife as hard as I could into his belly. It slid in far more easily than I imagined it would, and the handle slipped from my grip.

Daxton stopped and looked down at the knife sticking out of his stomach, his expression strangely calm. “Well. That hurts, doesn’t it?” Slowly, with a pained wince, he pulled the blade out of his body and examined it. “A steakknife? That’s not terribly creative of you, Lila.”

I stumbled backward against the door, unarmed and dizzy from strangulation. He had to be in agony, but he walked toward me with ease, holding the knife like a toy.

“I’ve always loved your face. So even, so perfect—you’re practically Aphrodite,” he murmured. And in a blur of motion, he slashed the blade across my cheek.

I felt the skin split and warm blood pour down my face, and burning pain followed. I bit my lip, refusing to cry out. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

He slashed my cheek again, this time deeper and barely half an inch from my eye. “The ancient Chinese had a flair for execution. My favorite in particular is the death of a thousand cuts, where piece by piece, the flesh was removed from the body. How many cuts do you think it will take to kill you, Lila?”

“I don’t know,” I rasped, my voice barely recognizable. “But I know how many cuts it takes to kill you.”

“Oh?” he said. “Do tell.”

“Two. One to your belly, and one to your legacy.” Red-hot pain seared my cheek, but I forced a grin. “Smile, Victor. You’re on camera.”

He twisted around wildly, pressing one hand to his abdomen while the other gripped the knife. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the game you and Celia have been playing,” I said. “You’ve lost. The entire country is watching all of this, and they’ve heard every last word. No matter what you do to me now, you’re dead.”

Daxton scrambled toward the nearest cabinet, throwing open the door and ripping through the supplies. Blood dripped to the ground where he stood, but he didn’t seem to notice or care. “You’re lying.”

“Go ahead and try to convince yourself of that, but I’m not,” I said. “You’re a dead man walking, Victor Mercer.”

With an enraged cry, he pulled a pistol from his jacket—the same one he’d given me to execute Celia. “Then I might as well take you with me,” he snarled.

I ducked as he pulled the trigger. The bullet ricocheted off the metal door behind me, and a cabinet across the room exploded. Daxton swore and, with trembling hands, dug through his pocket and produced another bullet. “Nowhere to go,” he said in a nervous singsong voice. The color drained from his face, and the puddle of blood beneath him grew larger. “I already told you, Lila. You will never outlive me.”

Suddenly something beeped, and the door to the safe room groaned and creaked open. Standing on the other side, his hair windswept and his face flushed, was Knox, a semiautomatic weapon in his hands. At least he’d had the senseto bring more than one bullet with him.