Page 95 of Thorns of Blood

“What about the car?”

“We’re going to take a different car from here.”

“Why?”

“So we look less conspicuous,” he said in a semi-exasperated, semi-resigned tone. “Driving into Venezuela in this Jeep will draw unwanted attention.”

“Why?”

He shook his head, then smiled at me. “Is that your favorite word?”

“I wouldn’t say so, no,” I admitted. “But I don’t trust you.”

He took Amara, who still hadn’t woken up, from my arms, and started walking northeast, glancing over his shoulder. “Then you better keep up, or I’ll be too far from you with the only bargaining chip you have.”

I scooted out of my seat and walked speedily toward him, ignoring the throbbing ache in every inch of my body.

“Amara isn’t a bargaining chip,” I said after a few minutes. “And those who dared hurt her will regret ever living.”

He stopped, then turned to pin me with a disapproving look. “Vengeance is poison, girl. Only fools drink from that cup.”

“What other options do I have?” I sneered. “Seeking justice? That’s a fairytale that I can’t afford. But vengeance… vengeance burns and devours. Vengeance satisfies.”

If only I knew then how much truth there was to Kian’s words.

THIRTY-FOUR

LIANA

Present

Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

It was a countdown to a bomb about to go off. At least, that was the way it felt as I stared at the pendant hanging off my therapist’s neck that I’d somehow missed during my last visit.

The symbol was identical to the tattoo on Giovanni’s left hand. An emblem settled in the mouth of a skull.

“That’s an interesting pendant,” I muttered, unable to peel my eyes from it.

Dr. Anna Violet Freud met my gaze. “It belonged to my little sister.”

“Belonged?” She nodded. “Past tense?”

“Correct.” She reached for the pendant, her fingers twisting it, while my mind catalogued through all the men I’d seen that symbol on. My husband. Kian Cortes. And others. “It’s the only clue I have about her death.”

The ticking of the clock filled the thick silence as Dr. Freud watched me with a masked expression, but it was her eyes that betrayed her. Pain. An appetite for revenge. And the most devastating one: hope. Against all odds, she hoped that her sister was alive.

“I was told once that vengeance was a fool’s errand. I’m paraphrasing—it was a long time ago—but you get the gist.”

“And you agree?” she challenged.

I shrugged. “Revenge is sweet.”

“But?”

“Weren’t you the one who told me moving on is sweeter than revenge?”

“Moving on with answers, yes, and I’m still looking for those,” she clarified, her voice cracking on the last word. “However, today is about you. What does revenge mean for you?”