Chapter 10

The black Mercedes rolled into the filthiest stretch of Greylyn.

No neon blaze like Mantharic's skyline here—just rotting garbage piled against cracked walls, the stench curling through the damp air, and the occasional wail of a distant siren.

The car stopped outside a derelict warehouse.

"Out." Edward's voice came from the shadowed back seat. He didn't bother to look at her.

Victoria pushed the door open. The wet cold slid under her thin collar, biting at the raw burns and swollen rashes across her skin. She staggered once, her left hand throbbing from the heel that had crushed it the night before.

Two hulking men shoved the rusted iron doors wide. Instantly, a blast of pounding metal music and thick tobacco smoke hit her like a wall.

This was Asteria City's largest underground casino—a real money pit, the kind that swallowed fortunes whole.

"Listen." Edward's voice was low in her ear, channeled through the tiny comm hooked there. He hadn't come inside. He sat in a surveillance van that pulled in behind, eyes on the bank of monitors streaming the casino floor.

"One million dollars. That's the Windsor family's only lifeline. If you can't win it… you don't walk out."

Victoria stepped through the doors, swallowed by the roar.

Hundreds of gamblers crowded around tables, shouting, cursing, laughing like hyenas. The air reeked of cigarettes, booze, and naked greed.

Her gray silhouette cut through the mass. In this world of tattooed brutes and half-dressed women, she looked like she'd wandered in from another planet.

She stopped at a poker table.

"Well, look what we have here." The pit boss was a bald slab of muscle with a cigar clamped between his teeth. His eyes crawled over her like hooks. "Dressed like that, you here to preach or you here to die?"

Laughter erupted around them.

"I'm here to play." Her voice was hoarse but carried through the din.

"Play?" He blew a smoke ring in her face. "Where's your buy-in? No cash? Then take something off—worth a hundred bucks a piece."

More laughter. A hand reached toward her skirt.

She didn't move.

She had no money. Edward had burned everything she owned, hadn't left her a single dollar.

The insults piled on.

In the van, Edward watched her on the screen, smoke curling from the cigar between his fingers. He wanted to see her crack. He wanted her begging, running like a dog.

But she didn't move.

Her gaze fell to a fruit knife lying at the corner of the table.

Without hesitation, she reached for it.

"What the hell are you doing?" the pit boss barked.

She didn't answer. She set her left arm on the felt, flipped the knife in her right hand, and drove the blade down.

The sound of steel splitting flesh cut through the noise.

Blood welled fast, sliding down her arm, dripping onto the felt in dark, spreading stains.

Even the hard cases—men who'd seen more blood than daylight—went quiet.

The only sound was the steady patter of red drops hitting the floor.

Her face didn't change. It was as if the bleeding arm wasn't hers. She slapped the knife onto the stack of chips, the thud sharp.

"This hand. And my life."

She lifted her chin, locking her eyes on the surveillance camera, as if she could see straight through to the man in charge.

"Is that worth a million?"

This was the same woman who used to squeal over a paper cut. Now she'd driven a blade into her own flesh without blinking.

In the van, Edward sat forward fast.

He stared at the bleeding woman on the screen, at the numb look in her eyes, his fingers tightening around his glass.

She didn't cry.

That look.

The same damn look. That cold, unshaken resolve.

More unhinged than Anne's eyes the day she'd stepped in front of the knife at the wedding. More desperate.

The disgust in his chest tangled with something sharp, something that made him uneasy.

Crazy.

Victoria was pure, uncut crazy.

"Let her play," he ordered into the mic, his voice carrying a tremor he didn't hear himself.

The game began.

Victoria didn't even glance at her hole cards.

Blood kept sliding down her arm. Her skin was going pale from the loss, but her eyes stayed locked on the camera.

She was telling him, "See? I did it. You want blood, I'll give you blood. You want my life, I'll give you that too."

An hour later.

The table was stacked high with chips.

One million dollars.

She'd won.

But there was no smile, no relief. She simply extended her hand.

"Hold it!"

The bald pit boss, drunk and bleeding from his own losses, lunged. His grip clamped onto her injured arm.

"I know you." His voice was thick with smoke and spite. "Looks like Edward really doesn't give a damn about you, dumping you in a place that eats people alive."

His finger jabbed toward her face. "I saw the news. You're Edward's new wife. The slut who climbed into her brother-in-law's bed right after her sister died."

The words exploded through the crowd.

Eyes turned on her—dirty, hungry, mocking.

"No wonder she's such a tease. She's that cheap bitch."

"Heard she's wild in bed. Does anything for cash."

"Figures she'd end up here. Serves her right."

The bald man grinned, his greasy hand sliding up her arm, pressing hard over the bleeding cut.

"For money, you'll spread for anyone, right? I lost a million, but tonight… you'll remember me."

The pain stabbed through her like needles. She didn't make a sound, jaw locked tight.

Then he shoved her back onto the table. Chips clattered to the floor, ringing sharp against the concrete.

"Let go…" She tried to push him off, but her strength was gone.

The world blurred at the edges. Her body felt like a rag doll, hollowed out, dragged into his reeking embrace.

Laughter rippled through the room—low, eager.

Men closed in, eyes bright with hunger, wolves circling prey.

"I want to try Edward's woman," one of them said. "See what makes her so special."