Ruthless Kings of Obsession (Leighton Royals University #3)

13. Pieces on a Chessboard

Pieces on a Chessboard

~ G EMINI~

Darkness claims me, but instead of the void I expect, memories bloom like ink drops in water. The scene materializes with crystal clarity – Marcus's private lab at Leighton University where I've spent countless afternoons. The sterile white walls should feel clinical, but afternoon sunlight streams through high windows, casting everything in warm gold that reminds me of simpler times.

Like when we were twelve, hiding in his mother's research facility while Domino searched the grounds. Marcus showing me his first microscope, teaching me about cells and neurons while I wore his oversized lab coat, the sleeves rolled up six times just so I could see my hands.

Now I'm perched on one of his examination tables, legs swinging nervously while he reviews my latest brain scans. At twenty-one, he's already brilliant enough to make senior researchers jealous, but to me he's still that boy who shared his lunch when Domino would steal mine.

The images on his screen show patterns of activity – rivers of color flowing through neural pathways that mean nothing to me but seem to fascinate him. His perfectly pressed lab coat hangs precisely on his frame, every inch the professional researcher, but I can still see traces of the boy who once promised to "fix my brain" with science.

"What's wrong with me?" I ask quietly, tugging at one of my pigtails – a nervous habit from childhood I never quite broke. "Why is my brain like this?"

Another memory surfaces – age fourteen, curled up in his mother's office after a particularly bad episode. Multiple voices screaming in my head while Marcus held my hand, promising we'd figure it out together.

He turns from his computer now, those intelligent eyes studying me with that unique mixture of clinical interest and deep affection that's purely Marcus. "There's nothing necessarily wrong, Eva. It's a condition – distinct personalities sharing one consciousness. Think of it like..." He pauses, always careful to find the perfect explanation. "Different versions of you living in harmony. Or sometimes discord."

"If that's true," I huff, trying to lighten the mood despite the weight in my chest, "couldn't one of my personalities be strong enough to kick Domino's ass? Maybe be the bully for once?"

His laugh echoes through the lab, warm and genuine like it was when we were kids. "That could be arranged, actually." He moves closer, leaning against the table beside me. "Mom's research is groundbreaking in this field. Once we finalize the data, we'll present it to the Organization for Rare Psychological Conditions. Your case could help so many others."

Another flash – his mother in her office, silver hair caught in sunlight as she explained to a fifteen-year-old me that being different didn't mean being broken. How she'd held me while I cried, then cut off her own beautiful hair the next day to donate it, showing me that change could be beautiful.

"So... being faulty doesn't make you hate me?" The question comes out small, vulnerable.

"God, Eva." He groans, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair in a gesture that hasn't changed since childhood. "I could never hate you. My Evergreen."

The nickname makes me smile despite my anxiety. He started calling me that after finding me in the university's greenhouse during one of my episodes. I'd been talking to the plants, something about their quiet presence calming the chaos in my mind. The evergreens especially seemed to thrive under my care.

"Like these evergreens," he'd said, watching me tend to them, "you persist through all seasons, staying vibrant even in the darkest winter."

"Then why do you call me Pigtails around Domino?" I ask now, watching his reflection in the lab's polished surfaces. "You only use it when he's around."

A blush creeps across his cheeks as he fiddles with his lab coat buttons – another childhood habit he never outgrew. "I... I like your hair in pigtails. They remind me of when we were kids. Before everything got so complicated."

Another memory surfaces – Marcus defending me in the school playground, his small frame standing between me and Domino's friends. "Leave Pigtails alone!" he'd shouted, earning himself a bloody nose but never backing down.

"What if I want to donate it like your Mom did?" I run my fingers through the long strands, remembering how his mother's sacrifice had inspired so many others to do the same.

"That's different," he says softly, reaching out to touch a silver strand. "That's for a good cause. Your hair is beautiful long, but change can be good too. Mom taught us that."

The day his mother first showed signs of illness flashes through my mind. How Marcus had found me in the greenhouse at midnight, crying over the plants. "They're dying," I'd sobbed, not just talking about the flowers. He'd held me then, both of us scared of the changes coming.

"Change is scary," I whisper now, voicing my deepest fear. "But I have to change, don't I? Or I'll die by his hands eventually."

"I'd never let that happen." The fierceness in his voice reminds me of all the times he's tried to protect me, even when he couldn't protect himself.

"What if you're getting treatment too?" The question hangs between us, heavy with implication. We both know about his own struggles – the obsessive tendencies, the brilliant mind that sometimes works too fast for his own good. "What if we're both broken?"

He can't answer, but I manage a smile. "Don't worry. You'll heal too, right? We'll both get better."

Our shared history floods back – countless therapy sessions, experimental treatments, nights spent in his mother's lab while she worked to understand our unique conditions. How she'd called us her "beautiful puzzles" and promised to help us put all the pieces back together.

The memory begins to fade, replaced by creeping darkness. That's when the voices start – no longer whispering but screaming for blood.

***"You failed them! Failed your Kings! Too weak, too soft, too easy to take down!"***

***"Remember how they hurt him? How they hurt US? Kill them all! Starting with that cop who dared harm what's ours!"***

Giggles bubble up from my throat, echoing in the void. Each laugh carries years of pain, of being called broken, of watching those I love suffer. "Yes," I agree, feeling my consciousness resurface like a shark scenting blood. "Let's play."

Reality comes back in fragments – voices trying to reach me through the drug-induced haze. I open my eyes to see the female officer performing CPR on her fallen colleague, completely focused on saving his life. The sight makes me smile, remembering all the times I've watched Marcus save lives in his lab.

Ren is propped against a wall, still groggy from the dart, while Marcus helps him stay upright. Our eyes meet briefly, and I see the recognition there – he knows which version of me is surfacing. The version his mother's research warned about.

But it's Ares who has his arms around me, his voice urgent in my ear, trying to reach the Eva he knows. "Eva, you're hallucinating. You're safe. Hannah's bringing the antidote. Just stay still."

I laugh, the sound carrying no warmth. All those years of trying to fix what was broken in me, when really, I just needed to embrace it. "Шах и мат." The Russian flows off my tongue like honey mixed with poison.

Marcus's head snaps up, eyes widening as he translates. "Checkmate," he breathes, then more urgently: "Ares, hold her!"

But I'm already moving, slipping through Ares's arms like smoke. Knifey feels alive in my hand as I dart toward the unsuspecting officer. The voices sing with approval, drowning out Ares's shout of warning.

Sorry, Marcus. Sometimes broken things can't be fixed. Sometimes they just need to break everything else too.

The warehouse air crackles with tension as I launch toward the female officer, Knifey gleaming in the emergency lights. The drug makes everything pulse with unnatural clarity – each heartbeat echoing like thunder in my ears, every movement leaving trails of light in my vision.

Ren appears between us, his movements still affected by the dart but driven by pure instinct. "Eva, stop!" His voice sounds distant, distorted through the haze of chemicals flooding my system.

Marcus and Ares try to flank me, but in my altered state, their movements seem laughably slow. I weave between them, using Ren's compromised balance against him. The voices in my head scream for blood, drowning out their pleas for me to stop.

"Держать королеву в страхе, и она станет самым опасным оружием."

The Russian phrase cuts through everything like a blade of ice, making me freeze mid-strike. The Blind One's words resonate with something deep in my psyche, awakening memories I didn't know I possessed. But before I can process their meaning, Ren tackles me from the side, sending Knifey skittering across the floor.

"Now would be good!" he shouts upward, struggling to contain my drug-enhanced strength.

A figure descends from the shadows above – Hannah, moving with deadly grace on her wire. Kian and Arlo follow close behind, their synchronized movements making them appear as mirror images in my fractured vision.

Hannah doesn't hesitate, crossing the distance with practiced efficiency. The needle she plunges into my neck feels like liquid ice spreading through my veins, fighting against the fire of the hallucinogen. The world begins to tilt and blur, reality becoming fluid around me.

Through increasingly unfocused eyes, I watch the female officer struggle to her feet. Despite the shallow cut across her throat – where Knifey had just grazed her before Ren's intervention – determination burns in her eyes as she raises her weapon.

"You're all under arrest," she manages, voice rough but steady. Her gaze fixes on Ren with particular betrayal. "Even you, Commander Hudson."

Ren sighs, the sound carrying years of complicated history. Despite the lingering effects of the dart, he moves with sudden fluid grace. His hand finds the precise point on her neck, and she crumples unconscious but alive.

"I'll clean this up," he says simply, already reaching for his phone.

"Wait..." Marcus's eyes narrow as he studies Ren with new intensity. "Aren't you the Ren who dated Dom? Or rather... he was interested in..."

A knowing smirk crosses Ren's face as he rolls his eyes, his teal and black hair catching the emergency lights. "He was interested in me," he corrects, checking the female officer's pulse. "Not the other way around. And I didn't die in that ring fight everyone whispers about – that was my cousin. People always mix us up because we both did cage fighting for fun back then."

"Matteo knew a Ren who died in the ring," Ares notes thoughtfully, still cradling my increasingly limp form. "Said it was one of the bloodiest matches in underground history."

"Yeah, that would be my cousin," Ren confirms, something dark passing behind his eyes. "We looked alike, similar age. The difference is, I stopped. He got addicted until it killed him."

All eyes turn to the blindfolded man, who remains unnaturally still in the deepening shadows. There's something about his presence that seems to bend reality around him.

"Your name," Ares demands, protective instinct evident in his voice. "Or at least an alias."

"Call me The Blind One." His voice carries amusement, but there's something ancient and dangerous beneath it. "That's more than enough to determine my role and power in this sinister world of ours."

Marcus frowns, studying the man's figure as if trying to place something familiar. But before he can speak, The Blind One cuts him off.

"You should focus on reaching Ascension before three AM. Otherwise, you lose your positions."

"Matteo and Zander are still recovering," Ares points out, arms tightening around me as my consciousness continues to fade. "We're two Kings short."

"Three," Marcus corrects grimly. "Aries isn't a Ruthless King anymore either."

"What do we do?" Ares asks, real concern cracking through his usual composed facade.

Marcus calls out to The Blind One, who's already beginning to melt into the shadows. "What should we do?"

"Fill the spots," comes the simple answer, his voice echoing strangely. "There are three of you already. Find one more King and bring your Maiden to the ball."

"How the fuck are we supposed to find another King in—" Ares checks his watch and curses. "It's 2:30. The venue's twenty minutes away."

"Hannah," he barks, taking command. "Get us proper attire. Arlo, Kian – attend to everyone's wounds. We need to move. Now."

As consciousness finally slips away from me, I hear The Blind One's last words fade into the darkness:

"Remember, a Queen's power lies not in her pieces, but in how she moves them."