Homecoming week has the kind of energy that jolts through the entire campus. Everywhere I go, there are banners and signs, t-shirts and fundraisers. The spirit is infectious, and I have to admit, it feels nice to ‘belong’ to a group during the festivities. What isn’t nice is the fact I have to spend an hour after classes in meetings with the women from the other frats, planning the layout of the carnival and making sure everyone has their jobs covered.
Bianca starts with, “First things first, we need to choose a charity to represent our houses—”
Marigold steamrolls over her. “I’m donating ten grand to the homeless youth shelter.”
“The Counts and I are doing a food drive for the soup kitchen,” Sutton chimes in.
“I’m taking the pediatric cancer wing at the hospital.” Primly, she adds, “We’ve already bought a dozen new gaming consoles.”
Bianca nods, noting this all down. “Then I guess I’m claiming the animal shelter, which just leaves the Lady.”
Everyone turns to look at me. “Oh,” I say, startled. “I don’t—no one told me we’d be doing individual charities. I figured the carnival’s earnings would just be donated to somewhere.”
“They will be,” Bianca says patiently, even though the others are rolling their eyes. “But each Royal woman has to claim one of the five charities that were voted on over the summer.”
I probably would have known if I’d been here last year. Sighing, I ask, “So what’s left?”
“That’d be Academic Angels,” she answers, thumbs flying over her phone’s screen. “It looks like they deliver books to our community’s low-income children. I can send you the spreadsheet.”
“So I just have to deliver some books and stuff?” I certainly don’t have ten grand, or even enough money to spend on a dozen gaming consoles, but I do have a car.
Bianca gives me a look. “You have to purchase and deliver the books.”
“Oh,” I say, deflating.
Sutton raises an eyebrow. “You’re going to have to ask Daddy Warbucks, sunshine.” I take too long to realize she’s talking about Daniel. When I instinctively grimace, she laughs. “What’s the problem? He is your dad, right?”
Autumn’s head springs up, jaw open in shock. “Oh my god, your Lord is your brother? Gross!”
“Killian is my stepbrother!” I squawk, face heating. “Our parents married when we were already teenagers. We didn’t live together very long, and I don’t even know him that well!”
Thankfully, Bianca steps in, turning to me. “Look, the Countess has a point. You should ask Daniel Payne for the money. He’s a Lord. He’s a King. He’s bankrolled this before, and I’m sure he’ll do it again.” Sympathetically, she adds, “It’s the Royal women’s responsibility, but we usually tap our guys in, at the very least. It’s no big deal.”
I sink back into my seat as the discussion moves on to logistics, dread swirling in my gut. The last time I saw Daniel was too much. His hand around my wrist. His eyes boring into mine, cold and detached. His voice, dark and cutting. The last thing I want to do is speak to him again.
“I just think the beer stand should be closer to the stage,” Autumn says, pen tapping her chin as she inspects the map on the screen. “No one wants to walk all the way around the park for a drink.”
“If we put them there,” Marigold chimes in, “the lines will run into the crowd. That’s a big ol’ mess, just waiting to happen.”
Sutton nods, agreeing, “The last thing we need is a fight like last year.”
“That bad?” I ask, analyzing the blueprint.
“Totally out of control,” Bianca says. She’s the only one who really lowers herself to speak to me. Not that I’m complaining. “The rule is that—actually, you know what? Everyone needs to hear this, so listen up, bitches.” She gets the others’ attention, giving us all a long look.
“Tradition dictates we all leave our petty drama outside the carnival. If your houses are having a spat, that’s fine. But it stays out of these boundaries.” She traces the line of the property Daniel had given us permission to use. “We do this to release some good into this world, and it can’t be tainted by your rivalries or battle strategies.” She cuts her eyes at Sutton. “Not everyone knows how to play by the rules.”
Sutton gives her an innocent look. “It’s not the Counts’ fault the Princes laced the brownies with pot and get everyone high.”
“Yeah, like we’re really going to believe that,” Bianca replies bitterly. “Only one house has a penchant for drugging people, and it isn’t the Princes.” There’s clearly an old wound there, Bianca’s jaw going taut at the topic.
“Well,” Sutton says airily, “no one can prove it.”
Autumn bristles at the accusation. “You realize some of those were sold to children, right? The Princes would never drug people, especially not kids.” She looks at the Baroness and then at me. “Probably the Lords.”
“What?” I say, caught off guard. I don’t even know who the previous Lords were, but if houses have strategies, then I doubt that’s one of theirs. “It doesn’t really seem like their style, honestly.”
Autumn laughs. “Please. Everyone knows what they really are.”
“Oh?” I arch an eyebrow. “And what exactly are they?”
“Thugs.” She crosses her arms, eying me distastefully. “Payne’s well-kept flunkies. The only thing special about this year’s Lords is that his son is one of them.”
“Excuse me?” I ask, wondering what Daniel has to do with any of this.
Sutton shrugs, looking bored as she inspects her fingernails. “It’s like the Duchess said. Daniel Payne is a King. He pulls all their strings.”
Marigold jumps in to add, “There’s nothing elite about them. Like all the Lords before them, they’re just the glorified lackeys who keep South Side at their King’s disposal. The whole university thing is just a convenient ruse. Keeps the authorities off their tail.”
“That’s absurd,” I insist. I don’t know why I feel compelled to defend them, but my hackles rise regardless. “Killian is an NFL hopeful. Dimitri is a prodigy. And Tristian is a Mercer, for Pete’s sake. You don’t get much more elite than that.”
Autumn laughs. “It’s kind of funny, actually. Usually, the Lords would go on to bigger and better things, leaving Forsyth and South Side behind. But we all know what’s in store for those three, and it’s not the NFL, or Julliard, or even the Mercer Corp. penthouse office.” At my confused expression, she laces her fingers together beneath her chin, like she’s talking to a small child. “Those three are never getting out of here, Lady. Payne would never let them.”
Bianca cuts in then, throwing Autumn a sickly sweet grin. “Considering you’re not wearing the Princes’ ring yet, maybe you should focus more on your house and less on everyone else’s.”
“I’ve got that ring in the bag, Duchess.” Autumn’s eyes narrow, staring her down. “There’s still time. Like today, for instance. I’m so fucking fertile that he could—” Her smirk falls when she looks at her watch. “Shit. Speaking of, I need to go soon if I want to catch my window.” In a flurry of movement, she starts haphazardly shoving her things into her bag, eyes wide and panicked.
“We were done anyway,” Bianca says, rolling her eyes as Autumn rushes from the room. “God, can you imagine being a Princess?”
“I don’t know,” Marigold says, placing her notebook in her bag. “If she pulls it off, she’s basically set for life. Being Baroness is awesome, but I’m pretty sure once we graduate, they won’t want anything to do with me.” She looks glum as she says it, and it makes me wonder what the Barons are like. Are they nice, like the Princes are rumored to be?
There are a few looks as they stand, and I try to figure out what’s happening. The Baroness wants to keep her Barons? The Princess is fertile? Daniel is a King? What does that mean? King of what?
Marcus’ voice comes floating back to me from the other day.
“Everything.”
There’s a part of me that’s glad to know the other Royals are probably as fucked up as the Lords, but there’s no way I’m joining in their little bitch fest. They’d turn it against me in a heartbeat.
I grab my bag and walk out the student center door, looking for Tristian, who’s scheduled to pick me up. Instead, I find Killian leaning against the brick wall, hair a shade darker and damp from a recent shower. I know he had practice today—or at least that’s what he said on the way to school. He’s never the one to pick me up in the afternoons, though. Immediately, I’m set on edge at the sight of him, all looming and still. He looks up as I approach, his expression passive as always.
“Is everything okay?” I ask, shifting uncomfortably. I’d slept in Tristian’s bed again last night, even though Killian got home just before midnight. In the back of my mind lurks a worry that I was meant to be waiting for him, naked and unconscious, in his enormous bed. “Where’s Tristian?”
Killian’s eyes descend my body, taking in the outfit I’d chosen—a short black skirt and a tight red sweater. “Something came up with his sisters. I told him I’d get you.”
“Lizzy and Izzy?” I’d met the girls when Tristian took me to their school for lunch. They’re sweet and painfully adorable. They both had been struggling with some bullies and Tristian, in a complete lack of irony, asked me to give them some advice. “Are they okay?”
“Of course,” he says, like it’s not even possible for them to be anything else.
Campus is crowded as we head toward the parking lot. I don’t know what I expect—we’re rarely alone outside his bedroom—but it’s not the possessive feeling of Killian’s hand snaking around my waist and pulling me into his side before sliding down to cup my ass.
I look up at him, surprised by such a forward, public move. Aside from my first day back after my run-in with the Counts, Killian only claims me when no one is around.
Unless it’s to punish me.
“Don’t look so shocked,” he says quietly, looking forward expressionlessly. “People have an expectation about a Lord and his Lady.” He gives my ass a hard, aching squeeze. “Or would you rather me bend you over the nearest surface and just fuck you in public like Tristian would?”
Well.
I guess someone told him about what happened between us during the watch party yesterday. Swallowing, I wait until a student passes to mutter, “At least he doesn’t wait until I’m asleep.”
“What was that?” he snaps. I glance up at him in alarm, but it’s clear from his questioning eyes that he really didn’t hear me.
“Nothing.”
The look he gives me is hard, and his fingers dig into the soft flesh of my butt. I don’t know why I can’t stop pushing him. It only leads to pain and torment, yet I just keep going and going. He’s a bear I can’t stop poking, even though I know in the end I’ll be the one who gets mauled.
“Are you mad?” I blurt. If I’m going to be subjected to his stiff demeanor, then I might as well know why up front.
His eyebrow twitches. “Why would I be mad?”
“Because…” I bite my lip, wondering if I should bring it up. “Because of what happened with me and Tristian yesterday.”
Killian flicks me a quick glance, and then a slower one. The confused wrinkle in his forehead smoothes away. “Because you fucked,” he guesses. At my nod, he just stares ahead again, jaw ticking. “Did anyone see?”
“Well,” I hedge, grimacing. “Rath, maybe. Kind of.”
Killian just shrugs. “Then what do I have to be mad about? You’re his to fuck, too.”
He opens the door for me, but unlike Tristian, Killian doesn’t instantly move to help me up into his ridiculously tall truck. He watches me climb in, waiting. It takes me a couple tries in the boots I’m wearing, and I hear his impatient huff of breath before his hands clamp on my waist, effortlessly lifting me inside.
Once he’s behind the wheel, he says, “We’re not going straight home. I have a few errands to run first, and I’m pressed for time.”
“And you want me to go with you?” I ask, not sure I like going off with him alone.
“Yes,” is his curt reply.
Being inside the cab, I’m overwhelmed by his clean, soapy scent and the overall nearness of his presence. I haven’t seen him since Friday night, except for on that wide-screen while Tristian had me impaled on his lap. That, plus the weekend of respite, must be why I’m suddenly remembering what it’s like to wake with Killian inside of me. The way he starts slow and careful—almost tender—lulling me from sleep in a gentle rhythm, the slow drag of his cock pumping in and out. How he gets rougher and more desperate as time goes on. The sound of his whisper in my ear, like he’s trying to plant as much seed in my brain as my body.
My body heats at the memory, and I shift in my seat, adjusting the vents to blow in my direction. Killian heads to the campus exit and flicks on a turn signal, but it’s not in the brownstone’s direction.
I wring my hands in my lap, the tension setting my teeth on edge. I suppose this is as good as a time as any to say, “I’m supposed to ask for Daniel’s help.”
The funny thing is, I don’t realize Killian was maybe—possibly—in something approaching a good mood until every trace has seeped from his expression. The line of his jaw tightens, knuckles going white around the steering wheel.
“With?” he asks in a nasty, unnecessarily hostile tone.
Taking a breath, I explain, “I didn’t realize the Lady had to organize her own charity drive, but I guess I do. That requires money for supplies, and I have like a hundred dollars to my name.” Wincing, I conclude, “So they told me to ask your dad.”
The leather around the steering wheel creaks with the way he’s strangling it. “Fantastic.” It sounds anything but fantastic. It actually sounds more like he’s saying, ‘fuck you’, just with different and more interesting letters.
Swallowing, I keep my gaze trained out the windshield when I ask, “Um, can…can you help me instead?”
There’s a long pause, one of those hands lifting from the steering wheel to turn off the radio with a quick flick of his fingers. “Why?” he asks, voice full of animosity. “You know he’ll give you the money. Just say the word.”
“I don’t want his money,” I insist, but it’s kind of hard to throw that out when Daniel is paying my way at Forsyth. Instead, I reason, “This is about us. It’s a Lord and Lady thing. It should be you.” Softer, I confess, “I’d rather it be you.”
Luckily, we’re at a stoplight, because Killian looks at me for a long moment, those dark eyes of his taking in every inch of my face.
“Fine,” he says, breaking my gaze. The blood returns to his knuckles when he whips out his phone, thumbs tapping something quick.
It’s obvious a few minutes later that we’re headed to the South Side.
“Where are we going?” I finally ask, recognizing the dilapidated buildings. Anxiously, I wonder, “Your dad’s office?”
“No.” He flips on his blinker and turns down a side road. “I told you I have an errand.”
“What kind of errand do you have down here?” I stare out the window at the boarded-up businesses and homeless people tucked against buildings. The girls’ words from earlier sit heavy in my memory. Thugs. Flunkies. Lackeys. “Drugs?”
He throws me an incredulous look. “No, not drugs.” After a tense moment, he adds, “Although I certainly could find some down here.” In the distance, past the public housing and small rundown bungalows, is a large house. A mansion, really—the same one I’d seen that night with Tristian. The one Gussy-Z had built for his mother.
It’s surrounded by an ornate wrought-iron gate with gold accents. Killian pulls up to the intercom and presses the buzzer. A man answers, and after Killian identifies himself, the gates slowly open.
I look around us, a zing of discomfort rolling up my spine. “What is this place?”
The grounds are impressive, green and well-kept. It’s like stepping into a different world from the shitty streets just outside the gates.
“You’re looking at the new and improved Velvet Hideaway,” he says, even though nothing about it looks hidden away. Killian stops the truck in the turnaround and faces me, leveling me with a deadpan look. “It’s a whorehouse, Story.”
I blink at the mansion and swallow back my apprehension, although I doubt I do a very good job. Visions of my stepbrother forcing me into a threesome—or something worse—flash in my head. “Killian…I know because of my mother…because of everything…you think I’m a whore, but—”
“You are a whore,” he says, snorting. “But you’re our whore, Sweet Cherry, and my boys and I don’t share with anyone but each other.” He unlatches his seat belt with a snap. “A patron of this fine, upstanding establishment has something for me, and this is where he told me to meet him.”
My heart pounds as he walks around the front of the truck, and I can’t bring myself to open the door. With a look of irritation, he wrenches it open and glares at me. “Come on, he’s waiting.”
I stare up at the house, but I’m frozen.
“What the fuck, Story?”
“I, um,” I look up at the bedrooms on the second floor with their soft light filtering through the curtains. There are no similarities between this place and the hotels, but I feel an uneasy prickle of apprehension–one I haven’t felt in years. “I…”
He makes an annoyed rolling motion with his hand. “Spit it out, woman.”
I take a deep breath. “I haven’t been somewhere like this since I was a kid, back when my mother was…uh, you know.”
He stares at me for a long, hard moment. “A hooker.” He’s well aware of my mother’s profession before she leveled up and married his dad. It’s one of the primary reasons he hates us. Now, he’s giving me a long, pinched look. “Your mother took you with her when she worked?”
“Sometimes,” I say, back ramrod straight at the memories. “She mostly worked at hotels. If it was a nice place, I’d wait in the hotel restaurant or lobby. If it wasn’t, I’d hide in the bathroom while—”
His low growl cuts me off. “You waited in the goddamn bathroom while your mom fucked a John?” He looks at me like he’s waiting for an answer, even though one isn’t necessary. Looking away, he rakes his fingers through his hair. “Jesus Christ.”
“I had headphones.” I defend my mother. I’ve been at the mercy of men—wealthy men, powerful men, cruel men—for survival, so in many ways, I understand it. She worked hard to get us on our feet. Into what she thought was a safe home. “I watched movies on the iPad and kept quiet. I didn’t really understand what she was doing. Not until later.” I look down at my hands—these fingers and palms that have brought men pleasure. Men I never intended to do such things with. There must be something redeeming in what my mother’s done. Else, I’m hopeless. “And then she started seeing Daniel, and everything changed.”
The irony doesn’t escape me that I was in the company of sleazy men for a lot of my childhood, but it wasn’t until Daniel—a nice, generous savior—that anything untoward ever happened to me.
“Well, unless things have drastically changed at home, your mother isn’t in there.” He reaches out and takes my hand, the gesture so startlingly gentle that it takes me aback. “And you’re walking through those doors as someone who already belongs to me—not a scared little girl hiding in the bathroom.” His eyebrow raises. “Got it?”
I don’t expect Killian to show empathy here. I’m not even sure he possesses any, but I don’t think he’ll do me harm. If he wanted to trap me in a brothel, he’d throw me over his shoulder and drag me in, kicking and screaming. He wouldn’t soothingly ease me out of the front seat.
That’s not his style.
Once I relent, Killian leads us up the front steps and approaches the door. It’s grand, made of rich, dark wood and leaded glass. My stepbrother doesn’t knock. He pushes the door right open, like he’s been here a thousand times. The elegant foyer is a sight to behold. I take in the marble floors and crystal chandelier, knowing that it may look nice, but a whorehouse is a whorehouse.
“Don’t act so nervous,” he says, striding down the hall. When I’m still staring at the foyer, he turns to snap his fingers. “And keep up.”
I follow him into a large sitting room that’s set up like a lounge. There’s a bar tucked in one corner and comfortable seating all around. Through the wide glass doors at the back of the house, I see a massive stone patio and fireplace, along with a crystal blue swimming pool.
The room isn’t empty.
It’s filled with exotic women, each dressed provocatively. I know the look. I can perfectly imagine pressing my nose into the silk and smelling my mother’s perfume. I thought it was so glamorous. The slick fabric and lacy edges, the spicy perfume and lotions. It wasn’t until after the men left and the costumes were removed that the truth was revealed. Bruises and red, swelling welts, smeared mascara and the scent of liquor.
There are men in the room, too, full of smiles and charm. For now. I edge myself closer to Killian, curling a hand around his thick, tattooed arm.
Killian knows the young woman in charge. I can tell because her eyes alight when she sees him, instantly clacking over in her stilettos. “My, my. Killian Payne,” she greets, giving him a kiss on both cheeks.
“Augustine.” He nods.
“I was wondering what happened to three of you.” Her eyes go expressively interested when she asks. “Is Rath with you?”
“Nah, they couldn’t make it.” She does a good job of keeping the disappointment from her face. But not perfect. He adds, “They send their love,” and assesses the mansion, face just as impassive with her as it had been with me. “You seem to be whipping this place into shape.”
“Well,” she puts a hand to her chest, blushing, “I’m not his first choice. I’m sure you know.” At Killian’s non-committal hum, some of the seductive artifice melts away. Quietly, she asks, “How is she? The girls still ask about her.”
“She’s fine,” is his stiff response, and I glance between, wondering who they’re talking about. “I’ve already told your girls they can write to her, but she’s not coming back. She’s happy where she is.” In a low mutter, he adds, “For once.”
I’m startled by the protectiveness in his voice, left grappling with the curiosity about who it is, this woman whose happiness Killian cares about. Is she a hooker? The thought makes something churn unhappily in my stomach.
It’s fascinating to watch her mask click back in place, her apple-pink cheeks blossoming with a sexy smile. The thought comes to me in a flash of appreciation. I could learn something from her. “Well, you came by at the perfect time. I have a new girl who needs breaking in—”
He holds up his hands and cuts her off. “I’m just looking for Nick. He told me to meet him here.”
She tilts her head. “Ugly Nick or Pretty Nick?”
“Don’t.” Killian pulls a face. “You know he doesn’t like being called that.”
Her mouth slants into a sarcastic smirk. “The less physically appealing Nick is in the first room off the main hall. Word on the streets is that Pretty Nick is still out west.” For the first time since we got here, her eyes flick over to me, expression shifting a fraction. She offers her hand. “Forgive me, sugar. I don’t think we’ve met.”
“I’m St—”
“She’s our Lady,” Killian says, pushing my hand down. “She’s with me.”
Augustine nods. “It was good to see you, Killer. Come back when you’re here for pleasure instead of business. And tell Rath,” her eyes flash hopefully, “there’s always an open invitation, would you?”
“I will.”
No, I think, teeth clenching, he won’t.
I feel her eyes on my back as we walk down the hall. When we’re out of sight, I note, “You two seem close.”
“She’s a friend of my father’s,” he replies, approaching a door. “I’ve known her since high school.”
I suppose it’s no great surprise that Daniel’s been with whores before. He married my mother, after all. But maybe that means Killian grew up around prostitution, too. I suspect not the same side of it I was on. Distantly, I wonder if Daniel’s ever bought girls for Killian—although, I don’t see why he’d need to. But if he did, was Augustine one of them? She seems far more interested in Rath, but I’m not stupid enough to think that matters here. Girls like her don’t get to choose.
Unable to ask, I shoot for something else. “Your mother was okay with you knowing a…er, madam?”
He cuts his eyes at me, the glare hard and cold. “Don’t talk about my mother. Ever.”
The tone is chilling and scares me enough that I do nothing but nod, gaze dropping as he raps on the door. A moment later, it opens to reveal a thin woman dressed in nothing but a silk floral robe, tied loosely around the waist.
“I’m looking for Nick,” he says, all business despite the fact the woman’s breast is fully exposed.
Without a word, she steps back and opens the door wider.
Again, I hold back. I can’t just…walk in there. These people were just having sex. It’s so invasive, and honestly kind of gross. But it seems I don’t have a choice, because Killian grabs my hand and pulls me in with him.
The room is a large, spacious master suite. The bed is messy and features two sleeping women, both stark naked. The third woman goes back to the bed and curls up in the middle, right between them. There’s an older, salt and pepper-haired man sitting on the couch in his boxer shorts. His hairy paunch sticks out over it, a cigar tucked between two fingers.
“Killer,” he says, standing briefly to shake his hand. “Thought maybe you got lost.”
“Sorry. There was a hold up.” He doesn’t have to look at me to get his point across. This is my fault. First, my meeting ran over, and then I was hesitant to come in here. “Thank you for your patience.”
This Nick guy doesn’t seem too worried about it, though, gesturing loosely to a metal case propped up against the wall. Killian goes to it and crouches down, flicking the locks and lifting the top. It opens to reveal five large handguns. I watch nervously as he plucks them from the case, one by one, inspecting each.
“This a .22?” he asks, turning a shiny pistol over in his hand.
“Yep,” Nick answers, using his cigar to point at another gun. “But that .40 cal is a beast. Might not want to pass it up. Got a good deal.”
“Too big,” Killian says, not even glancing at it. “The .22 shoots softer.”
Nick shrugs, looking unbothered. “Whatever tugs your pecker, boy.” Killian grows quiet, continuing his inspection, and Nick turns his focus on me. He gives his cigar two puffs before saying, “Look at you, sweet little thing. You one of Auggy’s girls?” He pats his thigh. “Why don’t you come sit on daddy’s lap. We can talk about the first thing that pops up.”
My instinct is to shrink back, but Killian was right before. I’m not some scared little girl, huddled in a hotel bathtub. Maybe the Lords are just like the Royal women said: thugs and lackeys. But they’re powerful and far more intimidating than the old man sitting before me. Raising my chin, I level him with a sour smile. “No thanks, mister. I don’t like small talk.”
Nick’s eyebrows climb his forehead, and that might be amusement on his face, but the sound of a trigger cocking echoes through the room. My eyes snap to the gun in Killian’s hand, pointed directly at Nick’s temple.
“Talk to my Lady like that again, and I’ll blow your fucking brains out.” His voice is low and steady, but there’s no doubt about his sincerity.
Nick’s gaze slides slowly to Killian, who’s holding that gun with the same ease he holds a football, like it’s something he does every day. The old man releases a low, rusty laugh. “Didn’t realize she was your piece, Baby Payne. No worries.” He takes another puff of that cigar. “Just thought she looked familiar, is all.”
Killian holds it there for one beat longer, his jaw rigid. Then, in a blink, he’s released the trigger and has it back in the case. He reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket and removes an envelope, tossing it at Nick.
“That should cover it.”
The old man peeks into the envelope and seems satisfied. “Always a pleasure doing business with you,” he says, standing up and walking across the room to the bed. The women shift around, making room. Killian’s hand is on the small of my back, ushering me out the door. “Oh, and make sure you tell your father I said hello.”
Killian nods and pushes me into the hall, slamming the door behind him. I open my mouth to say something—a ‘thank you’ or a ‘sorry’—but he doesn’t let me get a word out. Instead, he pushes me against the wall, his wade palm planted into my sternum. His face is stony, and I’d know that wild, unhinged look in his eyes anywhere.
“Killian,” I say, fearing his retribution—a punishment for talking back to Nick. For talking to him at all.
Instead, he crushes his lips against mine. The kiss is so hard, our teeth clash together painfully. I make a small, wounded sound into his mouth, but I can sense the rage pulsing under his skin, and I know he’s lost to his senses. His hand grips my jaw, my breast, and then my hip, wrenching my pelvis to his. It’s a crazed, possessive series of gestures, like he can’t decide how to best claim me.
In a desperate attempt, I wind my arms around his neck, rubbing the hair above his nape in a soothing motion.
And then I buck forward into his hardness.
His breath stutters.
The kiss doesn’t stop, but I feel the edge of mania fading away as he licks at my tongue, tilting his head to deepen it. Slowly, his kisses ease, the anger dissipating until his hand snakes around my waist, landing on the swell of my ass.
He pulls back and looks down at me, voice quiet and sluggish. “He shouldn’t have disrespected you like that.”
Tucking my sore lips into my mouth, I let my arms slide away. “I could have handled myself.” It’s not said defensively or bitterly. It’s more of a revelation to myself than it’s meant to be for him.
“You belong to us, Story.” He reaches up to thumb at my chin, eyes fixed to my abused mouth. “Everyone needs to understand that.”
You need to understand that, he doesn’t say.
It’s still there in his words, anyway.
“They do,” I assure him. “I do.”
His eyes go shuttered, like he’s coming out of a trance. Stiffening, he jerks away, snatching the gun case from the floor. “Come on. We have other things to do.”
When I reach for his hand, lacing our fingers together, he doesn’t pull away. He curls his fingers around my knuckles and leads me out.
