They’re walking a fine line between protecting the organization and touching what’s mine. Kingsley shouldn’t be mine—but he is, and the Requiem will have to deal with it. They made it this way.
One wrong move and this all goes to hell. Bodies will start piling up.
If anyone lays a hand on my prince, family or not, I’ll hunt down every last one of them.
Which means I have to keep him in the dark. I have to keep lying to him, like Mother said, so he doesn’t start something and create a war between our families.
All because we murdered some prissy girl who was supposed to be his wife.
“Ryland heard all of that,” Thomas tells me, face beet red. “Not just you breaking shit, but the entire conversation with Mother.”
“Fuck Ryland,” I grumble, knowing he can hear it in his dark, secluded storage closet. “He’s been tied up for three months, only coming out when we say so. The guy can’t even escape. I don’t give a shit what he hears.”
I’m storming toward the door when Tommy asks, “Where are you going?”
I yank the door open, the cool air slapping me in the face. I look over my shoulder, my teeth grinding together. “To keep betraying the prince.”
26
Rip
Idon’t know how long I’ve been behind the wheel of the Honda I’ve been calling my own. I contemplate heading over to the ring, but I don’t feel like watching men jam their knuckles into others’ noses as much as usual. The violence gets me going, but not being able to take part myself is next-level torture.
I need something to cool down the heat in my chest. My fingers tighten around the steering wheel, and I picture them being around my uncle’s neck instead. He’s the reason I’m about to lose my head.
If it hadn’t been for him and his foolish decision to murder Sylvie Crenshaw, I would have never met Kingsley Beaumont. I’d never know he existed, and I wouldn’t feel like I have to burn the world to ensure he remains untouched.
Really needing to take a leak, I stop at the closest building I can find here in Whereverthefuck, Louisiana. I’m so far from New Orleans, finding any open places at this hour, let alone a town, is pretty lucky. Thinking I’d need to fork over some money to use the restroom like I’ve had to before, I pull out a couple of dollars, but the man at the counter waves me off.
I’m ten times lighter after I piss. When I get outside, I look around the nearly empty lobby, with worn wooden floors, dim lights, and quiet country music. The only people around are me and the guy at the counter, who is puffing away on a cigarette inside as if it’s nothing. What even is this place?
“You looking for the bar?”
I glance at the guy at the counter who’s leaning over and watching me. This joint has a bar?
I’ve nothing better to do, anyway. “Uh, yeah.”
The man points down the hallway. “Elevator is all the way down there. Fourth floor.”
Heading down the hallway, I shout, “Thanks, mate.”
A rooftop bar is what I need during this shitty night. I’ll get drunk, play some poker, maybe find a chick to bring home with me…
Yeah, as if that’ll ever fix the spell Kingsley has on me. All I’d be doing is imagining that it’s him I’m fucking. That’s the way he’s twisted my mind—no one else would be good enough. I don’t even have to try it to know.
Cool air hits me as I step outside, though it’s nowhere near the chill of Manchester’s December weather. Still, strong heaters in each corner keep the rooftop warm. Up here, it overlooks the town’s buildings, and all the lights below twinkle in the darkness. The four-story building is the tallest in this quaint town, but it’s nice.
It’s easy to find an empty seat since there are hardly any people around. Not many folks want to hang out in the cold, even with heaters.
A guy walks up, notepad in hand, and asks what I want to drink. I ordered my go-to without thinking, completely distracted by the horrible screeching sounds in my ears. There is a woman on a stage, microphone in her hand, doing a horrendous cover of a country song I’ve never listened to.
Of course, I would walk in on karaoke night. My blood pressure is already spiking as my ears scream for help.
I shift in the metal chair, the cold, hard surface digging uncomfortably into my backside. As I wait for my drink, which I will desperately need to drown out the sound of the sorry excuse for a singing voice, my eyes zone in on a certain someone.
Across the rooftop, he’s seated alone at a table, a drink held loosely in his hand. He’s so focused on his staring contest with the drink, the concert is basically background noise. If I hadn’t done a double-take, I wouldn’t have noticed the prince sitting alone. Or maybe I would have, because Kingsley Beaumont lives rent-free in my head.
A cool breeze washes against my face as I pull out my phone. I scroll to Kingsley’s contact.
