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Chapter One
Malcolm Whitlock paced behind his desk, every so often erupting into flames, and then the flames banked, only to erupt again. “That was the second attempted kidnapping, Samuel.”
His father didn’t have to remind him about the attacks. In fact, Samuel wished he wouldn’t. It was only a cruel reminder that Sam couldn’t defend himself, that he was a demon who had been born with no powers, which was unheard of in their world.
All demons were born with gifts, like his father, who could erupt into flames. He could take down any threat in his own way. But Malcolm Whitlock had a billion-dollar company to run, and he was far too important to take time to find out who exactly was after Sam. He was always needed at Whitlock Industries, his time precious.
Too precious for Sam. It had been like that Sam’s entire life. Nannies, cooks, gardeners, drivers, etcetera. Someone else always looked after him. Everyone except the one person Sam craved attention from.
His father.
Even now, after a second attempt had been made to abduct Sam, his father was relegating his safety to a security firm because he was too busy making money hand over fist to protect his own child.
Not that Sam was a child. He was over five hundred years old, yet his father treated him as if he were three. Sam had his own home, his own life, and knew the attempts were because of Malcolm and not him. Sam was a nobody, a nerd who owned his own business. His father was rich beyond anyone’s wildest dreams, while Sam sold designer lingerie and adult toys.
Had he wanted to open a high-end lingerie store? Not really, but Sam had no clue what to do with his life other than live off of his trust fund. He didn’t have the brains or brutality to work for his father like his siblings did.
No one had tried to accost Sam’s brothers. They wouldn’t dare considering how powerful Drake and Anton were. They would destroy anyone who tried. Malcolm had never concerned himself with them, as if he was confident his two eldest sons were more than capable of living their lives without their father’s interference, while Malcolm tried to control Sam’s.
His father indulged Sam’s need to work, his need to be around other people, his need to be normal. That didn’t stop Malcolm from micromanaging Sam’s life through other people, because the one thing his father wouldn’t indulge Sam with was his time.
Sam knew he’d been born too squeamish for a demon. He’d never killed another person in his life. Killing was no big deal to his family. If you crossed a Whitlock, you were never heard from again. Sam felt nauseous just thinking of ending someone’s life. He didn’t have it in him.
“I’ll not have you used against me,” Malcolm said as he stopped pacing and shot a hard glare at Sam. “I pamper you too much, Samuel. I should have never let you get your own place. You’re not ready for the world on your own.”
Sam sat still but curled his hands, making fists into his lap as he clenched his jaw. Red-hot anger pulsed in his veins. It was the same rhetoric his father coughed out whenever something in Sam’s life didn’t work out. Break up with his boyfriend? Sam shouldn’t have dated the guy in the first place because his father had told him the guy was no good. A certain lingerie line flopped? Sam should close the store because he shouldn’t be working in the first place. Got a hangnail? Sam should cut off his fingers to prevent future snags.
Okay, so the last one wasn’t real, but god, Sam just wanted to live his own life, do things without Malcolm breathing down his neck. But in this case—and Sam would never admit it out loud—his father wasn’t overreacting. Sam was still shivering as he remembered the van that had come to a hard stop outside his store, how that hooded man had tried to yank him inside. If it hadn’t been for Gloria, his employee and best friend, coming out to fight to keep Sam from being taken, god only knew where Sam would be right now.
He loved Gloria more than anything. She wasn’t afraid to be herself, showered Sam with affection and praise, and had a keen business sense, which helped Sam keep Pandora’s Box from going belly up. She helped him carefully chose from catalogs, knowing what would sell and what was the latest fad or craze, and she could sell a damn red Popsicle to a woman in white gloves.
If anything, Gloria should own the business. But she was perfectly fine being his manager. She even helped with local drag queen shows, selling risqué lingerie for the events. Sam wasn’t sure what he would do without her.
“Your security detail is waiting outside my office.”
Sam’s head snapped up as his gaze went to the door. God, he didn’t want to do this, didn’t want someone following him around. He didn’t want a shadow.
Besides, the bodyguard would probably spy for Malcolm, telling Sam’s father how inept he was so his father could force Sam back home, where living under Malcolm’s thumb would be more crushing than it already was.
His father crossed the plush carpet of his top-floor office and swung the mahogany door open. Sam glanced toward the floor. The bodyguard was probably your average buff guy who had more brawn than brain. No, that wasn’t fair, but Sam was pissed that, once again, his father was being so highhanded. Though this time, he had every right to be.
That still didn’t make the pill any less bitter to swallow.
“Samuel, eyes front and center.” His father’s voice was a quiet strength. He didn’t have to raise it. Malcolm never raised his voice, but he still instilled fear in the hearts of many.
With a sigh, Sam looked up, staring directly at his father because Malcolm expected nothing less. “This is your protection detail. Mr. Hart.”
Sam swung his gaze to the man who had just entered, and his jaw nearly dropped. Mr. Hart was tall and lean, with killer blue eyes and dark hair. Sexy was the world’s biggest understatement, but he also looked arrogant as fuck. He wore a suit and tie, with a Windsor knot, and gleaming black shoes. He was like a model who’d stepped off the cover of a magazine.
Great. Just what I don’t need.
The guy would probably be horrified when he saw Sam’s shop. Not only did he sell lingerie but also sex toys and all manner of lubes, and he’d just gotten in a new line of vibrators that would make Mr. Arrogant want to run away. The only reason Sam had opened a sex shop, as his father called it, was to piss Malcolm off, a finger to his father.
It hadn’t worked. Malcolm hadn’t batted an eye at Sam’s choice. Again, another indulgence. Not that his father was proud of him. If Malcolm ever felt pride, he’d never told Sam.
Mr. Hart held out his hand, and Sam got up, crossed the room, and shook it. He expected the guy to squeeze his fingers, the kind of dominant play that Sam hated, but his grip was firm, but gentle, and he let go of Sam’s hand with a smile.
A forced smile. “Please, call me Jesse.”
