Long Live The King Anthology: Fifteen Steamy Contemporary Royal Romances

by Vivian Wood

  “Training?” I say, horrified, terrified, but needing this. This connection.

  “He said it would make me stronger. That people out in the world would hurt me. That I had to get strong enough to withstand them.”

  My stomach turns over. “I’m sorry.”

  “We practiced every day in that pool. There were other parts of the training. Other things I had to be ready for. In the other rooms, there’s equipment that—”

  “Please stop.” I’ve heard enough for today. For a lifetime. And you only have to listen. He had to live through it. “How do you live with it?”

  He looks at me then, his brow cocked in question. “What other choice is there?”

  Dying, but I don’t say that. It sounds too dramatic, and besides, I don’t want to die. That’s not what I’m really asking. I’m asking how to stop the nightmares. “I feel safe when you’re with me.”

  Because he’s the only one who understands.

  No, that’s not entirely true. Even before this happened I felt safe when he was around. Not safe with the way he made my body feel or what he let my father borrow. Safe in that I know no one can touch me when he’s around—not even his father.

  Damon is the only man on earth who would be glad to see Jonathan Scott. That would mean he could kill him. Or worse, probably. He might use some of that equipment.

  “You shouldn’t,” he says, his voice hoarse. “I let you down.”

  “No, you got me out of there.”

  “Don’t. Don’t pretend like I did you any fucking favors. What you went through before I got there… That’s been harder to live with than anything that came before.”

  It’s more than feeling safe. I finally feel warm when he’s around, my very own heat source. And it wasn’t my body that came out of that pool. It was something reptilian. Cold blooded. I can’t keep myself warm; I need him to do it for me.

  “Stay with me,” I ask, my voice breaking. “Like that first night. When you were with me, I didn’t have the nightmares. You keep them away.”

  You keep him away.

  “It’s during nights that he comes out of hiding,” Damon says, his voice tortured. “That’s when I need to look for him. It’s my only chance to find him.”

  “I need you more,” I whisper.

  He makes a low growling sound. “Don’t fight me on this. I almost lost you.”

  “You’re losing me now.”

  His jaw clenches, a muscle moving beneath three days’ growth. “Once I’m done I’ll stay with you. I’ll protect you. But I need to do this first. I need to kill him.”

  He can’t let it go. His anger has dug a hollow through him, as surely as little feet beneath the swing. “More than kill him, I’m guessing.”

  It’s a merciless smile he gives me. “More than that.”

  This is his addiction. No needles or cards. Hating his father. Hunting him.

  And he was choosing it over me.

  “No,” I say, almost desperate. “If you do this you’ll become him. That’s what he wants. That’s what he’s always wanted.”

  “Maybe I could have escaped it,” Damon says, almost melancholy. “Except he touched you. And there’s no way I can let that stand. No way I can let him live.”

  Which is exactly why Jonathan Scott had taken me.

  Somehow, he had known that.

  Damon stands, almost pushing back against the sunlight, as if the rays hurt him. And I realize with horror that they might. How much sunlight did he get as a child? “I hope one day I’m the man you deserve.”

  “And until then?” I ask, the knot in my throat so thick and so rough.

  “Until then I’ll make this right the only way I know how.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Gabriel Miller’s house is a sprawling modern mansion, designed with so many twists and turns they must be intentional. He wants people to be lost, to be intimidated, and it works.

  I have a path of breadcrumbs using the abstract art decorating the cherry wood walls—splashes of red against swaths of black. Pops of yellow. I can make it to the kitchen on my own, not that I go there often.

  And I can find Avery’s room when I need her, although I never do at night.

  Gabriel keeps her well occupied in the evenings when he returns from searching for Jonathan Scott. Whether I have nightmares or restless insomnia, I don’t follow the hushed words and the moans down the hallway.

  Those times are the hardest, when I feel so alone my chest aches.

  This is what I always feared. Mama leaving me. Daddy, too. He chose his addiction over my safety. I can’t decide whether that makes him weak or just human.

  My only solace comes from a stack of books on the side table.

  The only books remotely mathematical in nature are about stock charts and economics. They’re even more dry and obtuse than the automotive books, but I revel in them like they’re sun after a long rain.

  There are a few books I remember were on the syllabus in English class this year. Grapes of Wrath doesn’t hold my interest, but I keep it there anyway. It serves the same purpose as my self-enforced bedtime in that trailer—pretending like there’s a grownup to guide me.

  I wander down to the library after lunch, carrying the stack of books.

  A fire crackles beneath the large marble mantel. Someone must be here. I take a step backward, prepared to leave. Avery peers around the wide leather wing of an armchair. “Hey, you. Don’t go.”

  Hesitant, I hover beneath the arched doorway.

  Avery’s been incredibly kind to me, even nurturing, but it only makes me conflicted. I wanted that kind of nurturing from Mama. And occasionally I’d even get it, when she was between boyfriends. But I learned not to trust in it. It would be snatched away when I needed it most.

  “What do you have there?” she asks, looking at my books with interest.

  The urge to share with her is too strong, to show her what I like and find out what she does. I approach the rug with slow steps, feeling almost shy.

  The library is massive, two stories connected by a carved spiral staircase. And on the second floor, the shelves go so high you have to use a ladder to reach the very top. Small leather benches set off the different bookcases, which is where I would usually sit.

  In the center of the room is a plush rug that holds two oversized armchairs and a circular table. An intricate carved chess set sits there, positioned so the people in the chairs can play.

  Avery points to the empty chair beside her. “Join me. Please.”

  In a rush I settle into the cushion, sinking deep. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to disturb you.”

  “You’re not.” She tilts her head, reading the spines of the books I’m holding. “You found Gabriel’s financial books.”

  “Do you think he’d mind?” I ask, holding the books tighter.

  She laughs. “I’m sure he wouldn’t. In fact he’d probably love to discuss them with you. He’s kind of a numbers junkie, but it’s all over my head.”

  There’s a book in her lap, with plain text on the front.

  “Athenian Vase Painting,” I say, reading the cover aloud.

  “It’s my guilty pleasure,” she says, not sounding very guilty. “The classical section of the library is incredible, if you’re interested in the subjects. I can point out some of the more accessible books. This one’s a little dense.”

  “Does Gabriel like ancient history?”

  “No, but he likes making me happy,” she says with a private smile. “It used to be my major in college. Before I—well, before I left.”

  “Why did you stop?”

  She sucks in a breath as I realize my mistake. I’ve cared too much, revealed too much. And worst of all, I’ve reminded her of something dark.

  “I’m sorry,” I add quickly, starting to stand. “Never mind.”

  “No, please. It’s not your fault.” Her hazel eyes look so sad I have to sit again. And I recognize something in her words, that longing. Lonelin
ess. “I had to leave when my dad lost his court case. And he was hospitalized. Long story short I used my college fund to help us keep the house as long as we could.”

  I look away, remembering that story in the local news. Everyone had been talking about it. The famous businessman and politician, known for his works of charity, convicted of embezzlement. And despite that he had escaped jail time. The benefits of being rich.

  “You’ve heard the rest of the story,” she says, reading my expression.

  “Not really,” I say quickly. “People talk, but I don’t believe them.”

  “In this case they were probably telling the truth. I approached Damon Scott about a loan. Which he wouldn’t give me since I had no way to pay it back. Gabriel was there. He suggested that I auction my virginity.”

  A memory uncoils inside me, stealing my breath.

  You know he doesn’t have a way to pay you back. How dare you loan him money?

  Would you have preferred I told him no? He would have gone straight to my father, who would have charged him higher interest than I did.

  I had been so furious then, so sure of my rightness. And now? I didn’t know the answer. There was no solution to my father’s addiction. There was no proof against heartache.

  “So that’s how I ended up here,” she says, gesturing to the library, the mansion itself.

  I’ve seen her and Gabriel together, the way he looks at her, as if she owns him. He isn’t forcing her to do anything. At least, not anymore. “Do you ever think you’ll leave?”

  Her expression turns faraway. “I’m not sure. I mean, don’t get me wrong. I’m happy here. It’s beautiful and luxurious and safe. But sometimes I miss school so much it hurts.” She glances down at the book in her lap. “Books aren’t the same. They’re nice, though.”

  I reach across the chess board and take her hand.

  She looks up at me, her eyes wide with surprise. It might be the first time I’ve touched her. The first time I’ve touched anyone, since the attack.

  Footsteps startle me, and I turn to see Gabriel stride into the library. He makes a straight line toward Avery, a living and breathing shortest-path algorithm.

  He bends down, one hand behind her neck to keep her close. A kiss on her cheek. A whisper in her ear that makes her blush. Only then does he straighten and give me a kind, “Hello, Penny.”

  I’m a little disappointed Damon isn’t with him. Maybe a lot disappointed. “Hi.”

  “What are you two doing?” he asks.

  “Talking about Damon,” Avery says, before I can respond. “And how he auctioned me off.”

  It shouldn’t surprise me that she’s keeping secrets—even if those secrets are only what’s in her heart. She doesn’t want him to know that she longs for school. Because he would be angry? Or because she would feel disloyal?

  I’m hardly one to judge. I don’t share what’s in my heart very much. I barely know what’s there, most of the time. For me that’s the top-most shelf, full of dust, requiring the use of a special ladder just to reach it.

  Gabriel gives a small smile, completely unrepentant. “He gave me a lot of grief for that.”

  “Did he?” I ask, uncertain why Damon would mind. It made sense that he wouldn’t want to give Avery money if he knew she would never be able to repay. But how could he mind the auction? I have no doubt that he profited from it.

  “He can be a little protective of women. He’s been that way for as long as I’ve known him.” Something about Gabriel’s golden eyes invites me in, as if he’s imparting an important secret.

  “But he owns a strip club.”

  “More than one,” Gabriel says with a nod. “And for a girl in a desperate situation, there’s no place safer or more lucrative for her to be. You should have seen how selective he was about the guest list for the auction.”

  “Really?” Avery says, sounding surprised.

  Dark flecks of gold glint in Gabriel’s eyes. “I don’t think he knew whether to be relieved or worried when I won. He warned me that if I hurt you, I’d have to answer to him.”

  “Well,” Avery says, her voice arch. “Then there are a few things I’ll have to tell him about.”

  The smile flirting with her lips says she’s only teasing. Though I suspect if I were to dig, Gabriel has done one or two things that hurt her. He clenches a fist in her hair, pulling her back to whisper something else in her ear. She’s scarlet by the time he led her upstairs, giving me a short, “We’ll see you tomorrow. Mrs. B is in the kitchen if you need anything.”

  “Go to bed early,” Avery says, her voice trailing into the room as she’s led away. “I know you’re feeling better, but your body is still recovering.”

  I put my hand over my mouth to hide my smile, but it’s there, blinding and unstoppable. They’re so sweet together. Almost enough to break through the ice around me, even without Damon Scott around. Almost.

  I read a well-worn copy of Quantitative Risk Analysis late into the night, past dog-ears and highlighted lines. Gabriel knows this book well. Only a few times do I stop and leave notes in the margins, adding to what his sprawling script has written.

  Once I correct him, laying out my argument in a few lines, wondering if he’ll ever find this. They’re a different kind of breadcrumb. My kind.

  By the time I get to the chapter on volatility in valuation, it’s midnight.

  My eyelids slip lower and lower with every slow blink. I can’t think anymore tonight.

  Can’t use the numbers to keep away the loneliness.

  I reach over and flip off the lamp, dousing the room in shadows. I keep the bathroom light on all night, a holdover from the first days after the attack. From longer than that, if I’m honest. The light that slid between my plastic blinds was a comfort. And the heavy drapes in this house, the tinting on the rooms, the luxury of darkness that rich people seem to crave sometimes feels like a muzzle.

  Sleep laps its gentle waves against me. There are no strong currents on the surface. It’s deceptive, how softly it lulls me. How many times will I believe and hope and pray to find peace there? To drift on the lazy river of my mind.

  No matter how softly it begins I’m always dragged under.

  The dream comes in a tidal wave, wrapping my body in terror.

  In my dream I’m back in the mental hospital. In my dream, I never left. The walls are coated with something black and pungent, the floor slick. Pain slices my scalp as he drags me by my hair.

  He strides with cool familiarity through the hallways, like he’s been here a million times. Like he lives here. My body may as well be on fire, that’s how much the pain and fear scorch me, that’s how much I scream. In the molten center is the certainty that Damon Scott went through this.

  Not something similar. This exactly. In this horrible place.

  He knows these walls. These floors.

  He knows the cracked placard that says Recreation Room in front of us.

  There are a million funhouse horrors that a recreation room might hold. They flash through my brain like a demented slideshow, promising that this will be worse than what came before—worse than the stabbing pain in my body and the shame in my heart. And even so, I could not have predicted this.

  I could not have foretold about the pool.

  It’s large and rectangular, like the kind at my YMCA. Only instead of pale white concrete it’s made from tile, green and thin and cracked in a thousand places. Nothing that could be operational today. And it’s not operational, strictly speaking. There isn’t water. There couldn’t be water, not with the thick cracks in the concrete. As if the whole foundation has shifted over the decades, nature reclaiming what was hers.

  I want to slide into the cracks, even though they’re a couple inches wide. I want to disappear into the center of the earth. He told me I’d want to die, and he’s right, he’s right, he’s right.

  He tosses me into the pit. My knees make a loud crack with the fall. I know there’s pain, but it doesn’t regist
er. Not with anticipation clawing at my throat, knowing what will come next. The pool may be empty, but there’s something a little damp down here. A little slippery. I stagger, trying to stand, struggling to find that sliver of hope that says I’ll make it out alive.

  “Don’t worry,” he says, soft enough I almost don’t hear. “This will help you, too.”

  In the corner the thick roots of a tree have broken through the tile in the far end, leaving a wide chasm. That split narrows to a thick crack near the bottom. A little more and water wouldn’t hold.

  The monster above me turns a knob.

  A steel pipe juts out of the wall. It pours water into the pool, leaving a small puddle at my feet. My heart beats a slow rhythm, like it can’t believe this. Like it knows better than to panic.

  Like this can’t possibly be real.

  When I was little I fought the current. I kicked and paddled, struggling to get to the surface. Now I stand very still as the water rises to my ankles, knowing it won’t possibly help.

  There aren’t sharp rocks at the bottom. Only a dark vegetation grown over tile.

  Water rises, dark in the ancient Recreation Room, almost as black as the bottom. The mermaid tank was beautiful, mostly because the water was clear. And I knew the river was different because it was dark. Like this.

  And then Jonathan Scott reaches for a lever. There’s something metal and thin leaning against the wall above me. My mind can’t process what it is. My mind doesn’t want to process what it is, even as he lowers the grate over the top of the pool.

  Some dark part of me recognizes it as some primitive safety device.

  That dark part of me laughs.

  The water level will rise. The grate will keep me under water. “Please no,” I whisper, unable to stop myself. There’s no way it will work, no way I can stop myself from trying.

  He looks almost sad. “Don’t panic. You’ll only lose your head.”

  My nails press so hard into my palms they draw blood. There will be crescent shaped wounds in my hands, but I won’t be alive to see them. “Don’t do this to me,” I say, my voice shaking. “I’ll do anything. Anything.”