by Freya Barker
“I didn’t even thank Luna for the sandwich,” I mumble.
“That’s okay. You can thank her later,” he says as he shuffles me up the stairs and into the bedroom. Once there, I barely manage to shrug off my yoga pants and fall face-first into bed.
I feel the mattress shift as Damian slips in beside me, and like a homing beacon, my body immediately seeks out his heat, snuggling against his side. My hand automatically comes to rest in the middle of his chest, where the edge of the bandage under my fingers is a sobering reminder of how much my life has changed.
DAMIAN
“Are you up for this?”
Kerry’s fingers absently rub along the tape stuck on my chest. They stop moving at my question.
“This?”
“Life with me,” I answer, letting my own fingers trail along the soft skin of her arm.
I’ve never questioned my career choices. I’ve never even considered the impact my job has on those around me—I’m ashamed to admit—but I sure as hell am thinking about it now. I freely admit it has me worried. What woman, in her right mind, would want to share her life with someone who willingly puts himself in danger on many occasions—who could come home hurt, or worse, not come home at all?
“Here’s the thing,” she sleepily answers. “Stability, predictability, control, and independence—those have always been my goals. I thought if I could build my life on those four cornerstones, I’d be riding high.” She chuckles, her breath tickling the hair on my chest. “I ended up finally having all those when you first walked into the shop. I had them and I was satisfied, but I wasn’t happy or whole. In the past however long it’s been since that day, I’ve lost every single one of them at some point, and yet oddly enough, I don’t feel the sense of loss I would’ve expected.” She pushes up and leans her chin on my chest, her beautiful, gray eyes clear on mine. “Instead, I’m more cared for than I think I ever have been in my life. I feel safe and protected every second of every day with you keeping my six.” I smile at her law enforcement slang as she continues. “I’m made to feel equal and valued, and I am grounded in my love for you. So if you are wondering if your job and all it comes with scares me? Then the answer is fuck yes, but I’ve never been happier.” I have a hard time keeping my face impassive because her words cut right to the heart of me. She slightly tilts her head to one side. “Is that a good enough answer?”
“More than good enough,” I say, my voice thick and my lungs full with emotion as she lays her head back down on my chest.
Every word from her mouth could have come from mine had she asked me the same. Stability, predictability, control, and independence for years have been at the root of my own life. Ironically, those were all reasons why I never even considered linking my life to someone else’s—until her. We’re more alike than I thought, and I’m positive that will be cause for some head-butting in our future. But for some reason, it doesn’t worry me. This love is too mired in reality to get damaged by an occasional scuffle.
I place Kerry’s hand palm down on my heart, and I hear her sigh. “For you,” I whisper.
“I know,” is her soft response. “I love you.”
I’m not sure if I even deserve to be this lucky.
THE END
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS:
As always I need to thank some amazing ladies.... My Barks & Bites group of friends who always, always have my back. They pimp, they tag, they promote—all for the love of my books. I don’t know how I got so lucky with this incredible group of women.
My beta-readers who never fail me. I message them to let them know another book is ready (often with little or no warning and on a pretty tight timeline) and they do everything in their power to make sure the manuscript I need to get into the hands of my editor, is as clean as can be. They can be brutal, but they are always brilliant and are indispensable.
These ladies have probably forgotten this story already, as they worked on it well over a year ago.
Catherine, Lena, Deb, Kerry-Ann, Sam, Pam, Debbie, Nancy and Chris—Love you! Don’t EVER leave me.....
My fabulous friend and editor, Karen Hrdlicka, whose dry humor is right in line with mine and who seems to understand my characters as well as I do. It is an absolute pleasure to work with you and I’m just thrilled I manage to make you blink away the odd tear. I adore you, woman!
Joanne Thompson, friend, colleague, cheerleader, critic, and also a brilliant proofreader, who has made it her mission to make me look better than I really am. Her knowledge of the English language is scary! Thank you for always, always having my back. MUAH!
The phenomenally talented CP Smith, who not only writes stories I’ll drop everything for, but also created the gorgeous print copy of this book! I love your face, lady.
I need to include my wonderful, awesome and delightfully politically incorrect friend, Dana Hook in my acknowledgments. She was my Alpha reader on this book and always forces me to be better than I believe I can be. If not for her ongoing encouragement and faith in me, I might have thrown in the towel a time or two. You have my heart, babe!
Linda Funk, my twin, my cheerleader. This woman is why I create flawed but indestructible heroines. She is one. She is also that special friend—the one you can have silent conversations with and who will stand by you no matter what. I’m so incredibly blessed to have you in my life.
I’m always grateful to my family who quietly support, and are quietly proud. I’m the loud one of the bunch and I know it. But they give me the time , the space, and the courage to pursue this ‘wild hair’ of mine into a writing career. I love you and am eternally grateful for you.
Finally my readers, my reviewers and my critics: With every book I write, you push me further, demand more of me and make me a better writer than I ever thought I could be. Thank you from the bottom of my heart, for your kindness, your wisdom and your friendship. I hope we have an opportunity to meet face to face one of these days. Love you all.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Freya Barker inspires with her stories about 'real’ people, perhaps less than perfect, each struggling to find their own slice of happy, but just as deserving of romance, thrills and chills, and some hot, sizzling sex in their lives.
Recipient of the RomCon “Reader’s Choice” Award for best first book, “Slim To None,” Freya has hit the ground running. She loves nothing more than to meet and mingle with her readers, whether it be online or in person at one of the signings she attends.
Freya spins story after story with an endless supply of bruised and dented characters, vying for attention!
Freya
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ALSO BY FREYA BARKER
CEDAR TREE SERIES:
SLIM TO NONE
HUNDRED TO ONE
AGAINST ME
CLEAN LINES
UPPER HAND
LIKE ARROWS
HEAD START
PORTLAND, ME, NOVELS:
FROM DUST
CRUEL WATER
THROUGH FIRE
STILL AIR
SNAPSHOT SERIES:
SHUTTER SPEED
FREEZE FRAME
IDEAL IMAGE
PICTURE PERFECT (coming soon!)
NORTHERN LIGHTS COLLECTION:
A CHANGE OF TIDE
A CHANGE OF VIEW
A CHANGE OF PACE (coming soon!)
Empires and Kings
by A.C. Bextor
Copyright © A.C. Bextor 2017
ISBN: 978-1537548975
Prologue
Vlad
My hand trembles with relentless fury as I dangle the heavy black whip, laced with fresh blood, closely at my side. My chest and back burn with exhaustion, aching after hou
rs of inflicting pain against my target.
Enzen Koslief.
The man tied up before me, a traitor to his own kind, hangs motionless by the thick ropes binding him to an old and splintered wooden cross. The turncoat’s feet dangle haplessly beneath him. The tips of his toes sway through the pools of his own spilled blood in accord with each strike of torture I inflict.
Rarely do I take it upon myself to dole out such physical punishment, but tonight an unbridled desire led me to it. The weight of responsibility I’ve endured over the course of the past year has come to surface and to an irrefutable degree. This traitor has merely given me reason to purge my self-harbored frustration.
The offender in question was once acclaimed to be a sharp, loyal soldier. The captain in charge of Enzen’s block often praised the soldier’s lavish thirst for combat. Throughout his eleven years within my organization, Koslief has dutifully done all he was ever asked and to exact specifications.
To speak of his commitment to this family, after only eighteen months within his position he was promoted. Nonetheless, it was I who ordered his advancement.
The abhorrent shock in finding out this man is a conspirator, collaborating against the brotherhood itself, came with several cardinal questions. If these questions are to go unanswered, the person’s name who baited Enzen to turn against his own not seized, everything my men have worked to procure by way of territory and business thus far stands for nothing.
“You were planning to take over one of my stables, Enzen,” I seethe, raising the whip before slicing another mark into the flesh of my detainee's chest.
His jaw tenses, and his head rears back as the pain inevitably echoes throughout his body.
“A stable you had no right to take,” I add, at the same time delivering another strike in quick succession to the one before.
Obediently, acting as ever the dedicated soldier to his king, the wounded man lifts his head to mine. There, I meet his eyes in challenge. The depth of Enzen’s contemplation is dark, hazing with loss and lurching in agonizing pain. Within the resolve of his eyes, I sense the traitor has finally come to terms, recognizing he’s soon to take his final breath.
“I did as I was told,” the duplicitous man aims to convince as sweat and tears run in tandem down his face, dropping to rest on the edge of his chin. “I didn’t know he was planning—”
My grim leer quickly settles, wordlessly advising him to use careful caution before excusing himself further. His reason trails to a fragile mumble as he bows his head to wait.
Part of me believes my once-faithful brother is silently praying for my mercy to spare his life. The other part surmises he’s praying for my mercy to end it.
In no way would this captive implore my forgiveness. Not now. The willful and resilient never do. Negotiating for pardon after being found guilty would only prove he’s weak. And still he’d die, no matter how—coward, criminal, or traitor.
“Tell me, Enzen, who coerced you to consider an act of treason against your own?” I press, reining in my temper so he can clearly comprehend my question. Still so slow and with attentive calmness, I inform, “The mercy you’ll beg me for is contingent upon your answer.”
When no response is offered, I place the battered whip on top of a cool metal table, freeing my grasp for the next implement in torture.
Fair to say that Enzen’s already been worked over.
The traitor had already come to recognize that his last breath was to be taken inside this dark, damp, and death-impending shed. With only one chained light hanging from the ceiling, giving him a glimpse of the darkness that would soon consume his soul, I’d been told that Enzen didn’t fight. He didn’t speak. He looked around the room, taking in the walls decorated with blades, chains, and metal. He was resigned to die and had already come to peace with death.
Enzen must’ve realized my men had been prepared for this.
Before I arrived, Enzen’s fingernails had already been removed, several of his toes had been broken, and his nose, now three times its natural size, had been bleeding profusely.
My advisor and closest confidante, Abram Wiles, had studiously listened to my order to have my men wound, but not kill, the outed traitor. As always, Abram followed the directive through with precise measure.
“Do you have any last words?” I inquire, half hoping the person’s name I desire so badly falls from Enzen’s lips. The other half wishes for him to remain quiet so that he dies a loyal man—even if his loyalty lies to a traitor much like himself.
“Tell my family I love them.” Enzen voices the requests with sadness while eyeing the the black rod warming at my feet. “Tell them I chose my family first,” he begs.
Family first.
In terms of this organization, family is the brotherhood, the sanction to which all soldiers pledge their lives to protect. Family is not the women in their beds nor the children in their yards.
Family is our organization.
“You love them?” I question.
“Yes,” he gasps.
“You sealed their fate by doing what you’ve done, Enzen.”
“No,” he denies, understanding my intent.
He should understand, being that he’s witnessed this before.
“I’m going to sell them to pay off what your betrayal cost me. You don’t love them at all.”
A guttural wave of anguish spews from Enzen’s throat. More aimless tears stain his cheeks. The once-dormant cords of his neck grotesquely bulge in protest. His chest, openly bleeding from hours of endured torture, strains with the power he uses against the ropes in hopes to gain his freedom from its tethering binds.
As I bend to grab the branding iron carrying the letter ‘Z’ at its end, I consider the irony that not only am I ready to end my first life but that the life I’m about to take belongs to one of my own.
Sullen with diminutive doubt, I press forward, gripping the black rod tightly. Often this implement is used to mark a man, no matter if he’s left dead or alive. Liars, cheaters, thieves, and traitors are given the same recognizable brand. If they’re left to live, they’ll remember what they’ve done to earn the scar to their stomach. If they’re dead, those who find and bury them will know, as well.
Once upright, I cast a confident glimpse to Abram. I find my dark-haired, broad-shouldered, confident advisor standing behind me as he always does—with loyalty, understanding, and certainty.
Abram curtly nods, wordlessly assuring this is what has to happen.
An important message must be sent to others.
A terrifying lore must be decreed.
A critical warning sent for all to receive.
There is no proxy in punishment for those who deceive. No forgiveness offered to those who fall prey to their own weakness. And no loyalty ties resilient enough to exonerate such premeditated betrayal.
The true family, our organization, must always come first.
“Daddy?” A small voice penetrates the room, pulling me from carrying out my planned revenge.
When I turn in place, I survey a small child, who must be all of five years old, standing in the doorway. Her fingers are clutching the silver handle, and her small body remains stoic and unmoving.
A little girl.
A forsaken casualty who will be left to suffer in a war between this city’s mobbed families.
A slight, green-eyed child standing alone, yet seemingly unafraid, thick among monsters masking themselves as men.
With her bare feet hitting the soiled floor one after another, she races faster and faster to get closer. In an unyielding attempt to save her father, she cries in shrieks of terror, piercing every ear she passes.
“Daddy! Daddy, no!”
As she starts to race by me on her way to him, I drop the branding iron and quickly bend to wrap my arm around her small waist. She weighs but nothing, and even with no hope of escaping, her body continues its fight to be free.
“Finish this,” I order Abram, at the same time fig
hting against her desperation in order to hold her closely to my side.
Her kicking and screaming continues, unleashing her fears the only way a little girl of her age knows how.
“Please,” she begs, sobbing and using her fingernails to shred my skin.
Her small hands push against my arm as her legs thrash against my thigh.
“Daddy!” she cries again.
Enzen’s moan of anguish mixes incoherently with his insincere vow of proclaimed love for this child.
A part of the same family he proclaimed to love.
The moment I turn my back on what I’ve started, life as I thought I knew it flashes before my eyes, caging my mind with doubt and sinking my chest with regret.
The stench of impending death bathes me as I take one step out of the room with her in my arms.
A glimpse of life untouched by death embarks as she finally succumbs to settle in my hold, seemingly giving up hope of ever seeing her father again.
When another of her harrowing sobs releases against my shoulder, everything I ever thought I believed comes to revelation.
With her body trembling in its discerned grief, my strong mind and solemn spirit give way.
As her voice breaks, calling for him once more, my urge to take a man’s life swiftly fades.
I begin to doubt my life’s position and its purpose.
Thoughts of triumph and success no longer seem vital.
For once, my heart breaks for what another will inevitably lose.
And as the beautiful girl with snowy white hair and impenetrable green eyes utters my name in a way I’ve never heard it said before, a darkened sense of uncertainty voices its penance.
