by Lana Sky
King’s Men
Copyright © 2019 by Lana Sky
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover Design and Interior Formatting by The Illustrated Author Design Services
Editing by Erica Russikoff at Erica’s Editing Services and Mickey Reed Editing
Formatting by Charity Chimni
Proofreading by Charity Chimni
Acknowledgments
Erica and Mickey, thank you so very much for taking the time to help me perfect this draft. As always, your feedback and expertise have been invaluable. Thanks to Melissa Stevens for such beautiful covers. Thank you, Charity for applying the final touches on this draft, and the many beta readers who provided encouragement along the way.
This story is a dark, twisted romance that contains subject matter that may not be appropriate for some readers including mentions of sexual abuse, child abuse, violence, and mentions of eating disorders.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
The story continues in book 2, King’s Horses…
About the Author
Also by Lana Sky
Prologue
I once loved someone as thoroughly as I hated myself, with no distinction between the why and the how. Young hearts are foolish like that, passionate muscles comprehending only obsession.
Mine went deeper than blood, into my soul. I woke up every day knowing I would die for him, and I went to sleep at night lulled by the depth of my adoration. I inhaled devotion and exhaled self-loathing.
Brandt Lloyd was my everything.
And I killed him.
There is no such thing as a school-girl crush. Love that pure stains the soul. It twists you. Changes you.
It defines you.
Until it’s gone.
Guilt is a festering cancer I’ve learned to live with. Its corrosion taints my charming smile and haunts my confident walk. It permeates my beautiful designer clothing.
Guilt is all I have left of him—that and the last words he ever said to me, uttered from across a buzzing courtroom: “All the king’s horses, Snow.”
The meaning escaped everyone else. Papa wrote them off as the ravings of a convicted sex offender. The judge had them struck from the record. His mother merely wept as the bailiff led him away.
But I understood him clearly. Those five little words revealed just how cruel love can be, conveying a promise Brandt Lloyd made to me that day. It haunts me still, an inevitable warning of my ultimate fate.
My betrayal didn’t merely cause him untold pain. It sparked his ire—my beautiful boy who swore to be unlike his father.
It heralded his revenge.
He delivered it simply, in the form of a sheet woven into the uppermost bars of his cell two months after his conviction. There was no goodbye. No chance to right my wrong.
Just silence. And my own whispered continuation of his final phrase:
And all the king’s men won’t put me back together again…
No matter how violent my fall.
One
A good engagement party should begin much like an execution, last meal and all. I can hear my “executioner” already, marching toward my room.
“Snowy!” Hunter barges in on cue, snapping me from my thoughts. When he sees that I’m still in my robe, he averts his gaze and mutters a curse—but not before setting a porcelain plate on the edge of my vanity. On it rests a single piece of toast. “Get dressed and then eat something.”
“I already am dressed.” I shrug the silken dressing gown from my shoulders, revealing the elegant dress I’m wearing underneath. Handcrafted in Italy, it hugs my frame like a glove and costs a pretty penny. A perfect, contrived dress for a contrived occasion.
“And you still aren’t ready?” he asks, huffing his annoyance. “For someone about to marry into the Forbes World’s Billionaires list, you’re sure taking your sweet time announcing it. Eat.”
I roll my eyes while dragging a brush through my hair. Perfectly conditioned curls refuse to conform to shape. Frowning, I tug harder. More frizz forms, and I can’t escape the feeling that even my hair is trying to warn me, throwing a tantrum reminiscent of those terrible days in prep school when hats were my main accessory: You’re doing everything wrong.
My fingers twitch and the brush lands on my lap, dangling loose strands of bright-red hair. With a sigh, I scrape the curls into the semblance of a coil at the nape of my neck and use an army of bobby pins to secure it instead.
“You look perfect,” Hunter deadpans his customary brotherly encouragement. Lest I mistake the words as a compliment, he glances at his watch and then cuts his gaze toward the uneaten slice of bread. “Now, eat. The longer you delay, the more likely it is that some blond bimbo will snatch up Prince Charming, and there go all those investment dollars.”
A restless scowl darkens the hue of the blue eyes we share. To enhance his irritation, a lock of blond hair falls from his neat coif, and I squash the urge to smooth it back into place. Like a statue, he is. Harsh. Impenetrable. But, at the end of the day, he’s only as strong as his foundation. One wobble and smash.
Any other night, I’d take pride in winding him up; it’s the only time I see him act remotely human these days.
“I’ll be just a minute,” I tell him, ignoring how he’s fidgeting in the corner of my room.
His suit stands out in contrast to my navy walls. He’s wearing gray: a fitting color to describe my life. Perfectly, wonderfully gray.
After sliding one last pin into place, I finger a loose coil of my hair and let the stubborn twist remain.
“I look perfect,” I parrot, observing how my curls contrast with my custom cobalt gown. Their fiery red offsets the amethyst set in Mama’s old necklace. I’m a wealth of pretentious colors overall. Red for fury. Blue for power. Purple for prestige.
Hunter claims that I’m in danger of losing my fiancé to some blond bimbo. He’s close. At night, I lose Daniel to a lustrous brunette from the south of Spain, Sloane Matías-Sebastián—a woman who just so happens to be my best friend. Though Daniel fucks her for hours in that swanky penthouse of his, I’m the one wearing his ring.
Not because I’m more beautiful—Sloane could wear a paper bag and still outshine me. No, my current status has everything to do with my family name.
“I am Snowy Gale Hollings,” I recite to my reflection, watching red lips move over the glossy surface. “That means something.”
“Hollings-Ellingston if you can hurry up to attend your own damn engagement party,” Hunter corrects. He’s still scowling down at his watch while flicking invisible lint from his cufflinks.
With our stocks a
t stake, his nerves are forgivable. He won’t lay off me or the gin he hoards in his office until the day that coveted ring is on my pretty finger.
Hollings-Ellingston. Now that name means something.
“I’m ready,” I say, starting to stand.
“Snowy.” Hunter clears his throat. “You didn’t eat.”
Sighing, I snatch up the toast and devour it in three vicious bites. My stomach churns, forced to accept every bit. “Happy now?”
“I’m pleased as fucking punch.” Hunter’s by my side in an instant, gallantly taking my hand and helping me to my feet. He glances me over and nods almost to himself.
I look decent enough to enter with.
“Now, remember. It’s simple.” He turns on his heel, all but dragging me to the door. “You smile. You simper. You kiss. Voila. Hollings stocks increase by tenfold tomorrow, and you can stamp the Ellingston name on your stationery kit.”
“And the money,” I say as dryly as I can. “Don’t forget the money.”
“Oh, and yes, of course, the money.” Hunter beams, oblivious to the candor. We’re nearing the stairs now, and he descends the topmost one first before extending an arm to assist me.
I need the help. My dress has a train that snakes behind me, requiring that I use one hand to guide it while balancing off Hunter with the other. Mama used to say that beauty is all about balance: finding the delicate thread between pretty and pretentious and dancing along it on tiptoe.
Daniel Ellingston is both pretentious and pretty, a winning combination. He’s waiting for me at the foot of the grand staircase, a champagne flute in hand. We’re so perfect together, he and I. We both lie as easily as most people breathe. We sacrifice comfort for fashion, and we know how to stop a room dead in its tracks with a smile.
Mayfield’s best and brightest came out in droves to fawn over our impending union. Society’s elites pack the foyer, decked out in the season’s latest fashions. They hush as I appear, clutching at their literal and figurative pearls.
At a glance, I only know a handful of them personally.
“Focus,” Hunter hisses, tugging at my arm.
Right. I’ve been staring. My lips contort to display my teeth and project confidence. Then, on my brother’s arm, I descend the staircase, tilting my head to display my necklace and the dramatic fall of my dress. Oohs are uttered and aahs exclaimed. Camera lenses flash. One of those snapshots will make the society pages tomorrow.
When I reach the final step, Daniel is there to take my hand. He helps me down to the floor level, and a roar rises from our gathered sycophants.
“You look beautiful,” my fiancé tells me before pressing a kiss against my cheek.
I return the chaste gesture with another smile. “So do you.”
Sloane certainly thinks so. She’s watching from the back, wearing one of those strained expressions only possible when you’re dying internally in a public setting. Pearly white teeth and hollow, haunted eyes which perform a slow perusal of Daniel’s body. I copy the motion and instantly understand her attraction. His tux is custom made from an Italian designer: a pure black suit with a white silk shirt and a navy tie. Unfortunately, he’d clash with Sloane’s ivory, body-hugging dress.
We, however, match. My red hair burns bright against his auburn locks. His navy bolsters my bolder blue. Not to mention, our bank accounts accent each other’s perfectly.
As Hunter admitted, I can’t forget the money. After all, love is a numbers game—the sum of how much you can stand someone versus being alone. I love Daniel Ellingston. He minimizes my silent hours and fills my time with pretty, simple lies.
He doesn’t have a heart to break, and I’m not sure I’ll ever find mine to give.
We’re a match made in heaven.
We truly are.
Naughty thoughts ride the bubbles of the first glass of champagne I’ve had in months. My stomach flutters, churning an ominous warning: Not here, Snowy. Not now.
Too late. Beautiful. It’s that stupid word that triggers the memory: Brandt Lloyd never once told me I was beautiful. Or special. A boy so driven toward morality could never tell a lie.
“You’re Snow,” he’d reply whenever I fished for a compliment. “You’re just Snow.”
Messy, chubby, ruddy-faced, acne-prone, dimple-cheeked, awkward, gangly Snow.
And that was enough for him.
Daniel Ellingston goes out of his way to ensure that the whole world knows how beautiful he thinks I am. How special. How clueless. He drapes me in diamonds while sneaking glances at Sloane from across the crowded ballroom of our engagement gala. He tells me all the right things, nuzzled into the nape of my neck. He donates thousands to my favorite charities. Our simplest date consisted of skiing in the Alps. He understands my fear of intimacy and patiently claims we can wait until our wedding night. He’s perfect. He’s wonderful.
I scream into my pillow every night at the thought of marrying him. Why? He’s the best I’ll ever have.
The entire world tells me so. Our perfect destiny headlines every tabloid. My brothers have all but staked their livelihoods on it. I’ve staked my worth on it.
As a Hollings-Ellingston, I’ll be a matriarch on par with the Queen of England with none of the societal rules. What else do I have to live for? With no education beyond preparatory school and no career to my name, the title of an investor’s wife is the only goal left to check off my ambitions list. It’s what my parents groomed me to be: the perfect trophy, fit for a king. Admittedly, the societal norms dictating the lives of Mayfield’s upper echelon are far more ruthless than those of a royal court. At least we don’t have to curtsy. One must simply learn how to smile as you stab someone in the back.
Much more elegant.
“Snowy?”
I flinch as Daniel’s hand settles over my spine, guiding me toward him. My body conforms to the motion and cameras flash on cue. Bingo. There’s another front-page photo. I start to drift away, but his palm applies pressure, keeping me by his side.
“Is everything all right?”
“Everything’s perfect,” I murmur against his lapel. It’s the truth. Everything about tonight has been perfect. I’ve never been happier—my father’s definition of “happy,” anyway. No scandals to speak of. No bankruptcies set in motion.
Carefully dosed and manageable mirth.
“You seem quiet tonight,” Daniel insists.
Odd. We rarely talk in general. I usually sputter off a response to whatever he asks.
Like now. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
We both smile as we talk, our eyes fixated on our observant guests more than each other. For appearance’s sake, Daniel slides his arm down to my waist, ruffling the silk of my dress.
“You seem distracted.” Furrowing his brows, he fingers the loose piece of my hair and tucks it behind my ear. “If you’re worried about Ronan, don’t be. I have Hunter out looking for him. He’s probably neck-deep in a bottle of whiskey, but he wouldn’t dare miss tonight.”
“Oh, Ronan.” I nod, still smiling. Ronan, my other, far less materialistic brother. Hunter has dollar signs in his eyes while, these days, Ronan can barely keep his open or off the casino tables. “He’ll be here. Of course.”
Daniel frowns. “Should we wait for him to begin the reception of guests?” He nods toward the table of wrapped presents and yet another bottle of champagne waiting to be sabered open. It’s a gift from Daniel’s grandpapa. A vintage from an obscure year some distant relative participated in during one of the World Wars. The second one, I think.
“No.” I fist a handful of my gown and lift it. “We can start now.”
Together, we approach the center of the room, where Daniel calls for silence by tapping a salad fork against his champagne flute. The crowd hushes, watching us expectantly, as I face them with my hands folded over my waist, showcasing the coveted ring sparkling on my finger.
“Thank you all for coming,” Daniel begins before launching into a speech about
how wonderful I am and what an amazing wife I’ll make.
A few of our guests absently nod along. Aunt Agatha. Uncle Morris. Even Sloane.
Ten years ago, most of those gathered here barely acknowledged my existence. Before I was perfect, beautiful Snowy—back when I was just Snowy. I was an outcast regulated to the outskirts of such balls and parties. Only one person ever stood beside me in the shadows. He held my hand, much like Daniel is now. But he didn’t worship me. Honor me. Cherish me.
He knew me. He loved me—just not in the way I wanted. But maybe his love was better in the end. Stronger. What I needed.
For a second—just one—I let myself imagine what it would be like if he were here, in Daniel’s place. My dress wouldn’t be cobalt, for one. Brandt loved white, and silver, and muted colors. He loved green, like the forests we used to play in and the ivy draping the walls of our favorite hideaway. He wouldn’t want a large party to showcase his engagement. I’d have to force him to have one—it’s tradition, I’d pester. You must.
The fantasy unfolds so clearly—minus one detail. Brandt wouldn’t be ashamed to put a ring on his “Sloane.” He’d never settle for me.
“Darling?” Daniel runs his hand down my side, drawing my attention. “Should we open this one next?”
“Hmm?” I blink. At least four once gloriously wrapped gifts are now on full display, perched on the edge of the table like sacrificial offerings. An engraved cake carver. A vintage bottle of wine. His-and-her wine glasses.
“Here.” Daniel passes me a box still wrapped in gold foil. “Open this one, darling.”
