King's Men

by Lana Sky

  Dressed in a navy suit and a darker tie, the man cuts an imposing figure against paneled wood. My mouth waters and my spine tightens, though I don’t know why. Not attraction, I don’t think. Maybe it’s instinct. I’m in a proverbial den of lions, but this man is something far, far worse.

  “What are you doing here?” he demands, feeding me each word slowly, as though he thinks I’m an imbecile.

  “Why does it matter?” My voice comes out stronger than I could have expected. My chin juts defiantly in the air while, inside, I flinch at how his jaw clenched in response.

  He doesn’t enjoy being challenged. Do I have what it takes to keep doing so?

  My heart taps out an answer in frantic Morse code: Hell no.

  “Your family’s influence doesn’t extend as far as you believe, Snow.” A dangerous smirk tilts his mouth. He deliberately clipped my name to unsettle me.

  And he has. My fingers tremble. Knitting them into fists is the only way to hide the vulnerability.

  “Did you buy the club too?” I wonder only to remember that he did. A sudden realization strikes and I’m compelled to voice it. “First, our business. Then our house. Now, this club… It’s almost like you’re attempting to emulate someone, Mr. Lorenz.”

  His head cocks to the side. “Oh? And who would that be?”

  Every nerve in my body warns me to tread carefully. No matter what, it’s pure insanity to utter one name. “My father, Forrest Hollings.”

  Blue eyes flash like a whip, and I regret my stupid slip of the tongue.

  “Never compare me to him,” he commands in a hollow tone.

  “Why?” I counter, once again toying with a dangerous possibility. My eyes tell me that this stranger is nothing like the Brandt I knew. But my heart? It’s always been a foolish thing. “I don’t remember you”—at least not the name Lorenz—“but whatever you have against my family, it almost feels…personal.”

  A wry smile shapes his mouth, more alarming than his various scowls. “Oh, but this is personal. Your family has made more enemies through the years than you can keep track of.”

  “That’s true,” I say hoarsely. “But I can’t help feeling as though you don’t just hate my family.”

  “Oh?” A black eyebrow cocks into the air. “And who would I hate?”

  His cold utterance of my name provides a clue.

  “Me.” Suddenly breathless, I grapple for air. “It feels as though you hate me.”

  He laughs, but it’s quick and fleeting, and it doesn’t reach his eyes. They smolder. “That’s a very selfish statement to make. After all, one might assume that every one of you Hollings has plenty of sins to atone for.”

  I can admit as much. Had I only his words to go on, I might believe he feels the same—but he glows vengefully at the mere mention of my family. He ignites when he speaks of me.

  “If I did hate you,” he adds deceptively softly. “It wouldn’t be your family’s ruin I was after. Your stocks, your holdings, even your home wouldn’t satisfy me.”

  He pauses expectantly. It’s like he wants me to goad him on. To prod. To give him a reason to taunt me further.

  I resist for two seconds—but crackling firewood taints the air. Orange flames reflect off his hollow gaze. I can almost see myself in them, slowly burning alive.

  “What would you want?” My words rise to a mere whisper.

  “I wouldn’t be satisfied with your family’s ruin.” He takes a step forward, catching me off guard. Laughing, he takes another. One of his hands captures the ball of my chin when he’s close enough. He roughly tilts my head to the side, surveying me from the newer angle.

  I stiffen but allow the contact. A part of me understands the unspoken rules; here, he holds all the cards to both my doom and my salvation.

  “If I truly hated you, I’d want you broken,” he confesses before letting me go. Narrowed eyes notice how I shudder in the wake of his touch. “I’d want you a shell of who you are. I’d want you quivering in the palm of my hand. I’d want you in pieces. Are you in pieces?”

  Breathless, I shake my head.

  “I can’t hear you.”

  “N-no—”

  “There’s your answer, then.” I can’t escape the feeling that he wants to add something else. For now. “Now, leave. You don’t belong here. Consider your membership revoked—”

  “Y-you can’t do that!” Indignation taints my voice, giving it a whining tone.

  “Can’t I?” He levels that dangerous gaze at me again, cutting through any confidence I have left. “Your name doesn’t hold power anymore. You’d do best to remember that.”

  “And you should remember the rules of Bolles,” I counter, hating how my voice trembles.

  But this is one element where I feel I have the edge. This man may shell out money for the club, but rumors of its ongoings were my bedtime stories, told as a privilege for my brothers to aspire to and an ever-present threat for me to fear.

  “Membership is decided by a majority vote,” I tell him, parroting my father’s old rules. “I have as much of a right as anyone to argue for a place here.”

  “And what could you want with a membership?” His tone alone should give me pause. It’s far too quiet, like the lull before a storm.

  Any other day, I’d heed the silent warnings. I’d exercise logic over emotion. But, within seconds, this man already has me questioning everything I’ve staked my entire being upon. I can’t let him go without standing my ground. I can’t face myself without doing so.

  “I’m going to find someone who can help me save my family’s name.”

  Recognition draws his lips to a harsh line. “You mean to whore yourself.”

  I wince as if slapped and find myself staring down at the floor rather than facing him directly. Damn him. I should get used to hearing the term, I suppose. Whore.

  “You are…”

  Does the thought anger him? The grated quality of his voice claims yes. Very much so.

  I sense him reach for me, his hand a shadow in the corner of my eye. Inches from my face, he draws back.

  “Little Snowy Hollings, ready and willing to suck some rich old bastard’s cock rather than join the ranks of us mortals. I never thought I’d see the day.”

  His crudeness feeds anger I didn’t even know I possessed, festering in the pit of my stomach.

  “More than that,” I spit, lifting my chin. “I would rather spread my legs in the middle of Bolles than watch you tear my family apart.”

  He holds my gaze for what feels like an eternity, peering deeper than my battered veneer. “Spread your legs,” he echoes finally, his face devoid of expression. “How about you spread them for the only man here with any damn power?”

  The insult strikes deep. Wrenching from his grasp, I start for the hall. “If you’re done mocking me—”

  “Do you hear me laughing?” His voice renders me motionless even before his hand returns, latching onto my forearm.

  Hope and fear lodge themselves in my throat, forming a repulsive mixture. “What…what do you mean?”

  I’m not sure I want to know the answer. Nonetheless, he doesn’t hesitate.

  “You spread your legs for me.”

  I blink as the world ruthlessly spins beneath me. You’re insane, I want to say. My lips part, but nothing comes out. Speechless, I’m wrenched around to face him.

  “Name your price,” he dares. Fire glimmers behind his eyes again. He’s mocking me. Or is he?

  My tongue flits along my bottom lip, wetting it. I hallucinate, because I swear he tracks the motion, grinding his teeth.

  “My family’s shares,” I say at last.

  He scoffs. “Fuck no. You’re not worth that much.”

  “Then I suppose I’ll take my chances with the rest of Bolles.”

  He still has my arm in his grasp. I tug, but he doesn’t let me go. If anything, his fingers tighten their hold.

  “And risk another night that poor Ronan’s hospital bills go unpaid?”r />
  “How did you—” I bite the question off and choke it down. “His bills, then.” Anxiety gnaws away at my skull. The hospital bills alone aren’t anywhere near enough. But it’s a start. Another day, I can worry about the rest. This would be one less matter pressing down on my shoulders.

  Though am I truly considering it?

  Blake Lorenz must pick up on my unease. He releases me, swiping at his chin with a thumb. “Do you even understand what you’re offering? Or do you think someone will take pity on you and give you the money for free? That’s not how the real world works.”

  He sneers down at me, so convinced that he saw through my master plan. It horrifies me to admit that he has. But I’d rather die than let him know it.

  “I’ll let my benefactor decide for himself what he wants to do with me,” I say, drawing myself to my full height. Even on heels, I barely reach his chin. What I lack in height I hope I make up for in sheer loathing, which I pour into every word I throw at him next. “He can teach me to do whatever the hell he wants.”

  He raises a black eyebrow, so fucking stoic. “Oh?”

  “Yes, because…I’m a virgin.” My face heats at his sharp intake of air. “A fact I think someone might find worth far more than a few hospital bills.”

  And with one reckless act, I just gave away the only valuable card in my hand.

  “You’re lying.” He sounds so sure of that, even as he eyes my body boldly. Just who does he think I am? Though he’s already said as much: whore. “And frankly, Ms. Hollings, I’m not interested in—”

  “I’m not lying.” My fingers drift deliberately down my front, hovering above my navel. “Shall I prove it?”

  He visibly stiffens. The line of his jaw, his posture—everything hardens until he’s a single solid mass blocking my only exit from this room. Only one aspect of him maintains any motion: his eyes as they chase the path of my fingers before returning to mine.

  “Strip.”

  The room wavers in and out of focus. “W-what—”

  “You made the offer,” he interjects. “Prove it. Strip.”

  An impatience crackles from him that wasn’t there before, and every instinct I possess converges on a single thought: Run.

  “I-I don’t—”

  “Do you want the money or not?”

  I jump. He shouted though he doesn’t seem to realize.

  Gritting his teeth, he nods toward my lower half. “Then take off the fucking dress.”

  I should refuse. God, I want to. I imagine what it would be like to turn my nose up at him and march from this room. Thrilling. But Ronan would still be on life support. Hunter would drown in his guilt. I’d still be a Hollings with nothing to show for it.

  “Don’t fucking tease,” he snarls.

  I’ve reached for a single strap without realizing it. Blushing beneath his scrutiny, I seize a fistful of the skirt instead. I start to lift it only to catch myself gaping through the open doorway. Anyone who walks past this room can see right inside. Am I brave enough to let that happen?

  “No.” Blake’s closer, blocking my view with his bulk. Flashing eyes hold me captive. “You don’t think about them,” he warns. “Take off the fucking dress.”

  I obey, cinching the fabric in both hands and wrenching it over my head. A heartbeat later, I’m standing before him wearing only a lace thong and a pair of heels—I’d forgone wearing a bra from the outset.

  Blake Lorenz takes me in with a quick glance, frowning at what he sees. A low sound escapes him. Words? My ears decipher them belatedly.

  “There’s no way in hell you’re a virgin.”

  What about my body gives him that idea? Looking down, I can’t tell. Pale skin greets me beneath unflattering firelight. My hands twitch helplessly at my sides, aching to cover the most vulnerable places. But I can’t—and he knows it.

  “Move and you won’t get a fucking dime.” The threat comes as he begins to circle my position while his hands fist the air at his sides.

  I keep myself utterly still, facing forward. A piece of my hair is disturbed from behind and I hear him inhale. My mind jumps to the first primal explanation it comes up with. Is he smelling me? The curl is released without comment, but his slow patrol continues.

  “You mean to tell me that your fiancé never fucked you?”

  “We haven’t made love,” I counter, fighting to keep my chin in the air. “Yet.” My voice cracks over the pathetic assurance. As if Daniel will give a damn about me after this.

  Even Blake Lorenz has enough tact not to point my folly out. “Why?” he demands, returning to the subject of my alleged virginity. “Don’t tell me you were saving yourself for marriage, Little Snow.”

  “I was.” Raw pain bleeds freely into my voice, but there’s no hiding it now. I let him taste a hint of the suffering he seems to crave. “I was.”

  “For him?”

  It’s a dangerous question. One with no real answer. So I say nothing, but he seems determined to fill in the blank regardless.

  He lifts another piece of my hair and fire burns across my scalp—he tugged. “Don’t tell me you had someone else in mind?”

  Again, his hostility feels out of place. At least in a stranger. My nipples tighten reflexively. Despite the fire, he leaves me feeling cold. Exposed. Vulnerable.

  “Does it matter?” I croak.

  He lets my hair go and it falls against my lower back. “No.” Then he completes his circle, but his expression only alarms me further. Something new alights his gaze, adding definition to his harsh features. “You think you’re worth stake in your company, Little Snow?”

  I struggle to keep from withdrawing beneath his scrutiny. I’m a Hollings, I chant to myself. A goddamn Hollings. “I’m sure someone would think so.” The boast takes my breath away. Humpty Dumpty’s all grown up; she thinks she’s worth a fortune.

  “Should I let you have the floor?” he wonders, leaning in to hiss each word near my ear. “Auction off the chance for one of those men to rip their way inside you? Mark you?”

  I cringe at the imagery. Mother always made love-making sound beautiful. To Father, sex was a transaction. Or a weapon.

  “You know where stupid girls go, you little bitch? They spread their legs in Bolles…”

  “Look at me.” Blue eyes survey me coldly, unamused by my sudden lapse in attention. “Or maybe you want to be bought and sold?”

  “Sold,” Papa hissed, shoving me against the desk. “I’ll teach you what it fucking means to be a Hollings.”

  My eyes blink rapidly, chasing the memory away. No. I refuse to let the past haunt me here. Instead, I focus on the man before me, and I force myself to nod.

  “Yes…”

  “Half,” he tells me. Confusion descends, but my frown only seems to anger him further. “Half of Hollings shares. But I want more than just your cunt.”

  My cheeks sear at his word usage—and he knows the effect vulgarity has on me. On him, triumph is a vicious expression of bared teeth and glinting eyes.

  There’s no more use in pretending to be brave. “What?” I ask in a whisper.

  “I own you for an entire year,” he proposes, but his frown betrays his confusion. He didn’t intend to ask for this. It’s a request born of smoldering hate. “All of you. You eat, sleep, and breathe at my beck and call.”

  “And…” I’m forced to lick my lips again to find enough traction to speak. For all of my effort, I can only string hollow gasps into the semblance of speech. “And you’ll give me half of my family’s shares?”

  It’s more than I ever could have hoped for.

  “At the end of the year. If you survive that long.” He doesn’t laugh to taper the threat. It lances between us, stabbing deeper than any form of physical violence.

  “You want to hurt me?” Fear has me backing against the fireplace. I trip over the carpet, forced to cling to the mantel for balance.

  His expression doesn’t waver. There’s not even an echo of pity or guilt. “I told
you what I wanted from you,” he says, nodding toward my chest as though it contains the answer.

  He turns on his heel while my brain struggles to piece together what his confession truly means: If I hated you…

  I’d want you in pieces.

  Near the threshold, he tosses back, “I don’t want a fucking martyr. Innocence doesn’t suit you. Come to me only if you’re willing to earn your goddamn keep—but you don’t tell your brothers or your accountants. You tell no one. You have a day to decide.”

  He returns to the heart of the club, leaving me there, nearly naked and trembling.

  His hate clings to me.

  My doom.

  My salvation.

  Ten

  I wish I were selfish enough—no, foolish enough—to play the victim. That would make this so much easier. I wouldn’t have to taste the bitter sting of my desperation. I wouldn’t crave my destruction.

  Papa trained his missionaries well. We’ve all sold our souls to protect his name. Is either sacrifice worth it? No answer comes to me in the snatches of fitful sleep I find on a recliner in Ronan’s hospital room. He doesn’t stir the entire time I’m there. Despite the tubes snaking from his body, he’s never resembled Mama more…

  I fight to forget the comparison and return to the hotel alone. After dressing in a pair of jeans and a sweater, I claim a secluded booth in a nearby café and savor my freedom by watching the day unfold around me. Life is such a different game outside of the upper echelons of Mayfield. Here, a smile isn’t a carefully honed weapon. Tokens of love or friendship are exchanged freely, and young women meet their lovers without any visible hints that one has bought and paid for the other.

  Do I fear what awaits me should I take Blake Lorenz up on his offer? Five cups of coffee fail to give me the courage necessary to settle upon an answer.

  In the end, it’s not like my feelings matter. I’m a Hollings. That fucking name trumps all.

  But I refuse to let my brothers die for it.

  As the sun sets, I finally leave the café and return to Hunter’s suite. I find him passed out on one of the loungers in the main room, clutching what looks like legal papers to his chest. Unsurprisingly, the scent of wine hangs over him like a cloud. My heart heavy, I press a kiss to his cheek rather than wake him.