King's Men

by Lana Sky

  “Get out. And leave the book.”

  This time, I don’t question. I let the book fall from my lap and escape the room before he can call me back. Seconds later, I’m locked in my room, crouched on the bathroom floor, sobs ripping from my chest. Then the tears finally fall, like hundreds of tiny daggers. All of them carry the weight of ten years. God, even reading a simple story to a stranger feels like having salt ground into my open wounds.

  My fingers register the loss of the book, uncomfortably clenching together. I sink them into my hair to distract myself from the resounding ache, braiding it into a long plait that falls between my shoulder blades.

  The lack of clothing feels even more apparent here, with the cold tile biting through my thin panties. They’re delicate lace, not practical in the slightest. The woman who picked them out did so with panty lines in mind. She wasn’t a heartbeat from poverty, forced to cater to the whims of a psychopath.

  A psychopath who has yet to tell me what he wants from our arrangement.

  The thought of not knowing stings worse than any crude remark or jab about my weight. I’m not his type, but in what context? His type of woman in general? Or perhaps sexually?

  But therein lies the rub. He seemed more willing to fuck me in Bolles than in his private home. Though, admittedly, not in the slow, lazy way Daniel and Sloane did the one time I caught them in bed. They were so engrossed in each other that they didn’t even notice me spying from the doorway before I crept out of his house. Daniel savored Sloane the way I used to enjoy the melted, runny bits of chocolate I’d smothered in my pocket during class. It wasn’t perfect, but in a pinch, after a grueling math session, nothing in the world could compare.

  Blake looks at me like a starving man who loathes chocolate, forced to decide between starvation or sustenance. His mind chooses to die, but his body overrules him. Those eyes betray him.

  I’d prefer Daniel, who would make love to me like a connoisseur devouring the finest box of chocolates. Sure, he’d always have another treat in mind, but for the moment, I’d make do.

  Men like Blake Lorenz never settle for a piece of what they crave.

  I can still feel his fingers roughly dragging over my skin. Each one left imprints seared into the muscle underneath. He’s too cruel for possession. No. I feel marked instead—like a condemned building, forced to remain a hollow shell of myself until a wrecking ball finally puts me out of my misery.

  A task Mr. Lorenz seems willing to avoid for now.

  I can hear him down in Papa’s study. Rustling. Shuffling. Writing. One of those many documents might hold the key to proving that my family’s circumstances were manufactured. A confession, maybe? One can only hope—literally. It’s all I can do but pray for a miracle. Exhaustion and shame form a powerful elixir. The longer I sit, curled and scheming, the more tempting one of my insane plans seem. Break into the office and find what I can. Evidence. Anything.

  Turn the tables on Blake Lorenz.

  But even thinking of him is a dangerous game.

  Someone’s approaching my door as if conjured by the allure of his name bouncing around my skull. He doesn’t knock or even open my door right away. I can sense him there, hovering in shadow, breathing in my scent. Hating every drop.

  “Unlock the door.”

  Shit. I lurch to my feet and twist the doorknob myself. He shoves the door open the rest of the way, and I barely manage to duck out of its path.

  The man who ruined my entire world stands in the center of my altered room, frowning at the decor. My sheets are mussed, a crumpled bit of lace still on my floor. Heat prickles my cheeks as his attention lingers over every mess.

  “You are not a kept woman, Ms. Hollings,” he tells me. Hate undercuts every word, and suddenly, my room is stifling. “You are not a guest. You are in my employ, and I expect you to earn every dime.”

  Earn? My stomach churns at his ominous use of the word. “H-how?”

  He meets my gaze with an unnaturally blank expression. “To start with, where the hell is my breakfast?”

  “B-breakfast?”

  “You have one hour.” He storms into the hall before I can question.

  Does he mean for me to cook? Dazed, I find myself chasing him, rounding the hallway just as he descends the first few steps of the grand staircase.

  “Coffee, black,” he snaps. “Toast with butter. Eggs over easy. Don’t burn a fucking drop. Understood?”

  He continues down the steps without waiting for confirmation, his shoulders so rigid that I could carve pieces of him off and chisel a new man from his solid frame. One who wouldn’t hesitate to return my family’s fortune if I asked.

  There’s an art to seducing men. Sloane could—and has—used her body to enact almost anything that she wants from the opposite sex. With my family name, I had success with as little as a smile. But Sloane’s body couldn’t overcome greed, and without my money, I have nothing—as best evidenced by Blake Lorenz’s indifference.

  Still, some women have worked with far less. If being a Hollings means something, as Papa insisted, then that should translate, money or no.

  “An hour, Snow.” The warning comes from below. I startle to awareness and catch sight of him near the base of the steps. Watching me. “An hour.”

  The moment his presence finally fades, I start down the steps and begin a dizzying trek to the kitchen. He must have fired Alice, the old cook who had served the Hollings table since before I was born. I find the kitchen empty and so cold that my teeth chatter. Here, I have no clue where to begin.

  Coffee? As far as I know, it magically appeared in my mug every morning. In fact, the only Hollings with any semblance of knowledge around a kitchen is probably Hunter. It’s not like I can ask him now, even if he’s sober.

  Biting my lower lip, I survey the kitchen and rely on logical guesses. Forty minutes later, I have brownish coffee-flavored water cooling in a mug, a plate full of flakey, blackened bits that were once eggs, and toast burned on one side but nearly untouched on the other. Red with shame, I gather the meager offerings onto a tray I found in a cupboard and approach the study.

  I find him hunched over the desk, his back to me. A stack of papers once again serves as his main focus. He pours over one while beckoning me closer. Silently, I place the tray down beside him. He gives it a curious glance and shrugs.

  Apparently, I’m dismissed.

  Alone, I return to my room and watch the world beyond my window. Rain streaks across my view of the gardens, neglected after just a few days without treatment. For a man who purchased a multimillion-dollar property, Blake Lorenz appears to have little interest in running it. Does his hatred toward my family extend to the very property itself?

  I can’t imagine that kind of malice. Then again, I can’t imagine a man as unreadable as Blake Lorenz. Money. Sex. Power. Which one drives him? All three?

  A woman like Sloane might know how to exploit at least one of those desires to her own ends. But me? I’ve never had to work for anything in my life. I either had it handed to me or, as with any Hollings, I simply took it.

  Inhaling deeply, I turn to the rack of clothing again. One of the garments is a dress that fits if I keep it rolled up at my waist. Wearing it, I’m able to face myself in the mirror and devise a plan.

  A year is too damn long. Someway, somehow, I need to ensure that Blake Lorenz gives me my money sooner.

  Eyeing myself warily, I smooth my hand along the lacy material. It’s only as my finger catches the light that I realize I’m still wearing Daniel’s ring. Some fiancée I turned out to be. I sold myself to another man without even stopping to consider just what that would mean. For Daniel. For myself. So much for being a Hollings-Ellingston.

  I turn away from my reflection, fighting a lump forming in my throat. Nervous energy has me pacing my room in circles. It’s approaching noon of my first day of self-imposed servitude, yet I still have no clue as to my duties. He had me cook. Does he intend to make me his maid?

&nb
sp; I’m more terrified by the prospect than I care to admit. Servants are invisible, relegated to dark corners and hidden spaces.

  He can ignore a servant.

  Though he seems determined to do as much regardless. For hours, I hear him at work in Papa’s study. Shuffling documents and scribbling in pen. I’m hypnotized by the various sounds, lulled into a daze.

  Until the sound stops and my nostrils flare with a newer sensation.

  “I told you not to wear a damn thing until you can fit into the clothing.”

  I lurch upright. I was lying on my bed. Did I drift off? My eyes sting to bolster that suspicion, though the reaction could have something to do with the figure watching me from my doorway. Darkness paints him in liberal doses of obscurity. God, he could be Brandt. He could be the devil.

  But he’s neither. Just a means to an end—it’s how my father taught me to see anyone who isn’t a Hollings. As an obstacle to either conquer or step over. I size him up in a single glance and make my decision.

  I’ll conquer him no matter what it takes.

  “I’m sorry.” I let my hands drift to my throat, fingering the neckline of the garment. After shifting into a sitting stance, I ease it over my head. I should be the one in charge of the act, but his scrutiny washes over me like lava, burning. Searing.

  “Come here.”

  Slowly, I haul myself to my feet and approach him. When I’m mere inches away, his hand lands over my shoulder, grinding his presence into the muscle and bone beneath.

  “You don’t disobey me. Do you understand?”

  I nod, unsettled by the grating tone. No man has ever spoken to me like this. Frankly. Honestly. With curt words conveying a warning he doesn’t bother to disguise beneath frilly language or charm.

  “The moment you piss me off, I’ll have you on the street. Do you understand me?” The hand on my shoulder creeps to a position behind my throat, guiding the direction of my gaze. I’m forced to meet his directly: fathomless pools of indigo and hatred. “Say it.”

  “I-I understand.”

  “And you understand the only reason why I would even consider giving you a single dime?”

  Do I? I find myself nodding all the same. “Yes.”

  “Say it.”

  “I…”

  He laughs. “Because you are a mere commodity of the Hollings brand, bought and sold like a piece of trash, and I’ve always been a completionist.”

  Twelve

  The true depth of the insult doesn’t sink in until nearly a minute later. When he’s already turned his back on me and sauntered down the hall.

  Trash.

  Hollings.

  Like I’m a toy he bought on a whim.

  “No.” I voice the refusal to a blank wall, aware that he’s listening. His heavy steps trail off nearby. “N-no, I’m not.”

  I follow him, expecting to find him sneering, ready to deliver a cruel retort. Not scowling with impatience.

  “Is that so?”

  “I could go to someone else.” It’s an option that sounds more appealing by the minute. I could return to Bolles and find someone else. But there’s one small matter only Blake Lorenz can offer.

  “Do it,” he says through gritted teeth. His eyes flash almost with glee. “I’ll have your home burned to the ground before you can even spread your legs.”

  I wince at the imagery. “It’s just a house.”

  “Wrong.” He advances on me but pauses when he’s close enough to touch—not that he does. “You’re a Hollings. You know what that means.”

  I’m not sure I do anymore. Nothing but dread and harsh memories taint the walls of the house, nullifying the good. Mama’s study. That space under Papa’s desk. My old room—those are the only parts of Hollings Manor worth saving. Could I bear to watch them burn?

  I don’t need to hear Blake’s callous scoff to know the answer.

  “You’d fuck a stranger to save this place,” he tells me, his voice ringing with confidence.

  I would. I will.

  “Houses can be rebuilt,” I croak, though I’m not sure if I’m trying to convince him or myself. “I don’t need you.”

  “Oh really?” A shadow distorts his hard features, darkening the hue of his irises. “Then get the fuck out. Leave.”

  I aim my trembling limbs toward the stairs, intending to do just that. It doesn’t matter that I don’t have clothing, or a car, or a house to run to. As he crudely put it, I’m a Hollings. I’ll find a way. I must find a way…

  “And what a shame when Ronan gets taken off life support. Or when Hunter is led away in cuffs.”

  “What?” I come to a dead stop at the base of the steps, panting with the effort it takes to breathe. “You wouldn’t.”

  “Try me. I own everything in your fucking life, Snow. I can smash it all to pieces, but I’ll let you oversee when and how. So leave. Just know that the moment you step foot out of that door, I’ll fucking set your entire world on fire.”

  “Why are you doing this?” I can’t even shout. Or scream. I just whisper, horrified by the figure watching me from the top of the stairs. His face is so beautiful that it hurts, and I now understand the true meaning of hell. It’s not fire and brimstone. It’s pain draped in Armani and perfumed with hate.

  It’s Blake Lorenz manipulating me like a puppet.

  It’s this cold, deep pinch in my gut that warns me there can only be one reason why, no matter how insane it sounds inside my head.

  “Only one person in the world could hate me so much…”

  “Oh?” He shrugs again. “And who would that be, Snow? Fucking say his name.”

  But I can’t. “One person you could only dream of becoming.”

  He laughs at that. Throws his head back and chuckles deeply. “And why would this so-called ‘dreamlike’ man hate you?”

  “Because…” I nervously lick my lips. In the space of a second, his expression changes. His eyes flash and his upper lip curls back from his teeth, baring them in a snarl. “Because I told the entire world what everyone always thought he was.”

  “And what was that?” Danger laces his tone, warning me to stop.

  But I can’t. “I told the world he was a monster.”

  He blinks, his face blank, almost canvas-like, before rage paints it in strokes of red. “And he showed the world that you’re nothing more than an ugly, selfish, disgusting little bitch.”

  Stung, I turn for the front door and cross the foyer in seconds. With trembling hands, I paw the door open and brace my bare toes over the stoop, assaulted by the frigid chill.

  “Run, Snow,” he calls from behind me. “Go! Fucking run.”

  And cause your family’s ruin, his cruel tone implies.

  My body twitches forward, but at the last second, I turn before I can step fully over the threshold and run headlong deeper into the house instead.

  I pick a direction at random, aware only of the fact that someone is fast on my heels. Their steps are heavier than mine. Steadier than mine. When I trip over a doorway and flail for balance, they’re already entering the room in my wake.

  “Get away from me!”

  I’m in Papa’s study, of all places. The desk is the only structure capable of being placed between us. So I lunge for it, but he reaches it at the same time. The drawers are on his end and he wrenches one open and rummages inside it while my heart plays a sickening melody. When he withdraws a pair of silver scissors, my pulse stutters to a violent stop.

  “Come here.” He parts the blades with menacing slowness.

  “No.” I stagger back out of his reach, but my shoulders strike the firm ledge of a bookcase, trapping me between him and the door. There’s no escape.

  But he doesn’t want to corner me. He wants to desolate me. Cold, blue eyes convey my utter destruction as he braces his weight against the desk on the flat of his hand. “I said come here.”

  My gaze fixates on the scissors he’s holding. The twin blades gleam, dangerously sharp. No one’s threaten
ed me like this before. Correction: No one’s done so this openly.

  “You have five seconds,” he warns.

  “Are…are you going to hurt me?”

  He stiffens, his jaw snapping shut. “Come here.”

  He won’t hurt me physically anyway. It’s a suspicion I can’t explain, and I don’t care to examine it in full.

  “Three seconds.”

  Woodenly, I force my legs to move, bringing myself as close to the desk as I dare. When I’m within his reach, he grabs my wrist, dragging me around to his side of the desk.

  “Get down.”

  A heavy hand flattens against my lower back, forcing me to lean over the desk, at his mercy. I see the scissors glinting from the corner of my eye, alarmingly close to my ear. The snap of them closing echoes like a gunshot, close to my head but not near any skin. I blink in confusion but then the aftermath flutters against my fingers: long strands of fiery red…

  “No!” I try to move only to be pushed down harder.

  “Don’t fucking move.” The scissors open and close again in quick succession and more strands of my hair drift down to coat the desk. Red, vibrant.

  “Stop.”

  He doesn’t. Ruthlessly, he shears every bit of hair, grunting with each snap of the blades. More. More. More. Somehow, I don’t move a muscle even as tears stream down my face, wetting the wood beneath me.

  “I don’t want Snowy fucking Hollings,” he growls as more locks fall from my shoulders. “If that’s all you have to offer, then you might as well leave now. I don’t want your goddamn family. Or your money.”

  Then what does he want? I can’t find the breath to ask. With one last violent snap, he slams the scissors onto the desk.

  “I want a warm fucking hole who knows who she owes her world to.” He growls the words into my ear. “Say it. You need me. Fucking say it.”

  My body vibrates against the surface of the desk. I’m shaking. Fear and desperation shape my spine, keeping it curved while the remains of my hair coat me, red like ashes. Warmth clings to them still. I can tell from how light my head feels that he cut off inches, leaving me with a length that barely brushes my shoulders. To drill the loss in, he seizes a lock of it, cruelly twisting it between his fingers.