Savior (The Kingwood Duet Book 2)

by S. L. Scott

  SAVIOR

  The Kingwood Duet

  S.L. SCOTT

  S.L. SCOTT

  Copyright © 2017 by S.L. SCOTT

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover Design: Okay Creations

  Cover Image: Adobe Stock Images, Jacob Lund, Nuzza11

  Editing:

  Marion Archer, Making Manuscripts

  Karen Lawson, The Proof Is in the Reading

  Marla Esposito, Proofing Style

  Kristen Johnson, Proofreader

  Amy Bosica, Proofreader

  ISBN: 978-1-940071-53-4

  For You, the Reader.

  Together, We Are Strong

  Contents

  Also By S.L. SCOTT

  SAVIOR

  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

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Epilogue

  SURPRISE

  I. The Resistance - Prologue

  Chapter 1

  II. The Kingwood Duet Discussion Questions

  On a Personal Note

  Also by S.L. SCOTT

  Also By S.L. SCOTT

  The Kingwood Duet

  SAVAGE

  SAVIOR

  Hard to Resist Series

  The Resistance

  The Reckoning

  The Redemption

  The Revolution

  The Rebellion

  Talk to Me Duet

  Sweet Talk

  Dirty Talk

  Welcome to Paradise Series

  Good Vibrations

  Good Intentions

  Good Sensations

  Happy Endings

  Welcome to Paradise Series Set

  From the Inside Out Series

  Scorned

  Jealousy

  Dylan

  Austin

  From the Inside Out Compilation

  Stand Alone Books

  Missing Grace

  Until I Met You

  Drunk on Love

  Naturally, Charlie

  A Prior Engagement

  Lost in Translation

  Sleeping with Mr. Sexy

  Morning Glory

  To keep up to date with her writing and more, her website is www.slscottauthor.com to receive her newsletter with all of her publishing adventures and giveaways, sign up for her newsletter: http://bit.ly/SLSNewsletter

  Join S.L.’s Facebook group here: S.L. Scott Books

  SAVIOR

  Everything is not as it seems.

  Alexander IV has succeeded to the throne of the billion-dollar Kingwood Empire, but the people he thought he could trust aren't allies.

  They're enemies.

  Everyone he cares about is at risk.

  Decisions—SACRIFICES—must be made.

  What will he do to protect the people he loves? Will Sara Jane live or die?

  Find out NOW in this EPIC conclusion to the bestselling The Kingwood Duet. Savage, book 1 in the series, should be read first and is LIVE on Amazon.

  SAVAGE: DOWNLOAD HERE

  Prologue

  My chest aches, and my throat is dry. My sunglasses hide my eyes from the mourners that stare. Even in my grief I can’t find privacy. I purposely keep my head lowered and my emotions in check.

  The world is suddenly intrigued by me. Everyone thinks they know me. They think they know who I am. I’m a headline, a fascination, someone they feel bad for then forget about as they go about their lives.

  They don’t know me.

  They know Alexander Roman Kingwood IV from exposés or gossip columns. Financial magazines and sections of the newspaper speak of my new wealth—a billionaire at age twenty-three. It’s all very salacious. That’s what’s important to them.

  Not to me.

  They want to know all the dirty details of my father’s death, my mother’s murder, my best friend’s murder, and my . . . my Firefly . . .

  I take a slow and deep breath, not wanting to look at the flowers covering the casket, not wanting to accept that this is my life, a life I have to live without the people I care about.

  All these fucking strangers—the photographers hiding in the bushes, the reporters standing by the limos and hearse—don’t care about me or how I’m feeling. They don’t want to know the truth.

  I don’t feel anything at all.

  Nothing.

  We stand around this hole in the ground as if it matters. It doesn’t. The dead don’t care how we mourn. This is a show for everyone else.

  This is not how I mourn. I won’t give them what they want. I won’t feed the paparazzi beast by shedding a tear. I won’t mourn for them or in public.

  Cruise’s hand is on my shoulder as I watch the casket being lowered into the ground. It was the best money could buy. I owed nothing less.

  Shock has set in, my mind disconnected to what’s happening right in front of me. I hear the sobs. I see the tears, but I’m numb.

  This can’t be happening.

  This can’t be how it ends.

  1

  Alexander Kingwood IV

  “Help me. Someone help me.”

  Chaos erupts and nurses surround me, everyone shouting.

  “Grab a gurney.”

  “Prep a room.”

  “Straight to surgery.”

  “Can you carry her a few more feet?”

  “Dr. Curtis. Dr. Curtis.”

  A gurney appears, and I set my Firefly on top of it gently. Blood fills the fibers and soaks the white sheet, like a horrid painting with swaths of red streaking the once pristine surface. Fuck. “Save her. You’ve got to save her,” I beg. “Please.”

  I stay next to her, running along while holding her hand as we rush down the corridor. She gasps for air and I lurch forward. “Stay with me, Sara Jane.” Her eyes open, but they’re not the ones I know, the ones filled with hope, the ocean-blue eyes that stole my heart years ago. The vacancy is spreading, so I lean down when a set of double doors opens and whisper, “I will always love you. Don’t leave me, Firefly.”

  Our hands are ripped apart and an orderly blocks my path. “Sir. They’re taking her to surgery. You can’t go back there. I’m sorry. There’s a waiting room up front.”

  As she’s pushed into the bowels of the hospital, I drop to my knees. The feel of her fingers in mine still tingling, reminding me I’m alive. The loss of those fingers reminding me of all I could still lose. My head falls forward and that’s when I finally realize what I’ve done, what I’ve caused.

  We’re not invincible.
<
br />   Actions have consequences.

  My Firefly—my innocent, beautiful Firefly—suffering the consequences of my actions.

  If she dies, I die.

  A nurse rubs my back. “Sir, come with me.”

  I stand on shaky legs, the nurse helping me up, patting my shoulder as if my whole life isn’t teetering between the desire to live or die. My heart is in their hands. I pray to hear her heartbeat once again, to touch her hand, to hold her in my arms. I’ve begged whatever god exists that he bring her back to me.

  I just got her back only to have her ripped away again.

  What cruel world is this?

  Am I that horrible that everyone I love is taken from me?

  Is there a way to trade my life for hers, my sins for hers, to die in her place instead? What kind of deal can I strike? What bargain can I negotiate?

  Tell me.

  Fucking tell me and I’ll do it. Anything.

  For her, I’ll do anything.

  “Sir?”

  My gaze flicks to the nurse. Her hand rests on my back, the other on my arm, guiding me. I didn’t know I was walking, much less breathing enough to be capable of asking, “What?”

  “We need you to fill out some forms.”

  Shrugging from the nurse’s touch, I follow her to the desk. Forms. Their standard procedure aggravates me. Don’t they see what’s happening to me? I’m alive, standing here, flesh and bone, but dying inside. How can I be that good at hiding my emotions, my shock that no one seems to comprehend the agony I feel?

  In the distance, just outside the glass doors, Cruise is parked. A security guard swings his arm and points. The car moves forward and a clipboard is set in front of me.

  The nurse says, “Please fill out as much as you can. Her name, date of birth, address, next of kin, and blood type if you know it. What is your relationship to the patient and do you know if she has insurance?”

  “I’m sure she has insurance through her parents. It doesn’t matter though. I will pay whatever it takes to save her.”

  “Let’s get the information and go from there. You can go to the waiting area to fill it out.” It must be my expression that worries her because she asks, “Are you okay? Were you hurt?”

  I don’t understand until her eyes lower, and I look down to discover I’m covered in blood—Sara Jane’s. “No.” I answer both questions with the same answer.

  “Do you want us to check you out just in case?”

  “No. Someone shot her. I showed up . . .” I squeeze my eyes closed as thoughts of my unforgivable failure sets in. “Too late.”

  “The police will take your statement.”

  My heart begins to race. The police? Fuck.

  I scribble Sara Jane Grayson on the form along with her parents’ names because they need to be told. I write my name as next of kin though. There’s no way I’m going to be blocked from knowing what happens or from being by her side.

  Filling out the rest, I write my name down as responsible for the payments, and quickly scan the form and fill out everything I can.

  Birthday.

  Occupation.

  Age.

  Gender.

  Address. I debate. The manor or her apartment? The manor.

  Allergies.

  Drugs—prescription and recreational.

  What the fuck? I don’t know. I check no. I may not have seen her for some time, but I don’t think she changed that much.

  The rest I don’t know. Who the fuck is her general practitioner? The doctor on campus? When was her last doctor’s visit? She’s on birth control . . . or she was . . . I have no fucking idea now. The woman I need in my life just to breathe has been gone for months. What do I know about her anymore?

  I know her.

  Better than myself.

  I check mark birth control just in case and hand the forms back. “That’s what I know.” I look over her shoulder down the hall. “When can I get an update?”

  She takes the clipboard and hands it to the nurse behind the counter, instructing her to add it to Sara Jane’s file. “It will be a few hours. The police should be here soon. You can wait over there. We’ll find you when we hear something.”

  “Thank you.”

  My face settles into an expression I’m sure reflects my worry. I won’t hear an update for hours, and I can’t sit still. Not here. Not with the police on their way. I’m about to run my hands through my hair but there’s dried blood under my nails, so I shove them in my pockets, hiding as much as I can, wishing I could hide my anguish as well.

  I need to get out of here. I need air that isn’t filled with her last breath still lingering. I see a cop car parked at an intersection in the distance. Its blinker is on and it will be pulling in soon. What am I going to tell them? I need a story and I need it fast. I also need the facts from Cruise.

  The doors glide open, and I walk out. Evening rays color the sky as the sun sets. It’s too beautiful in contrast to the tragedy I’m in the middle of. It’s unnerving the way the world keeps moving, revolving in time as if life will carry on without her.

  It won’t. Mine won’t.

  Walking to my car, I say, “Let’s go.” I open the door and duck inside. My elbow anchors on the door, and I lean my head on my hand while staring ahead.

  Cruise drives, weaving through the parking lot, and I tuck the gun I’d discarded into the back of my jeans again. He asks, “We’re not staying?”

  Looking at him, I shake my head. “I don’t know what to do. She’s in surgery, but the police will be here soon. I have to give a statement. What do I say? What the fuck even happened back there?”

  “It doesn’t look good that you’re covered in blood. You should probably change.”

  “The nurses saw me. I can’t hide that fact.” We’ve driven these familiar tree-lined roads a million times, but instead of their beauty, I only see the walls they form to hide the deceit that lives behind them. “I don’t feel my body. Should I feel something?”

  Sighing, Cruise says, “I don’t know.”

  “Is it wrong that I don’t feel anything?”

  “It’s probably best.”

  Reality settles in as I sit back. “I killed him.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I killed a man.”

  “He deserved it.”

  “What happens now though? What do we do?”

  “Don’t worry.” Another sigh comes before he replies. “Jason is handling it.”

  “Jason?”

  “Jason Koster. Our lookout.”

  Jason? Our lookout? Sara Jane’s watcher. “How is he handling it?”

  “He just is.”

  I scrub my dried blood-covered hands over my forehead and into my hair. “I’m going to prison, Cruise. He shot my girl. That fucker shot Sara Jane.” Saying her name out loud causes fear to override the numbness I feel. Sadness. Hopelessness. My eyes burn with tears, so I rub them. “Fuck. If she doesn’t make—”

  “She’ll make it.”

  “I would do it again. I’d kill that fucker.”

  “We shouldn’t talk about it.”

  My gaze shoots over, landing on him. His voice is too even, too calm. How? “Why?”

  “We’re in deep, King. We need to figure out our story and don’t confuse it with miscellaneous details. Or emotions. It’s done. We’ll hear from Jason soon and then we can talk about the next step.”

  “What the fuck, Cruise? You don’t tell me what the fuck we’re doing.”

  “You’re not thinking clearly. You’re confusing your emotions with something that had to be done. You’re worried about Sara Jane, but she has a chance. Let’s give her that, and remember . . . that motherfucker killed Chad. Chad. Is. Dead. If you hadn’t done it, I would have.”

  Chad is dead.

  Chad. Is. Dead.

  Fuck.

  When I look back at Cruise, there are no tears in his eyes. Even the sadness when he mentioned Chad barely registered beneath the façade of justified
fury.

  He was always the black sheep of his high-society family. John Cruise Control Cristley—the youngest, and only adopted son of John and Beatrice Cristley, a retired senator and his merry-making socialite wife. As the fifth child, he was doted on at first, but with power, something I’m familiar with in my own family, came obligations. Soon little John was left to his own devices. He’s a testament that you can’t beat the genes you’re born with, despite the environment you live in. His uptight, waspy upbringing never did override his tendencies toward the darker side of life. Maybe that’s why I liked him the first time I met him. There were no pretenses with him.

  The nickname he got in prep school—Cruise Control—came about because he took everything in his stride. He has an innate ability to shift into neutral and coast through life. Apparently, even when it comes to murder.

  I thought I was tough, ready to torch the earth for taking my mother. But as we approach the gate, I realize, maybe I didn’t need to set the fire that destroyed the world—that destroyed Sara Jane—my world. Maybe, just maybe, things didn’t have to get this out of hand.

  Anger is a vengeful bitch.

  She would have never settled for less. I know because she keeps returning to collect the penance I owe her. For what I owe, I still don’t know, but there’s no way one person can have this much bad without having done some major damage in a former life.