Black Queen, Dark Knight II: A Bad Boy Romance (Black Queen Dark Knight Book 2)

by Amarie Avant

  Black Queen, Dark Knight II

  Amarie Avant

  Edited by

  Melissa Harrison

  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

  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

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  55. Extended Epilogue

  56. Extended Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Black Ballerina Dark Knight

  Newsletter

  Prologue

  Prologue

  Mikayla

  “Do you know how much control you have over me right now?” Jagger’s deep voice is hard, trembling with lust. It sends thrills down my spine. His calloused fingers dance across the chocolate-brown silk of my jawline.

  Control? Me? I’ve been captured by a barbarian. Black lace ties my wrists, confining them behind my back. Though Jagger is tall, muscular, and broad shouldered, I suppose my power, while kneeling on the floor, resides in how my ass spills across the back of my calves. Or the eroticism of how my aching nipples pierce the cold air as I look up through thick lashes. I see the world infinitely different than the Adonis king before me. Not an ounce of control is to be had when a beast of a man like Jagger Johansson owns you.

  Or should I call him a killer?

  His hands are masters at taking lives and killing me slowly.

  Here I am on my knees. And I’m supposed to be a queen.

  My breath, so deliciously close to the head of his magnificent cock, tickles it as I respond. “I doubt that.”

  He chuckles devilishly. His fingers graze past my jaw, around to the nape of my neck, and clasp a fist of my silky pressed hair. “Place those lips on my cock, and you’ll see just how much rule you have, baby.”

  My mouth pools with liquid desire. Instead of yielding to the craving I have—licking my sweets off his strong erection from our earlier sexcapade—I let my tongue dip out. I glance up at him.

  Jagger hisses. The muscles in his chiseled face are strained, though his eyes are warmer than a summer breeze. He loves this tease.

  Slithering my tongue around the taut, rock hardness of his member, I play with his crown. When the dark, impatient rage in him is almost at its brink, waiting for the ocean of my mouth, a rainbow of cuss words grit out of him. He clutches my short hair in anger, and my mouth glides over his cock swiftly. I swirl my tongue around, making more wetness. Throat slack, with a deep moan, I bring him further into my mouth.

  A conceited sigh glides through me when my lips kiss the base of him. This was something I never in a million years thought I could accomplish. Suck in the heavenly long, girth of Jagger’s manhood, but I’m proud to have conquered it. Conquered the beast.

  “Do not neglect my balls,” he growls.

  Instinctively, I attempt to move my hands toward his two fat members, but with my wrists tied, it’s no use. Groaning at my limitation, I let my tongue slitter and dance its way up to his cockhead. I give it a bit of suction before removing my mouth from his member. Next, I move down to taste those two plump sacks, placing them in my mouth, sucking lightly.

  “Fuck.” His fingers weave into my hair, pulling me back up.

  Again, I work at his cock until his essence splashes down my throat.

  He takes my arms, lifting me to my feet. His eyes slither up and down my frame. He loves me from head to toe, and my heart wants to prolong this moment.

  Stay here with him.

  Forget about the inevitable.

  The dissolution of us.

  “A few hours of sleep would do us well, Jag,” I murmur. There’s something in his gaze that I can’t quiet figure out. My eyes lower so that he’s unable to perceive my impending betrayal.

  “This entire weekend was for you, Mikayla.” Jagger’s smile reaches his turquoise eyes, causing a vivacious dazzle in his gaze. He licks his lips. He’s thinking about his first taste from between my thighs in ages, and I perceive that this hunger of not having me for so long is about to intensify again.

  “Mmmm, my voice is like a frog now, after all the rest you guaranteed me this weekend.” I grin sheepishly, feigning tiredness. I should be tired. Three weeks ago was the last time we were intimate. Jagger has made up for all our lost time, but I . . . I have to leave him again. This time for good.

  I turn away from his thick frame, glancing at the warm yellow glow of the sun rising over the South African sea through the windows of Jagger’s home on top of the cliff.

  “Should we watch the sunrise first?” He comes up behind me to undo my straps.

  Tears begin to burn my eyes, but feigning a yawn, I rub at them. “No. It’s my first night here with you in so long. Can you just hold me close, instead?”

  “Your wish is my command.” His baritone voice strokes my skin. It’s as different as night and day to the steely sound of him threatening my life during our first encounter.

  He scoops me into his arms, not allowing me to walk the ten yards across his gigantic bedroom to lay down. Our limbs are perfectly different from each other’s. Mine are darker, tinier, curvier, and twine with his. I pray to God that he falls asleep fast before I lose the strength.

  The strength to leave him.

  Ages pass before I hear the tapering of Jagger’s breath. His immense chest rises slowly. Biting my lip in trepidation, I work my way out from under his heavy arms and legs. It feels like picking up titanium beams. With a tiny grunt, I land on the glass floor. Stingrays swim in the aquarium beneath the floor. Fear that I haven’t felt since getting used to this posh, dangerous home claims my throat. I pad on the glass floor as soft as possible and open the front of my satchel, pulling out the “Dear John” letter I’d previously prepared.

  Closing my eyes, I concentrate on my departed parents, King Bannan and Queen Makuachukwa who were murdered. My mother’s brother stole their throne, becoming king regent. He snatched away my birthright up until a few months ago. I place the letter onto the nightstand. Quickly, I dress in jeans, a shirt that spills over my shoulder, and laceless tennis shoes.

  I feel like a whore. Great. I went from being a studious black girl in Long Beach California to almost getting into a prestigious med school—technically
I got in—Jagger yanked me away from that life. My life has been a tornado since he came, and I love it. Now, he’s a raging ocean, and I need to be a calming seashore for Nivean, my nation.

  No matter how much book smarts I’ve obtained or how I excelled in my honor society during my undergrad, I’m dumb enough to fail. Fail this test. Fail at walking away without one last look.

  I glance back at Jagger. His long blond hair, muscular arm and leg spill over the side of the bed now. My side—as if even in sleep he’s searching for me. These past few months, he’s put more into us than I have.

  There is no us, Kayla, don’t be stupid. I curse myself then my heart calls out to him. Please read the letter, Jag, and don’t come for me . . .

  Fifteen minutes later, my hands grip the steering wheel of the Mercedes that he bought. The car creeps along the road. There’s a cliff to the right of me and to the left. My car will soon be swallowed up by the bright green thicket of trees. Jagger truly has a mansion hidden away from the world. About half a mile away, I glance back through the rearview mirror, praying that he understands the thought-provoking letter I left.

  The tires move along the smooth road trailing to a stop. A shudder slams through me as I watch the trees soaring just a few yards away. I was almost there . . . almost about to coast down the hill and away from him.

  It’s like déjà vu as the electronic voice rings out from the radio, “You are no longer authorized to drive this vehicle, Mikayla.”

  Tears prick my eyes, and I slam my foot down on the gas, sending the powerful engine growling. The tires tread up dirt, tiny stones, smoke, though the car will not move.

  “Jagger, you fucking asshole,” I grit under my breath. He disabled the vehicle. Through the rearview mirror I see him stalking toward me, sweats riding dangerously low on his muscular hips. The letter is clutched in his hand.

  I roll the window down a fraction of an inch and wait for him, bristling in my anger.

  His fist slams against the bulletproof window. The letter is laid out just for me in the peripheral of my eye. I refuse to glance over, won’t give him the dignity of it. He didn’t read the damn letter!

  This is the same move he pulled our first night together. We were in Long Beach with him attempting to take me to an extrication point. Armenians shot at us and the cargo plane he’d commandeered to get me out of the country. Somehow, I’d gotten away from him while he killed a slew of men. I ended up in his truck, but the damn thing was computerized to only work for him.

  Here we are again. Tears streaming down my face. Him disappointed in me. And another one of his tricky moves, in which a vehicle stops—not allowing me to run away!

  Fingers tensed now, grinding around the wheel, I stare forward and speak in a callous tone. “We had a good run, Jag. You need to read that letter and let it go.”

  “It? What the fuck is it? Do you mean us?” He punches a fist at the bulletproof window. His hands grip the top of the window and his biceps flex. He can’t force it down at all. All his cars can double as safe rooms, virtually impenetrable.

  “You know I can get in there, Kayla. Do not regret not taking this initial display of kindness,” Jagger growls.

  I stare over at him. He’s still holding up the letter, but I glance at his face. The tangled tresses flying in the salted wind. His pleasing mouth pulled into a sneer.

  “You have to let us go, Jag.”

  “So what? I’ve been patient during your reign, Mikayla. Then you spend a night with me—not even an entire night. I fuck you ten ways to heaven, and you suck my cock like that’s one last hoorah?”

  “And done.” I stare forward, hardening my heart to the one who always owned it. “Read the letter. Let me go!” My fists assault the steering wheel, issuing a series of eclectic beeps.

  “Let me in, uthando lwami, let me in.” His tone is deceptive, sweeter than honey. “I’ll forgive this mistake of yours.”

  “You must not have even read it, Jag. This cannot be a mistake. This is me choosing.” My voice breaks. I clutch a hand over my chest. Pain burgeons over my heart. It kills me to hurt him. So much for putting on a strong front. “This is me choosing my nation over one person, Jag. I love you with all of me. Read the letter.”

  “I did.” His tone is heavier, slower, as if he’s still ruminating over it all. “You said you were marrying your closest South African ally. You’re in love with me and marrying another man.”

  I sniffle, rubbing a hand over my tears. For a moment, I’ve forgotten that my boyfriend—ex boyfriend—rigged my car, and so, I grant him one last look. Sorrow clings to me as I press my foot on the gas. “I’m sorry, Jag.”

  The luxurious ride fails me. The automated voice taunts me once more.

  “Not as sorry as I’m about to be.” He holds up a remote, similar to the one that he used the first time I got away from him when he abducted me.

  Did I survive away from him?

  No.

  Did I ever really want to be away from my captor?

  A resounding hell no.

  Is he going to let me go this time?

  No.

  I guess there are certain lessons we never learn. The door clicks open, and he reaches inside, gripping the back of my neck to pull me out of the car.

  “But I’ll lose my entire nation, Jag . . .”

  His cerulean gaze burns hot. I realize that I’ve made the mistake of my life. Jagger Johansson will never forgive me this.

  “We broke up, so that you could focus on your country then we got back together, Mikayla. We made promises. You swore that there’d always be an us,” he says, pressing my body against him. “I’m a man of my word, Kayla, and I took you at face value. So, fuck this misconstrued concept of love you have for me, baby. I don’t need it because either way—I still own you.”

  My arms are stuck at my sides. His hand still grasps my neck. He assaults my mouth with a kiss that pulls the oxygen from my lungs, leaving me broken and wanting more. But I’ve almost died to have my home, the Nivean nation back, so I use all my might to break away from him.

  It’s like an ant accosting a bear.

  “Look at me.” Jagger lowers his head, so his eyes are level with mine. His hair is wild around him. Gorgeous and delectably angry, he growls, “I shared you with all your Nivean people, Mikayla. You could always count on me for putting your kingdom first. Not only being the man who loves you but understands your mission.”

  “So let me go to my people!”

  “You didn’t know how to divide your time, Kayla. This fucking letter . . .” He gives a maddening scoff. “You will conduct your queenly affairs from my home! You will stay here with me forever.”

  “Niveans will riot! The Zihula nation will riot. I’ve already accepted Prince Fari’s hand, Jagger.” My voice squeaks. The latter was a lie. I haven’t agreed to Fari’s request, yet it is a means to weed through the stubbornness Jagger thrives on. “They’ll come looking for me.”

  “Let them!”

  1

  Claiming Her Throne

  Almost four months ago

  Mikayla

  “It’s her!”

  “That’s the princess!”

  “Mikayla, Mikayla, word has it that you’ve given up your crown?”

  “Princess Mikayla, can you tell us where you have been for almost twenty years?”

  From dark skin to pale, from various African accents to British, people shoved cameras in my face.

  No matter how much I beg myself to awaken, I feel my body toss and turn, yet my psyche doesn’t grant me a moments reprieve.

  “I was dropped off in Long Beach, California a few days after the death of my parents.” I had gulped, recalling how the nightmares terrorized me as a child.

  Moments later and with more questions shouted in my direction, I’m escorted to the left side of the building and ascend the three steps. Today, Nivean King Regent, my uncle Qaaim Mthembu, will lose everything that he sold his soul for. The throne. The love of his
sister.

  There are two rows of six seats. The South African government is here to address all the nations’ kings and queens about Nivean. Qaaim has a self-satisfied grin that brightens his skin as he sits amongst them. Our last encounter ended less than cordially.

  He addresses me with disdain; the glare in his eye reminds me that I chose Jagger over our nation during our first meeting. “Why are you here?”

  Before I’m able to respond, Qaaim is called up to address our world.

  Qaaim speaks in his eloquent, powerful voice. “We are all gathered here today to remove the ‘Regent’ portion from my title. To announce to all South Africa that I will be crowned king! My beautiful niece, Princess Mikayla Mthembu, has washed her hands of our people. I feel that protecting her after her parents’ deaths has made her too Western. I’ll always regret that I sent her away to a safe place to live as a child.”

  I stare at him. All the lies he has to tell! While Nivean thought Qaaim sent me somewhere safe after my parents died, he had me dispatched to America with nothing, so that he could ease himself into my seat. I was an innocent child, wandering the streets.

  Qaaim sets aside his momentary dose of sympathy to say, “I declare that I will continue to rule the nation with—”