The Last King

by Katee Robert

  Journey’s smile was a ghost of its former self. “I don’t deserve you.”

  “Let’s be honest—we’re both messes. But at least we have each other.”

  “Until you admit that you’re head over heels for my cousin.”

  Samara froze. There was no point in arguing, because it was the truth. She’d gone and fallen for the one man who would complicate her life the most. She still wasn’t convinced it wouldn’t blow up in her face, but she…cared for him. “Whatever happens with him, that doesn’t change our friendship.”

  “Glad to hear it.” Journey shooed her. “Now, get out of my office and get back to your investigating.”

  “Call me if you need anything.”

  “I will.”

  Samara left. She did her best to look like she wasn’t fleeing, but she didn’t want to get cornered by Lydia before she escaped. What am I going to do on Monday? It defied comprehension that they could maintain this level of tension for another five days, but there was no reason to think the situation wouldn’t be resolved one way or another by that point.

  Wishful thinking.

  She ignored the little voice inside her and headed for home, her phone and the evidence it contained clutched in her hand the whole way.

  “It’s pig blood.”

  Beckett stared at the destruction in his condo. Nothing had been spared. Not the kitchen, where every single plate and glass he owned had been shattered. Not the living room, where the couch cushions had been ripped to shreds. Not his bedroom, including the locked cabinet where he’d stashed the things he’d collected from Thistledown Villa.

  He walked to that cabinet in a haze and picked up the baby book, drenched with blood. Ruined. Completely ruined. It wasn’t enough that she took the house. She had to try to ruin the memories, too. He set it carefully back in its place and noticed that one photo had been spared, tucked as it was just out of the spray. The one of him and his mother in the field behind Thistledown. He tucked it into his suit-jacket pocket and turned to the detective. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

  The wiry redhead—Detective Purcell—looked distinctly uncomfortable. He didn’t exactly shift in place, but he had a nervous energy about him that implied being still wasn’t in his nature. “The blood tests came back. It’s not human—it’s pig blood. We’ve cataloged the scene and taken pictures to document everything, but if you find anything missing of note, we’ll need to know.”

  Beckett couldn’t think past the blood marring everything of value he owned. He fought down the desire to throw open every window as if that would cleanse his home of the taint the intruder had left behind. “This building has extensive security. How did this person get in here?”

  “Inconclusive. The tapes show nothing—we’ve checked—so it looks like they were hacked and put on a loop.” Detective Purcell clenched and unclenched his fists as if taking that dead end personally. “Until we have more information, it would be best if you stayed somewhere else.”

  Unable to look at the disaster of his bedroom a second longer, Beckett turned and stalked back toward the front door, where Frank waited. His friend’s calm mask was firmly in place, and he eyed the detective as if the man was wasting both their time. “I trust Beckett isn’t under suspicion any longer.”

  “His alibi checks out.” Detective Purcell didn’t sound the least bit sorry that he’d been under investigation to begin with, no matter how briefly. He glanced at Beckett. “Don’t leave town, though.”

  “I have no plans to.” Everything he needed to deal with was in Houston.

  “Good. That’s good.”

  Frank looked at Beckett, then turned for the door. “Let’s go.”

  He turned and took one last look at the ruin. Lydia might not have really taken everything from him, but he couldn’t disentangle from the grief lurking just beyond his aura of numbness. He didn’t give a fuck about the furniture or the condo, but losing the baby book and pictures felt like losing his mother all over again.

  He couldn’t do it. “Just a moment,” he murmured to Frank.

  Beckett crunched over the broken glass to the drawer where he stored the plastic bags. He retreated back to the bedroom and carefully enclosed the baby book in a bag. There was no saving it, but he wasn’t ready to give it up yet. She knew how to hit you where it hurt, again and again, and she didn’t pull her punches.

  On the heels of that: The old man would be pleased that I’m finally losing the last bit of evidence that my mother ever existed.

  Once the bag was safely sealed, he stalked out the front door, past Frank, and down the stairs. The thought of being enclosed in the elevator for the few minutes it would take to get to the ground floor was too much.

  Frank kept pace easily. “You want to talk about it?”

  “No.” Not now. Not while the wound was so raw it was practically throbbing. If he let go now, he would be worthless until he worked through the rage rising up within him. He stopped on the next landing. “I want you to know I appreciate that you’re here—that you looked into my father’s death. It’s not your job, and you’ve put in way too much time on this.” He didn’t offer to pay his friend—it would be an insult, and Frank wouldn’t hesitate to let him know.

  “I’ve worked hard to ensure my company can function without me for short periods of time.” Frank hesitated, like he’d leave it at that, but finally pushed forward. “You’re my only fucking friend, Beck, and I know all too well what it’s like to have unanswered questions about a parent’s death. You need me—I’m there. End of story.”

  “Same goes, though I’m not much use at the moment.”

  Frank stared at something over Beckett’s shoulder, as if the whole moment made him uncomfortable and wish he was a thousand miles away. “This isn’t forever. You’ll deal with the threat and be back on your feet, with one less enemy to face down in the process. Keep your chin up.”

  Keep your chin up.

  Frank’s awkwardness almost made him smile. Almost. “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  They turned as one and resumed their descent. Beckett waited to speak again until they reached the ground level. “I need one more favor. Could you to find Walter Trissel?”

  “Consider it done.” Again, there was a minute hesitation. “If you need a place to stay—”

  “I’m good.” In all the years they’d known each other, he’d never been to Frank’s place. Beckett had given it up as a mystery that would never be solved a long time ago. He wasn’t going to allow it now out of pity.

  “I’ll call you as soon as I have Walter nailed down.” Frank picked up his pace and pushed through the doors to the street. In seconds, he’d disappeared into a waiting car and was gone.

  Beckett took five minutes to speak with the superintendent to assure the man he wasn’t going to sue or raise a stink about the break-in. With every second that passed, the walls inched a little bit closer, until he almost ran out of the fucking building.

  The street was no better. Out there, he was too exposed, and even though he knew it was paranoia, it didn’t stop the feeling of being watched from making his skin itch. He pulled out his phone and dialed before he could think better of it.

  “Beckett?”

  The sound of Samara’s voice hit him like a punch to the solar plexus. He closed his eyes and tried to breathe past it. He could hang up, pretend the call was an accident, force the barriers between them back into place. It was the smart choice—both for him and for her.

  But he found himself speaking without having any intent to. “I need you.”

  “I’m here,” she responded instantly. “I’m in my condo right now. Do you want to come here or should I come to you?” No questions. No requests for clarification. Nothing but a quiet acceptance of his need.

  “I can be there in ten.”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Samara met Beckett at the door. She took one look at the shell-shocke
d look on his face and the horrible burden he carried in his hands and threw her arms around him. “I’ve got you, Beckett. I have you.”

  It took several long seconds for him to bring his arms around her and hug her back. He squeezed her and exhaled as though he was the one compressed. “Samara.” Just her name. Nothing more.

  He didn’t have to say anything else.

  She’d been there when he walked through his childhood home and picked up the few things that mattered to him. She’d witnessed the intimate window into his past that he’d offered that day. She recognized the bagged baby book for the depth of the loss it represented. It was not just an item. Nothing so simple as that.

  Samara hugged him tighter, trying to offer comfort with her body that she didn’t think he’d take from her words. I’m here. You aren’t alone. I won’t leave. She stroked her hands up his back and down again, soothing in the only way she knew.

  A shudder worked through him and he took a slow, haggard breath. “It was bad.”

  I’m so sorry. Let me share this burden. More words she couldn’t voice. She just kept touching him, pressing as much of her body against as much of his that she could reach.

  Another breath. “I’m not under suspicion of anything, but the apartment is unlivable.”

  “You’ll stay here.” She didn’t form it as question, didn’t give him an option. Beckett was more than capable of setting himself up in a hotel for the time being while he figured out his next step, but Samara couldn’t bear the thought of him being alone. He was already too isolated. Untethered. She couldn’t shake the irrational belief that he’d float away if she let go of him. “Stay with me, Beckett,” she repeated.

  He stirred as if registering where they were for the first time. “You don’t have to offer.”

  “I want you here, so I’m going to have you here.” When he made no motion to move, she slipped back and led him into the kitchen.

  It was only then that she noticed the blood on his cuffs and marring his hands. “Beckett?” Samara worked to keep the alarm from her tone. “What’s this?”

  He shook his head as if shaking off a dream. “Pig blood. You’ll be happy to know no one was murdered in my place. It was all for show.”

  She’d bet whoever trashed his place didn’t realize he’d be gone all night. They probably knew about his trip to LA and they’d planned on him coming home, tired after a day of meetings and traveling, and walking into that scene unsuspectingly.

  Fury roared through her, turning any doubts she had to ash. Beckett hadn’t done anything to deserve this level of hate. Even if he had been the biggest piece of shit in existence, it didn’t justify this systematic dismantling of his life.

  She tugged him over to the sink and turned the water on. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

  That got a reaction. He disentangled himself from her. “I’m okay. It was shocking and upsetting, but I’m okay. I don’t need you to handle me.”

  Words he’d spoken to her after the reading of his father’s will. It felt like a hundred years ago instead of less than a week. She met his gaze directly. “Some days we all need a little handling. You already bear the weight of so much, Beckett. Let me help shoulder the burden, even if it’s only for tonight.”

  She took the bag from his hands and set it on the counter in clear sight, and then unbuttoned his shirt. He watched her like a hawk as she slid it off his shoulders, but Beckett made no move to touch her. She nudged him closer to the sink and pointed at the soap. “I’m going to make a quick call, and then we’re going to sit down. If you want to talk, we can talk. If you want to do something to check out mentally for a while, we can do that, too.”

  “Therapeutic sex?”

  She snorted. “I was thinking more of renting a movie on demand, eating good food, and letting me cuddle your tension away.”

  Beckett considered. His frozen expression had thawed a little since he arrived, but he was nowhere near normal. It scared her. He’d never appeared more like his father than when she opened the door and found him looking at her from behind an icy wall. That wasn’t the Beckett she knew—the one she’d come to care about entirely too much. Her Beckett was fire and passion and a healthy dose of attitude.

  She walked away before he could answer, hating the way her throat closed, refusing to be upset in front of him when it was Beckett who had been hurt. Samara made two quick calls—one to order several changes of clothes for him to be couriered to her condo from a shop about a mile away, and the other takeout from two different places.

  By the time she made it back into the main living area, Beckett had finished washing his hands and was prowling around the space. Snooping. She paused in the doorway to take in a shirtless Beckett in her living room. The muscles in his back flexed as he leaned over to read the titles on her bookshelf.

  “Regency romance, thrillers, and a startling selection of classic horror novels.” He spoke without looking over. “Every time I think you can’t surprise me, you go and prove me wrong.”

  He sounded more normal, which made her smile a little. “Which of those is the most surprising?”

  “Definitely the horror. Thrillers and romance are just two sides to the same coin, so they go hand in hand to some extent.” He glanced at her. “Don’t tell that to men who like to read the damn thrillers, though.”

  She recognized the subject for a desperate bid not to talk about what he’d just seen, so she played along. For now. “Do tell.”

  “Both tell stories that are emotion-driven. Fear and love aren’t that different when it comes right down to it.”

  He spoke with the kind of familiarity that drew her several steps closer. “You sound like you’ve read a romance or two.”

  “My mother had a subscription to the old Harlequin novels at one point. I found them in a box in the attic when I was thirteen. She must have read them multiple times each, because the spines were exceedingly abused.” He grinned unexpectedly. “I read them all.”

  She could just picture an adolescent Beckett holed up with those stories, reading them to feel close to the mother he’d lost. “That’s really sweet.”

  “It was.” His smile fell away. “Though my father didn’t think so. He realized I’d hidden them away when I was fourteen and he made me watch as he burned them all.” He caught her expression and shrugged. “He was proving a point.”

  God, her heart ached for him. He’d lost so much, and he just kept moving forward, barely missing a step.

  You don’t have to be alone anymore.

  She didn’t even know if she had any business promising him that. She couldn’t fill the void of so many missing people inside him. No one could but Beckett himself. But he didn’t have to stand as a pillar of solitude, protecting everyone under his wing without falter.

  That was why he’d never left, no matter how shitty his father had been. Why he wouldn’t leave no matter how little his heart was in the oil business or the legacy of his family. He had people depending on his leadership, and he’d see it through to keep their lives secure.

  Oh my God, I love him.

  “What’s got that look on your face?”

  “Nothing,” she answered quickly. She couldn’t tell him now or he’d accuse her of saying the words out of pity. No, they had to get through this mess and walk out the other side, and then she could confess what she felt for him. Or maybe I’m just a coward.

  Beckett turned in a slow circle, seeming to take in her place. She tried to see the room from his point of view. Her condo was about half the size of his. Flowers bloomed on her windowsill, and she had pots set up on either side of her balcony. They made her feel closer to her mother, even when they didn’t get to see each other as much as she’d like. Her living room was cozy enough, with a reasonable-sized television and a deep gray couch that was deep enough for two people to sleep on side by side. Her mother had crocheted the throw blanket haphazardly folded across the back of the couch, the only bright thing in the room with its happy
oranges, reds, and yellows that made her think of a sunset.

  “A movie…would be nice. We have to talk but—”

  “It can wait,” Samara said firmly. She hadn’t had a chance to study Lydia’s calendar, but she needed to tell him about it. “I ordered dinner. We’ll eat. Decompress. And then we’ll talk about what happens next.”

  He hesitated, but finally nodded. “Deal.”

  Samara handed him the remote and put on the hot water while Beckett flipped through the movie options. The bloody bag on her counter drew her gaze. The baby book inside looked saturated, but if there was a way to save even part of it, it wouldn’t happen while the thing was air-locked in a bag. “I’m going to see if I can dry this out.”

  “If you want to.”

  He didn’t sound exactly encouraging, but she didn’t let that stop her. Samara grabbed some towels and scissors and a pan. She carefully set the bag in the pan and cut down the sides. The metallic scent made her stomach clench, but she gritted her teeth and gingerly parted the cover to see what the damage was inside. Blood stained the edges of the pages and the first few were completely ruined, but most of the middle ones were still readable. She just needed to keep them that way. She blotted the wet spots with one of the towels, making sure not to smear it. The front cover was beyond saving, but she propped it up and spread the pages as best she could. She was considering getting her hair dryer and using the cold setting to try to dry it faster when the buzzer sounded.

  “I got it.” Beckett’s voice sounded closer behind her than she expected.

  She jumped and twisted to find him leaning against the opposite kitchen counter. “I didn’t hear you.”

  His gaze settled on the spread baby book and the red marking her hands. She didn’t know what to say, so she blurted out. “I know it’s important to you. I couldn’t not try.”

  He took two steps to her, pressed a quick kiss to her temple. “Thank you. For all this. For being there.”