King's Horses

by Lana Sky

  Would the man really be so bold?

  Suddenly, the world comes to a stop and I’m jostled onto my side. A door opens and cool air tickles my cheek, alerting me to the fact that we’re not outside, but somewhere enclosed. A garage? A hand latches onto my shoulder before I can be sure, and I’m shoved upright onto trembling legs.

  “Move,” I’m commanded. A warning grip on the back of my throat keeps me from resisting the contact as my captor steers me forward. He’s panting.

  Straining my ears, I strive to notice any detail I can. Silence, mostly. It encases us in an echo chamber of unsteady footsteps and frantic breaths. There’s only two of us, a fact my captor seems desperate to disguise. He’s moving unsteadily, creating the illusion of a million pattering footsteps.

  “Don’t fight,” he warns, tightening his grip until I nod frantically in agreement. “Keep moving.”

  We’re in a narrower space now, where the air feels even more enclosed. I jump as a door creaks, opening and closing behind us. We’re alone, and the figure I’m with towers above me. Their breath heats my shoulder blades, bearing down on my scalp.

  “Stop.” He shoves against a firm surface before I can comply on my own. “Sit.”

  I manage to perch myself on what feels like a metal chair without falling. The skirt of my gown bellows out around me, creating a makeshift barrier between me and the man I sense steadily advancing.

  “Put your hands behind your back. Please.”

  And suddenly, it clicks: I know that gallant tone of voice. Even now, he can’t resist the suave air of politeness bred into him—a benefit of ten years of finishing school.

  “Daniel.” My voice rasps, echoing off our surroundings. “Daniel, is that you—”

  “Shut up.” He doesn’t hit me, but his hand lands over my shoulder, imparting a subtle warning. “Do it,” he rasps, damn near begging. “Put your arms behind your back, Snowy.”

  When I do, he takes them both. Something thin is wound around both of my wrists, tethering them together tightly.

  “Now, open your mouth.”

  Terror threatens to shatter the cohesiveness of my thoughts. Focus, Snow, I tell myself. Don’t panic…

  “Now!”

  My lips part woodenly, allowing something rough to be shoved between them, which prohibits any attempts to speak. Cloth? Sweat lingers in the fabric, betraying that it’s an item of clothing. A glove? Tie?

  “I’m going to take the blindfold off,” my captor says as his footsteps once again move behind me.

  Suddenly, the cloth over my eyes is withdrawn, which allows me to make out a darkened room lit only by a dim floor lamp. Dingy carpet and water-stained walls give no clue of my surroundings—somewhere far beyond the glimmer of downtown Mayfield, I suspect.

  Somewhere secluded.

  “I’ll only tell you this once, Snowy,” my captor warns, his tone rough, nearly imploring. “I don’t want to hurt you.” A shadow flickers over the floor, tall and slender. When he finally comes into my line of sight, I’m grateful for the gag stifling my gasp.

  In the harsh, artificial lightning, Daniel Ellingston III looks like a stranger—though I suppose he always has been. A few short months have left his once-coifed blond hair wildly overgrown, with lanky strands falling into his bloodshot eyes. His gray suit is crumpled and unkempt. Faint body odor warns that he hasn’t washed in a while, either—him, the man who groomed himself better than I did while we dated.

  Alarm spurs my faltering heartbeat, stiffening my posture. At a glance, I can tell he’s alone. But for how long?

  “Don’t look at me like that.” Groaning, he runs his fingers through his hair, flicking the worst strands away from his face as his lips contort into a shadow of his infamous grin. “Even now, I can’t seem to impress you, can I, Snowy?”

  Something warns me not to react. I stare ahead blankly, tracking every unsteady step as he paces in a small circle before me. He’s holding an object in his right hand, something he absently taps against his thigh. My brain recognizes the shape, but a part of me refuses to put the proper name to it. The Daniel Ellingston I knew would never carry a gun, especially not one formed of stark black metal. It simply didn’t mesh with his image.

  What could have transpired in nearly three months since his disgrace to push him to this point?

  “I can explain everything.” He frowns at the weapon before he tucks it behind his back and out of sight. “You just wouldn’t understand,” he stammers. “That’s why I couldn’t tell you before.”

  Tell me what? I do my best to nonverbally convey the question as calmly as I can. Blank expression. Imploring gaze.

  Suddenly, he whirls on his heel. “That smug bastard had it all fucking planned, I bet,” he growls, still running his free hand along his scalp. “That motherfucker. He turned you against me. How is that for irony? So much for hating the fucking Hollingses—”

  No. The thought feels instinctive, like the little voice most people sense before touching a hot stove or running over pavement visibly slick with ice. Don’t. This might hurt. Tread carefully.

  So much for hating the fucking Hollingses…

  “You already know.” Daniel pauses his manic march and cocks his head, studying me with a shrewd gaze.

  The disguise I fought to uphold fails. I can’t stop my eyes from lowering to the gun. He’s tapping it again, recklessly against his thigh.

  Chuckling, he lifts it, his expression puzzled. “That bastard is more dangerous than he looks. I have to, Snowy,” he says in a rush. “I have to carry this damn thing now because of him. And you know it. I can see it on your face.”

  My face: lips flattened; wide, watering eyes; a throat that won’t stop swallowing hard, desperate to fight back the emotion threatening to overwhelm me.

  “I thought he’d gotten to you,” Daniel says with a hollow laugh that chills me to the core. “But he hasn’t, has he? You were always too smart for your own good, Snowy. I should have told you from day fucking one.”

  Told me what? This time, I don’t want to know the answer. It’s like I can sense it unfurling anyway, in the shadowy recesses of my mind where only the darkest fears dwell.

  “I did what I did,” Daniel admits, cutting his gaze beyond my head. “It was wrong. I know that—but I would have never gotten the idea if he hadn’t… Fuck!” He slams the butt of the gun into his hip, cursing under his breath. “I should have known the bastard had an ulterior motive. You were never supposed to know. It was never supposed to go public.”

  A sickening sensation creeps through my stomach, threatening to upend everything balanced precariously inside it.

  It congeals into a chilling suspicion that haunts my thoughts before Daniel even parts his lips to utter, “That bastard Blake Lorenz. He set me up, Snowy. That bastard took everything from me. And, now, he’s stolen you too.”

  “I should have known better than to ever trust that son of a bitch,” Daniel snarls, though I barely even hear him. His voice takes on a dream-like quality, like something recalled from a nightmare. Distant and formless.

  For a moment, this dark, dingy room fades and all I can see is the beautiful backdrop of my dream penthouse and the man who dwells inside it. His blue eyes meet mine unflinchingly, devoid of a single ounce of shame.

  “What did you expect?” I imagine him snarling. “After all, you hurt me first. You betrayed me first. You were stupid enough to fall in love with me all over again…”

  “Snowy?”

  I flinch as warmth brushes my cheek. Daniel. He’s frowning down at his fingers, and at a glance, I see why. The tips are glistening red. Dread lances through my chest as my skull throbs in response. How badly am I injured?

  “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he says, his voice thick. He reaches for me again, but I can’t stop myself from cringing. He stiffens and then lowers his hand with a sigh. “I didn’t… But I had to get you away from him. You don’t understand!”

  So tell me. The words wind up garb
led by the gag, but he nods in understanding regardless.

  “I can’t. I…” He stops pacing, balanced on the tips of his toes like a cornered animal ready to bolt. “What the fuck was that?” His head swivels toward the door as his hand shakily raises the gun.

  My heart lurches at how his finger twitches over the trigger, and another indiscernible moan breaks from my throat.

  “Shhh,” he snaps in annoyance, turning to me once more.

  He approaches my chair to stroke the side of my face. Clenching my jaw, I do everything possible not to resist the motion. At the same time, I tug my wrists, testing the strength of the binds: alarmingly tight. Inhaling through my nose, I attempt to meet Daniel’s gaze, but his emerald irises are unfocused, darting toward the corners of the room.

  Where Blake looks perpetually exhausted, Daniel seems like a zombie, reanimated to react on only the basest human responses.

  “I know it was wrong, Snowy,” he says. “But I thought… We were supposed to be married when it happened. I would have control of the Hollings Estate and you’d never have to know. I’d keep your brothers on, of course. Everything would be as it was…”

  He’s rambling and my brain struggles to catch up. Married. Estate. My brothers.

  All of it leads to one chilling conclusion: Daniel wasn’t just a greedy fool caught up in an investigation’s web. He planned this. He planned to steal my family’s company out from under me all along.

  And only one man was devious enough to show him how.

  “He came to me six months ago,” Daniel says hollowly. “Not that I can fucking prove it. He’s a clever, clever son of a bitch. He made it seem like an easy way to consolidate my power in the industry. He’d take a small cut and come on as a primary investor—your brothers jealously guarded their board of directors. Damn… You can’t blame me for wanting some shred of control. They were so fucking arrogant.”

  And for a good reason. Almost overnight, Daniel managed to betray the sliver of trust placed in him and wreaked havoc on my family from within.

  But he couldn’t have done half as much damage alone.

  “He said that all he wanted was the company,” Daniel continues. “Just a few goddamn shares. He wouldn’t humiliate your family in any way. All I had to do was allow him to invest and we would… It doesn’t fucking matter!” He shakes his head sternly and refocuses his gaze on me. “It all went to shit, Snowy,” he croaks. “Suddenly, the fucking Feds were on my doorstep. Everything was in the papers. You hated me. And that sick son of a bitch. He’s dangerous, Snowy. He has a bulldog that he keeps on a leash. Some thug named Harley or Larow—”

  Harlow. That name echoes off the inside of my skull in a morbid loop. Harlow. Lyle Harlow. Lyle Harlow.

  “It’s funny… That was the contact who fed me all the information I needed to make the false investments. And he threatened you, Snowy. Threatened to hurt you if I didn’t leave the city—”

  Another muffled sound escapes me, garbled by the gag. Even I can’t decipher the plaintive howl. Perhaps a simplistic word: no. No, no, no. I’m shaking my head before I realize it, blinking back burning beads of moisture that escape down my cheeks in searing rivulets.

  Daniel bought my contract with Harlow. But that meant another man had introduced him to my father’s old lackey. Another man who knew him prior. Had he known the truth all along? Toying with me. Torturing me for days until I finally broke down and revealed the truth.

  Was everything that happened since just another lie? Some sick, twisted way for him to save face? I’d thought him the shattered remnant of the boy I loved, but maybe he was more of a monster than a man all along…

  “Listen to me, Snowy,” Daniel implores, continuing to speak even as my thoughts drift and dissipate.

  I’m far beyond this room, reliving every moment and every word. Every fucking touch and caress. Every lie. They’re all poison, building in my veins, choking the breath from my lungs.

  “Snowy!”

  I blink and find Daniel in front of me, his eyes worriedly scanning my face.

  “Stay with me—”

  “Get the fuck away from her.”

  That voice. Like a hook, it sinks into my soul and my entire being swivels toward the sound. Rather than a knight in shining armor, I find a shadowed figure dominating the doorway.

  He looks like hell, burning and ruthless. Wind has disrupted his curls as if he ran all the way from the ballroom. But he’s unarmed, and I suspect he came alone. Honed like a laser, his gaze finds me and narrows, brimming with rage.

  “She’s bleeding, you fool,” Blake says coldly. “What the fuck did you do—”

  “Shut up!”

  Blake can’t see Daniel’s face from his position, but I can. Fear sinks into my muscles, and my wrists flex, testing the give of my binds again, ignoring the pain. Dread ramps up, coaxing a terrifying lullaby out of my heartbeat. Thump. Thumpthumpthump.

  “Just shut the fuck up—”

  “Can you hear me, Snow?” Blake eyes me without flinching, even as the barrel of a gun sways in his direction.

  In this moment, I could stomach anything—any ounce of disgust or grudging concern. Anything but this: his eyes practically glowing, fixated on my face, begging for a response. Can you hear me?

  My chin jerks in acknowledgment and he nearly deflates with relief.

  “Good. Listen to me, Snow. Everything’s going to be all right.”

  “Don’t fucking move!” Daniel has both hands on the gun now, but he can barely steady it enough to point it in Blake’s direction. The barrel sways back and forth, dangerously erratic.

  “Put the gun down, you fool,” Blake snarls. “Before you blow your damn head off—”

  “Or yours.”

  I’ve never heard Daniel sound so unpolished. So…desperate. He’s shaking from head to toe, his skin alarmingly pale—and I realize I was wrong before. He’s terrified. Riling him up now is the wrong course of action to take—even Blake seems to realize that.

  He raises his hands in a gesture of surrender, though his posture doesn’t betray anything of the sort. “Put the gun down.” As he speaks, he inches forward a careful step.

  “I said don’t move—”

  “Daniel,” I rasp, or at least I attempt to around my gag. “Please… Don’t do this.”

  “You believe him?” He turns to me, his expression stricken. “Do you?” His hand twitches, and the mouth of the gun yawns before me, endless.

  “Stop it, you fool.” My blood runs cold at the apparent fear cracking that impervious baritone I know so well. For the first time Blake Lorenz sounds terrified. “Lower the fucking gun,” he snarls. “Or point it at me. Focus on me—”

  “Shut up!” Wide, Daniel’s gaze darts from me to Blake. “Now, you pretend like you give a damn about her?” he wonders. “Bullshit! Maybe I should just do it, huh?” The gun centers over me again, but this time his hand holds it steady. “Maybe this is the only way you’ll fucking feel a shred of guilt. You did this—”

  “Daniel, please.” My wrists are on fire, but I think I have enough leverage to slide one hand free. Just a little more…

  “What the hell was that?” A floorboard creaks, drawing Daniel’s attention over his shoulder. Suddenly, his back is to me, his movements erratic. “I said don’t fucking move!”

  Panic urges my body into motion. I wrench at the binds, my eyes watering as agony crawls up either limb. Skin peels and gives way in searing shreds—until, at last, freedom! The sudden shift in motion throws me forward and off the chair.

  “No!” Daniel lunges toward me, his aim unsteady. “Stay there—”

  “Get the hell away from her!”

  Just like that, chaos descends. A heavy force slams into my body, knocking me to the floor, as a monstrous sound tears through my eardrums. The world explodes into a mixture of clamor and noise. I taste blood. Hear church bells, constantly ringing.

  Ringing.

  Then…silence.

  A
coppery scent reaches my nostrils as the weight pinning me to the floor suddenly goes limp, rolling off me. Footsteps tear from the room, leaving me alone with the downed figure.

  And all I see is blue.

  Glazed.

  Empty.

  Dying blue.

  Chapter 18

  Brandt never let me win our games, not even when I begged to. He always made me fight for a victory, but he never played dirty or used underhanded tricks to ensure one. Blake Lorenz, on the other hand, plays unfairly without even trying. Only a true monster would die now, when I hate him so much. When I’d kill him myself for answers.

  He can’t die now.

  The thought hammers against the inside of my skull as I race down the hospital wing on trembling legs.

  A doctor dressed in white awaits me at the end of the corridor, his face grim as he surveys some documents attached to a clipboard. “He’ll need surgery,” he says, his tone stern. “Afterward, we’ll have a better idea of where to go from there.”

  He rushes through a set of double doors before I can question him. Alone, all I can do is sit and wait. It feels like hours pass, though in the end, I’m not sure how long it takes for a nurse to finally emerge from the cordoned off area, her mouth slack with exhaustion.

  One look at me and she recoils. When I glance down, I see why: my beautiful, white, ridiculous dress is stained with blood. I’m shaking. Dried tears streak my cheeks, containing smeared remnants of makeup.

  “M-Ms. Hollings?” Blinking, the nurse regains her composure. “He’s in a room now,” she says in a rush. “You can see him…if you want.” She utters the last three words hesitantly, her gaze on my face.

  I’m too tired to tailor my expression, and I can only guess what she finds in it. Terror?

  “O-okay,” I stammer, lurching to my feet. My heart pounds as I follow her through a maze of winding hallways, and I can’t help the pathetic metaphor that comes to mind: I feel like, with every step, I’m traversing the landscape of my soul—or how I imagine it to be, anyway. Clean and white, save for that one realm only he could dominate. It smells like blood and is stained with shadow and stark reality.