Page 1 of Knight

Prologue

Damien

It’s not what you think.

I’m not a monster.

I don’t have tentacles, fangs, or a hairy back.

No claws. No screws through my head. Fuck, if there are any screws in my head, they’re all loose.

He made me this way.

Cold, calculating and cocky.

He’s to blame. Ask my old therapist.

But I’m not a monster.

Believe me?

I don’t.

No one does. And as far as they know, Damien King is a massive monstrosity. Just like pops.

Knock! Knock! Knock!

“Fuck,” I mutter, amber liquid spilling over the crystal glass in my hand as I try not to drop the polaroid in the other. I’m not usually this jumpy but every time there’s a loud bang, my body thinks it’s in the middle of a war.

“Mister Damien?” Isobel calls from behind the door. It’s hard to hear the housekeeper with my dad’s vinyl blaring in the background. Hendrix’s “All Along The Watchtower.” But her Polish accent is distinguishable, voice higher than the guitar solo. “Two gentlemen are here to see—”

“They can fuck off!” This isn’t the first time I’ve told her and something tells me it won’t be the last. Letting the scotch soak into my dark grey joggers, I pull the glass to my lips. The strong smell of alcohol blocks out the smell of tobacco and leather. His smell.

Stay away from that girl. I forbid you to see her. You’re stupid, but don’t be an idiot.

I scoff at those words. His final plea. No apology. No “I love you.” That’s not his style. Love? That’s bullshit to a King. Unnecessary. A roadblock to the top.

Leaning over the desk, I pull the photo into the light. My eyes scan over Rosaline King for the thousandth time. Thick, long black hair. Porcelain cheeks that appear rosy even in this faded picture.

Mom.

Her doe eyes are brighter than I’ve ever seen them, blue and full of life. It’s hard not to stare before my eyes land on him. A man with a rich, maple complexion, tall with a boxy, broad stature. He’s wearing a gold watch I’d recognize anywhere. A jacket that’s way too familiar. I’ve been staring at this photo for days and I still can’t make sense of it.

The smile on my mom’s face is something I’ve hardly seen, almost reaching her brown eyes. And this man, this imposter, is looking at her like the fucking sun.

Letting the polaroid drop to the table I pull the glass to my lips, my eyes on the crown moulding in the ceiling.

Why did my dad have this buried in his wallet? Is this man who I think it is?

With smooth whiskey on my tongue, my mind drifts, the air thick with smoke from the joint burning in the ashtray.

Am I the monster they say I am? Or is that exactly what they want me to believe? What she wants me to believe?

I’ve held that skinny wrist in my palms enough to know who’s watch that is. I’ve undressed that perfect body enough times to know every button and zipper on that leather jacket. The big guy twitches under these joggers just thinking about it.

Running a hand over my shaft, I imagine it’s hers. Those long, slender fingers wrapped around me. This position is the one thing keeping me sane through this whole shitshow. She’s the one thing keeping me together and a mess at the same fucking time. With my hand around my length, I imagine my teeth in her soft, sandy skin. My lips on that velvety, heart-shaped pout. I can’t get the smell of her out of my mind. Coconut, vanilla and pot.

Pulling my hard rod out of my joggers, I grunt. It feels way too good when I think about her warm skin pressed against my hard, cold body. She feels like a mickey of booze on a cold day. Satisfying. Comforting. I crave it. I crave her. My head falls back, remembering the taste of her tongue on mine, sweet and bitter.

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