Page 5 of Lace 'em Up

I distantly feel that we’re moving again, that lights are flicking on and we’re climbing up a flight of stairs.

I should be more aware. Should climb them myself. Should tuck this away and move on.

But…I hurt.

Not just my body. But my mind and heart and soul.

They hurt.

“Breathe, princess,” King murmurs, the bed depressing as he climbs on with me in his arms, holding me against his chest, one hand gently rubbing my back in slow, even circles. “Just breathe.”

Which is when I realize I’m crying.

Deep shuddering sobs that make my ribs cry out in protest.

Messy tears that stream down my face, drip off my jaw.

But King doesn’t hurry me, just keeps stroking my back, holding me close until the tears stop, until exhaustion saps my mind. I want to give in to the fatigue, want to slide into sleep and pretend this didn’t happen.

But…

“I should go,” I whisper.

His big body turns into a statue beneath me, arms tightening around me, though not enough to hurt. “What the fuck?”

I push against his chest. “I should go.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” he mutters. “You’re fucking bleeding and shivering and covered in bruises. You’re not going anywhere.”

“I’m fine,” I snap, shoving at his chest.

Unfortunately, as is often the case with one Kingston Bang, my annoyance with this big, stubborn man has me forgetting myself.

I forget that my ribs hate life right now as I push against him hard.

He doesn’t move.

Not one goddamned inch.

But I do as pain radiates up my arms, my side and?—

“What the fuck?” he mutters, sitting up from the headboard in a rush, capturing me carefully, rolling me off him—just as carefully. And then he’s sliding a hand behind me, unzipping my dress in a motion that’s too fucking smooth and speaks of too many women, all of whom I shouldn’t be jealous of, considering I’d been planning on getting married to another man this evening (but women who I’m jealous of for some dumbass reason anyway).

King peels open my dress, draws it down my arms.

Off my chest.

I gasp, but he’s not looking at my breasts barely contained in a lace bra.

He’s stopped with the taffeta and chiffon with embroidered flowers bunched around my waist.

And then his eyes jerk back to mine, deep blue pools blazing with fire.

“I’m going to fucking kill him.”

Three

Kingston

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