Page 31 of Wicked King

There’s something about the possessive edge to his tone that has warmth flooding my chest and sinking dangerously low beneath my belly button.

“One… two…” Marco begins the slow count, and the air in my tiny studio is suddenly so thick and oppressive it’s suffocating. “Three…” His gaze is feral, like a captive wild animal intent on freedom even if it means tearing its own limb off.

Screw this.

My captor is so mesmerized by Marco’s icy tone that, for an instant, he completely forgets about me. I manage to gain an inch of space and jab my elbow into his side, the most ticklish part of any human according to Nanay. Who knew this bit of knowledge my mom imparted would serve me so well?

The bastard flinches, the pressure on my throat increasing for a second before a shot rings out. Warm liquid spurts across my face, and the steel band around my neck falls away. The traitor crumples to the ground, a bullet wedged through the slit of his navy hood and right between his eyes. Blood dribbles down the dark material and pools beneath his head painting the floor of my bedroom a deep crimson.

I blink quickly but can’t seem to tear my gaze from the gruesome sight. He deserves a coward’s death for his dishonorable ways. Marco’s towering form looms over me, folding around me like a blanket of shadows. I never thought I’d feel comfort in his presence, but somehow, for this one moment, I allow myself the indulgence.

“I thought you promised him a slow death…” I murmur, eyes still intent on the growing puddle of blood.

Marco’s multi-colored gaze snaps to mine, the surprise in his expressive irises nearly worth the whole ordeal. “I couldn’t risk it,” he replies. “If I’d hit his leg and he’d managed to draw that knife across your throat—” His words fall away, darkness carving into his features. He remains perfectly still for an achingly long moment, as if he’s traveled to another place, another time.

His thumb brushes my cheek, the touch surprisingly gentle and for an instant only he and I exist. “Blood,” he murmurs, as I’m trapped in that hypnotic gaze.

“My grandfather,” I blurt.

“Right.” The glossy curtain over Marco’s eyes retreats along with his hand, and the shrewd mafia enforcer is back. He jerks his phone out of his pocket and barks at the person on the other side of the line, “Get Dr. Pacetti here ASAP, Guo is injured, and I need a clean-up crew.”

I fold down beside Yéye, worry cramping my belly. A trickle of dried blood darkens his temple, but at least it’s stopped bleeding.

“What happened to him?” Marco asks.

I tick my head at the body sprawled across my floor. “That asshole hit him with the butt of his gun when we walked in. He caught us by surprise.”

“Did he hit his head when he fell?”

“No, I caught him.”

“Good.” He slips between my knees and the dresser, my tiny bedroom dwarfed by this enormous male, and disappears into my bathroom.

I perform a quick mental check to make sure I don’t have any panties or bras hanging from my shower and breathe a sigh of relief. Luckily, laundry day is tomorrow.

Marco reappears a moment later with a damp washcloth in his hands. “Do you have ice?”

“Yes, right.” I jump off the bed and race to the kitchenette. God, you’d think I’d been the one hit on the head. How did I not think of ice? When I return to my makeshift bedroom a moment later, Marco leans over Yéye, gently wiping the dried blood off his face.

My heart pinches at the unexpected sight, and I just stand there watching for an embarrassingly long moment. Marco cocks his head over his shoulder and holds out his hand. “Ice?”

“Oh, right.” I hand over the Ziploc bag, wrapped in a kitchen towel. He presses it against Yéye’s temple where a dark bruise has already begun to form. Anger singes through my veins at the attack. I understand that they’re pissed at me, but why take it out on my grandfather? “What are we going to do about this?” I snap, more harshly than intended.

Marco cants his head back. “Excuse me?”

“How are we going to retaliate?”

A wicked smirk flashes across that strong jaw. “We? I thought you wanted nothing to do with me, spitfire.”

“I don’t.” I knot my arms across my chest and glare down at the infuriating man. One minute he’s kind, almost human, and the next, he’s that cocky dickhead again. “I just thought you’d want to defend the honor of your newest alliance.”

“Mmm…” He rubs his chin, the scrape from his nails across the five-o’clock shadow echoing through the silence. “I suppose I could consider it.”

“I want them to pay,” I hiss.

“You’re the new laodà of the Four Seas, so do it. Make an example out of Lei Wang.”

“But I thought you?—”

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