Page 8 of Emperor of Wrath

The breath leaves my body and every muscle I have tenses up as merciless, powerful hands grab me viciously from behind, spin me, and slam me hard into the bookshelf behind me.

The color drains from my face. My mouth falls open in a silent, chilling scream as the floor drops out beneath me.

…As Kenzo fucking Mori leers down into my terrified eyes, his face a mask of pure wrath.

“Hello, princess,” he hisses icily. His coldly beautiful face darkens with rage and fury. His high cheekbones and chiseled, lethal jaw glint in the darkness as the piercing blackness of his eyes eviscerates me.

It’s like I’m powerless to move. Even to blink or say a fucking word as his huge hand slowly wraps around my throat. The hand slips around, his fingers never leaving my skin until he’s gripping me by the back of the neck, forcing my eyes up to his inky gaze.

“Come, princess,” he spits. “We don’t want to keep them waiting, do we?”

I still can’t say a word as he grabs the earpiece from my ear and crushes it in his fist. I watch the pieces crumble like dust to the floor before he snatches the glasses off my face and leers into them.

“Run and fucking hide, Freya.”

He drops the glasses to the floor and grinds them under his heel. I’m still frozen, and it feels like I’m half tumbling and half shuffling when he suddenly turns and starts to drag me after him by the nape of my neck across the floor, then out the door of the study.

“I—I?—”

No other words come to me. I stumble after him down the hall, almost falling down the stairs with my hand scrabbling to hold onto the banister and his iron grip still wrapped around my neck.

“Where—where are we—” I finally blurt as he yanks me through the second dining room. “Where are you?—

“Like I said, princess,” he snarls in a dark, rasping tone, his gruff but posh British accent giving it a clipped edge. “We don’t want to keep them waiting.”

He storms across the now-empty foyer toward a set of closed double doors which I’m pretty sure leads back into the ballroom.

“Keep who?—”

He kicks the doors in, suddenly dropping his menacing grip from my neck to my hand and yanking me after him into the ballroom.

Every. Single. Guest is standing there. Looking at us. Like they were waiting for us.

Something is very, very wrong.

My face is white as I pull my gaze around the room. Everyone’s smiling at me—beaming and grinning, looking like they’re ready to cheer for me.

Everyone except Kir, that is. When I lock eyes with him, all I’m faced with is a cold, dangerous look. Not anger. More like…fear.

And nothing scares that man.

I want to run to him and tell him I’m so sorry for being this fucking stupid before asking him what the shit is going on. But before I can move a muscle, Kenzo’s huge hand tightens painfully on mine, as if he’s trying to crush it. I turn to him, expecting malice. Rage. Hatred. Hell, even a loaded gun.

Instead, he’s fucking smiling.

Something is definitely wrong.

A waiter brings over two flutes of champagne. Kenzo smiles broadly as he takes his. I almost drop mine when the waiter shoves it into my fingers awkwardly.

“First of all,” Kenzo booms, his voice pure silk and honey. Like a statesman greeting his supporters, or a doctor announcing that the life-saving surgery was a success. There’s not a single trace of the malice and darkness that I know lurks behind that smile.

“I want to thank our hosts for graciously allowing me to take the spotlight away from the lovely birthday girl for a moment.”

He beams as he nods and lifts his glass to Cillian and Una, standing front and center, arm-in-arm, next to Kir.

“A very happy birthday, Mrs. Kildare.”

Una smiles, dipping her chin politely as she nods at Kenzo.

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