Page 37 of Kingmakers, Year Three

But fucking hell, there’s something different about Cat’s tight, petite little frame. The way I can lift and manipulate her so easily, the way I can hold her down with one hand.

I love my control over her.

Even more . . . I love the way she responded.

I wasn’t forcing her. I wasn’t making her do it.

She wanted it. She wanted it just as badly as I did. Maybe even more.

From the first instant that I kissed her, she responded like a little wildcat, feral and starving. She clawed me and bit me, clinging to me like she needed me for life.

And when I touched that wet little pussy, she was putty in my hands.

I lift my hand to my face, inhaling that sweet, musky scent off my fingers. My mouth waters and I lick my fingertips to taste her.

All the while, I’m pumping my cock with my other hand, imagining that Cat is touching it, imagining that I’m thrusting the head between those soft pink lips . . .

The orgasm explodes out of me without warning. Thick, hot cum pours over the back of my hand.

I picture her on her knees before me, begging to lick my fingers clean . . .

For the next week,I leave Cat alone.

It’s extraordinarily difficult, because my craving to take control of her again is almost irresistible.

But I know the same impulse is working on her. If I give her time for the shock and shame of our encounter to fade away, then all that will remain is the nagging desire to be touched again . . .

Meanwhile, I’m consumed by two things at once: my fixation on Cat, and my growing obsession with my boxing classes.

I’ve always loved to fight, but I’ve never been trained by a professional on Snow’s level. He seeseverything.It can be frustrating, because he detects even the tiniest flaws in my form. But it’s also incredibly rewarding, because whenever I follow his instruction, I improve tremendously.

Our training sessions are long and grueling. I’ve never put my body through so much. Yet I’m becoming faster and stronger by the day, and that’s a fire that fuels itself. I’m greedy. I want more.

Everyone in the class seems motivated by the same desire to take advantage of Snow’s coaching for the single year he’ll be at the school. Leo and Ares work with feverish focus. Ares surprised me last year, when I fought him in Combat class. He almost seemed to be holding back deliberately. Then when he finally lost his temper, he was a far more imposing opponent than I’d guessed.

I hate to admit it, but Leo is likewise talented. It infuriates me that his skill comes without discipline. Still, I’d be lying to myself if I tried to deny his athleticism.

Leo Gallo has been the thorn in my side for as long as I can remember. The tormenting vision of what my life should have been. He has everything I should have had—parents that love him. A safe and happy childhood in Chicago. A network of uncles, aunts, and cousins, and now a baby sister too. And Anna, the only girl I ever admired, wildly in love with him.

I’ve hated him for so long.

Our fathers tried to kill each other. How different things would have been if mine had triumphed.

It’s not the sins of the father that are visited on the head of the son. It’s his failures.

My son will never feel that shame.

I’ll secure an empire for my son, or I’ll have no son at all.

Snow is late to class today, unusual for him. He’s strictly punctual, as a rule.

Ilsa Markov is warming up on the speed bag, muscle standing out on her arms and shoulders. Corbin Castro jumps rope, while Jasper re-wraps his tattooed hands.

Kade Petrov and Tristan Turgenev shadow box against the far wall where all the medieval weapons hang—swords and axes, maces and crossbows, notched and dented on their edges from the battles of centuries past.

“We’ve got weapons like this in the monastery,” Kade says, nodding toward an ornate broadsword. “All sorts of antiques, furniture and rugs, chandeliers and wine barrels . . . it’s a lot like Kingmakers, actually.”

“That’s in St. Petersburg?” Tristan says, puffing as he jabs toward his own shadow on the wall.

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