Page 77 of Ruthless Kings of Havoc

“They did that on purpose,” I whine. “God. They’re gonna do this every chance they get,” I complain. “Also, this whole article is centered on how unhealthy my hair is. It’s not unhealthy. My hair grows super-fast. I feel as though if I were a model, they would pay me extra for this length of gorgeous silver locks!” I spin around to prove a point, my long, luscious silver locks following the direction of my movement flawlessly.

“Does their commentary bother you?”

“My image matters if I’m being analyzed for existing,” I note and walk to the wardrobe to see what I’m working with. Opening it up makes me cringe because the walk-in closet is huge.

Far too huge.

Thankfully, it’s empty.

“Thank goodness,” I sigh in relief. “No dozens of clothes.”

“You don’t like that?” Ares mutters. I look back to see he’s standing right behind me, observing me carefully. His expression is odd to me.

As though he’s here but not really here.

“Like what?”

“Having various clothes.”

“I want my clothes to have a purpose,” I stress. “Not like I don’t enjoy my King’s generosity in the old place, but more so… there were so many unnecessary clothes.” I see no need to lie now that the place is but ash and soot. “When we went to that boutique, the clothes you chose were the first set of items that had some personality to them. That fit my style and what compliments me,” I reveal. Looking back at the empty wardrobe, I scan the various shelves and acknowledge their purpose in my mind.

“In any closet, there’s purpose. Some just have rods that are meant to hold hangers. Others have an array of spaces, counters, and drawers. Everything is created with a purpose that’s given to the owner’s discretion. The person then gets to decide what is worthy of hanging on those rods or resting in those drawers. What jewelry is used often enough to be put on the top display, and what’s hidden in plentiful boxes in the back corners of the cabinets.” I don’t know why it feels like I’m going on some sort of tangent, but I can’t stop myself now.

“In our dynamic, I’m the Ruthless Maiden. That’s my purpose, and I have duties and a role to uphold. That even comes down to the clothes I’m wearing. If I’m going to wear something on my body that I can’t confidently walk in, it’s going to show.”

“Meaning you didn’t like this morning’s outfit.”

“You didn’t choose it,” I toss back. “None of my Kings did. It was that fashion ditz woman who thinks she’s the shit because she has a position with a company that only cares that she clocks in an hour early.”

He stares at me for ten seconds.

“Megan.”

“Megan, the sassy bitch who put me in rags so I can be the six a.m. laughingstock next to Ares Albrecht, my Ruthless King,who I’m apparently set to marry when I thought I was having a marriage of convenience with Matteo Giulietta Leighton.”

“You’re anxious, aren’t you?” he concludes.

“We have to waltz back onto Leighton campus soil tomorrow morning with Matteo as our Ruthless Leader, looking flawless as ever because you’re currently trending, and my closet is empty, not even with a set of uniforms based on my feel of which Ruthless King I like in the fine hours of the morning after an exhausting night of talking to my mother for the first time in years, realizing that my real birth father’s mental health is so deep down the rabbit hole that I can’t truly hate him because ‘morals,’ and the realization that Domino may have the same condition as his father but it’s undiagnosed and probably going to be problematic now that our society is dragging him to the pits of hell where he belongs!” It comes out in a rampant of words, leaving me breathless before I realize I’m so anxious that I’m probably having a panic attack. “Okay… maybe I’m dying.”

“You’re not dying,” Ares coaches. He moves the strands of my hair in my face, placing them behind my ears as I fight for breath. “Breathe, Sweet Canary. You can’t sing plenty of melodies if you’re not letting yourself enjoy the air around you.”

The way he says it so softly is enough to get me to listen—my objective now focused on matching my swift inhales and slow exhales to the way Ares is breathing.

This seems to be a routine thing with Ares—allowing myself to be overwhelmed and expressive when he’s near.

“Did you know my mother cut Mr. Leighton’s ring finger off because she found out what he did to me?” I splutter out. It’s so random and unwarranted, but it’s out there.

“Did she?” Ares whispers while his hands move to cup my cheeks.

“She did,” I whisper. “She has evidence.”

“As she would,” he praises with a small smirk. “You’d do that.”

“I would not,” I argue, but think about it. “Okay. Maybe I would.” He’s right. “Just not to you.”

“Cause I’m the weakest link.”

I frown at his words while I see how he immediately regrets admitting that.

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