Page 55 of Brutal King

I made her an offer, then. One she couldn’t refuse. In exchange for her sister’s life, she must acquire a secret for me. Infiltrate Arran’s underworld and discover Clive’s location.

“How?” she asked desperately.

“Do whatever it takes to earn his trust,” I ordered her. “Fuck him. Love him. Give him your fucking soul. I don’t care. Find out where Arran is hiding Clive and no one will ever bother you again. Your sister and you will be free from it all. Maisie will be safe.”

As I knew she would, she accepted. There is no other choice.

While I negotiated with the eldest Cameron sister, Scarlet did the same with Wesley Ritter. He’s to use his connection to Arran and set the trap. Skye will be offered at Asta, Arran’s auction house where the rich and powerful battle for pleasure. It’s wherethe truly wealthy bid on their carnal desires. Instead of things, it’s men and women who are placed on the pedestals.

The bait will be dangled in front of Arran. Skye, the daughter of the man he believes killed his sister. He’ll have her. There’s no way he’ll let her go to anyone else. His desire for revenge will be too strong.

I left Maisel in Scarlet’s capable hands. Though she isn’t happy, I’m sure she’ll adapt. Besides, I certainly couldn’t bring her here.

Clive’s death is so near, I can almost smell the lilies on his coffin. I’ll be one step closer to having avenged my father, and yet Mother comes to me with her wordless warnings.

I’m disturbed and unsettled, my stomach tight with anxious expectation. Sweat covers my face and body. The sheets cling to me in the worst way, where even the cats have abandoned me.

It’s not just the dream. I could feel my body succumbing to some invisible threat before I left Kingsbrook. By the time I came back, it had declared an all-out war on my system. I practically fell out of the chopper and dragged myself onto the first soft surface I came upon.

I had a dream then, too. A fucking sweet vision of Sofia writhing beneath me, naked except for my gray sweatshirt.

A smile spreads across my lips in spite of the aches still plaguing my body. I’d happily endure any fever if in my delirium I imagine taking her. My cock agrees, stiffening at the mere thought of burying myself in her tight heat. Of being the first one there.

All. Fucking. Mine.

At some point, I must have made my way up and slept the rest of the day and through the night. Fuck me.

What I need is medicine and a shower. A hot one where I can warm up and dispel the cold brought on by an ominous dream and the virus that assaulted me.

From my nightstand, I take out two acetaminophens before going into the shower. Heat seeps into my muscles and with my rising temperature, thoughts of Sofia take over. She’s under me, perfect tits, tight pussy. My pussy. Mine.

With one hand against the tiled wall, I pump my dick with the other as the water jets pour down my back. I slide my palm over my rock-hard shaft, wishing it would feel as good as Sofia’s tight cunt. It doesn’t take long before I shoot out ribbons of cum onto the shower floor. Water washes away any evidence of the things I did to Sofia in my mind.

I dress in a casual blue suit, replacing the ankle holster and knife. But when I go for my phone, I find it missing from the charging dock. Wherever it is, my wallet and coin are with it.

“Fuck.”

Retracing my steps, or what I believe they were from yesterday, I head to the great room downstairs. I stop dead in my tracks before entering, confused by the sight that greets me.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

Sofia squeaks and jumps away from the couch as she tucks her hands behind her back. “Y-you’re up? I didn’t think you’d be awake already, you were so sick.”

I stalk toward her. “What are you hiding?”

She shakes her head and shrugs. “Nothing.”

I’m in front of her in two steps. She attempts to flee, but I easily wrap my arms around her and grab her by the wrists. However, when I pull them out from behind her, it takes me a second to grasp what I’m seeing.

“What’s on those rags?” I demand. “Blood?”

Her eyes widen and flick for the merest of moments toward the couch. Without releasing her, I turn to it too.

There’s a red stain on one of the cushions, stark against the ivory. Just as I washed away the evidence of what I did in mymind, she’s trying to vanish the remnants of what happened in reality.

“It was real.” I turn to her in need of confirmation, but she doesn’t have to say a word. It’s written all over her face. “Sofia.”

“Let me go!” She tugs free of my hold.

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