Page 8 of Hate Mates

“You sure? The way your pussy was leeching on my dick tells me there’s time for round two.”

“In your dreams,” she hisses, raising her foot. “Do you want me to kick you off me? Or are you going to be a gentleman and respect your wife’s wishes?”

“I think I already did that. At least twice.”

I raise myself off the couch and tuck myself back into my pants, smirking while I watch Livvie struggle to get up off the couch after what I just did to her.

When she grips the side of the couch for leverage, her body looks like a limp spaghetti noodle, trembling as she fixes her dress.

With a frustrated huff, she walks over to the mirror on the wall next to the terrace doors. “How am I supposed to go back inside in this state?”

“You look gorgeous, like a filthy little whore who couldn’t keep her legs closed until we got home.” My grin widens. “Myfilthy little whore.”

“You are such a disgusting pig,” she seethes, whipping around when I come up behind her.

I grab her by the wrist and spin her so we’re facing each other. Thin streams of moonlight spill across her face, making the diamonds on her tiara glitter like tiny stars.

“We fucked,” she says. “Big deal. It still changes nothing. I’m not your trophy.”

“Don’t fool yourself, princess. It changes everything,” I growl, grabbing her chin and tilting it so she’s forced to look at me. “I own you now, and your life is–”

And then a single gunshot explodes into the air, swallowing the rest of my words.

FOUR

Livvie

Asingle gunshot explodes into the night, slicing through Kingston’s words and sending my heart slamming into my ribs.

The bullet whizzes between us, the air shifting. My breath catches when his grip on my chin tightens, and his eyes darken as they sweep over my body.

“You okay?” he asks, the question rushed.

I nod. “Who was that aimed?”

Kingston releases me, his movements swift, controlled violence simmering beneath his calm exterior. In one fluid motion, he reaches under his suit jacket, his fingers brushing aside the fine fabric to reveal a matte-black handgun holstered against his side.

He pulls it free, the weapon a natural extension of his hand.

His eyes scanning the darkness for any sign of movement. The sight of him, armed and ready to kill, sends a chill through me—a reminder of exactly the type of man I married and the world I’ll be free from.

Screams erupt from inside the ballroom. Glass shatters. Tables overturn. The music cuts out, replaced by the franticshuffle of panicked guests. The terrace floods with armed men—both his and mine—moving like a coordinated storm, weapons raised, bodies primed for a war.

My security team surrounds me first, forming a tight circle, their guns drawn. Kingston stands a few feet away, his expression carved from steel as his men move into position around him, too, shielding the powerful Viacava leader.

For a moment, we lock eyes, our bodies still thrumming with the aftershocks of lust and adrenaline. My dress glitters under the moonlight, but underneath my veins are full of fire, pumped full of anger from reality of what just happened.

Aside from letting desire rule my head, someone took a shot at us—atmeorhim—and neither of us knows who the intended target was.

The chaos inside subsides. Yelling guests have calmed now there are no more bullets flying. Shattered glass crunches under expensive shoes as a swarm of armed men in dark suits move through the ballroom, scanning for threats.

Our combined security teams call out in clipped voices, confirming each area is clear.

“Nothing on the east wing.”

“We have secured the south entrance.”

“No visual on the shooter.”

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