Page 19 of The Kings
Rude, much?
Or possibly he knows exactly what he’s doing to me because all I can think about is slamming him back to the mattress and riding him until dawn.
Fucking prick.
I turn away as he replies, “Born ready.”
He secures his own blade, a seriously evil looking thing with a double curved blade, both with jagged edges.Nice.
We don’t need any more words as we move as one, slipping out of the townhouse into the inky darkness. The campus sprawls in front of us, a course we navigate with ease. My eyes scan the surroundings, every rustle of leaves, every flicker of light scrutinised.
Tarquin keeps pace beside me, his presence a solid reassurance. Our footfalls are soft on the dewy grass, our passage through the night soundless.
The North Castle tower looms ahead, a monolith of dark stone against the starry sky. The history of this place is that the main building was a fortress, a Castle, in the 13thcentury, meticulously upheld by billions of pounds worth of donations over the years from the largest mafia families in the country so the next gen could battle it out in a playground safe for clandestine activity. All four towers are still standing, giving it an eerie air in the dark of midnight.
We approach with caution, senses on high alert, ready for whatever hell might be waiting to break loose.
As we approach, I halt, feeling the prickling sensation at the back of my neck. Something’s off. I take a breath and push the heavy door open with my left hand, my right dropping to the hilt of my knife.
“Careful,” I breathe out to Tarquin as we step inside, even though it’s a pointless command. He is like a panther next to me, stealthy, dark and dangerous as all fuck. The darkness is thicker here, clinging to the ancient walls like a warning.
The air is still, too still. My skin crawls with the anticipation of danger, every sense alert for the trap I know must be waiting. We ascend the spiral staircase, our booted steps muted against the stone.
“Fuck,” I say under my breath as we reach the top. It’s quiet, but the silence feels like a scream.
“Eliza,” Tarquin murmurs, and in that second, the world explodes into chaos.
Figures emerge from the hidden recesses of the room, surrounding us. David Grenville steps forward from the shadows, his sneer a slash across his face. “Well, well, Eliza Hughes, you walked right into my little parlour.”
“David,” I spit his name out like poison, my hand tightening on the knife as I draw it ready for action. “Actually, I was expecting this. You take me for a fucking idiot. But whatever. I brought back up.”
I see Tarquin shift slightly, a silent predator ready to strike.
David’s eyes shift to the Carver twin and tighten. He wasn’t expecting that. He thought I’d be arrogant and stupid enough to come on my own.
“Did you really think you could play in this game and not get bitten?” David taunts, regrouping quickly, his lackeys inching closer but eyeing up Tarquin with something akin to fear. Don’t blame them. He looks ready to murder the lot of them with his gaze alone. Definitely brought the right guy to have my back.
“Playing’s one thing,” I shoot back, “Winning’s another.”
The standoff holds for a heartbeat, then all hell breaks loose.
11
ELIZA
Time slows,but my instincts that have been disciplined since I was old enough to walk and talk kick in. I launch myself at the nearest asshole. Flick, an extension of my own lethal plan, flashes in the dim light as she arcs toward my attacker.
“Eliza!” Tarquin’s voice is a low growl, but I’m too busy to look his way. His presence is a solid force at my back; his movements synchronised with mine as if we’re two parts of the same deadly dance.
It’s fucking magic, and I grin as I duck, weave, and pivot, each strike calculated, each block instinctual.
The sounds of combat fill the air—grunts of exertion, gasps of surprise, the sharp ring of metal on metal echoing off the stone walls.
“Nice try,” I snarl as I sidestep a sloppy punch, rewarding the effort with my blade dragging across the assailant’s arm. He howls, clutching the wound, blood seeping between his fingers.
“Keep up, boys, you’re lagging,” I taunt, even as my muscles scream and my mind races. This is no sparring match; this is survival.
Tarquin is beside me now, fighting with a ferocity that thrills me. He is proving his loyalty to me, no problem. He moves with a grace that contradicts his size, every action purposeful and devastating.
