Page 6 of The Kings
Dangerous? Fuck yes.
But never let it be said the Hughes heiress wasn’t up for it.
Kill or be killed, dog eat dog, they’re all cliches that apply here.
Setting off again, I round the corner as the GPS instructs, and the townhouse where I’ve been boarded looms ahead, grandiose and unapologetic in its luxury, just as I’m used to. This is where I’ll lay my head and plot my moves, surrounded by those who think they can dance with danger as well as I do.
Pulling up on the massive driveway, already filled with expensive machines, the Mercedes purrs to a stop. I lift my sunglasses onto the top of my head and stare up at the three-story building. Climbing out, I yank my bags from the boot with more force than necessary and stride up to the townhouse.
With one sharp rap on the door, it swings open before I can even consider a second knock, revealing the man who might as well be the embodiment of every dark fantasy.
Well, hello there, gorgeous.
“Eliza Hughes?” His voice is a low rumble, a storm cloud on the horizon promising havoc.
“None other.” I tilt my head, eyes dragging over him appreciatively—brooding stance, chiselled jaw, and eyes a delicious hazel that I already know will change colour with his moods.
“Welcome to Castle Manor.” He steps aside with a gesture that’s part invitation, part challenge. I step into the entrance hall, my senses on high alert as I take in every inch of it.
“This way.”
Narrowing my eyes at the hot guy who hasn’t even given me his name yet, I shrug and follow him into a living roomwith casual furniture, which throws the expensive decor into disarray.
As I pause in the doorway, I get the distinct impression that I’ve just walked into a den of wolves, each lounging with deceptive casualness. They’re dangerous; it’s in their blood. I can tell that just by breathing the same air as them. But it’s the guy nursing a daytime scotch that grabs my attention as he reclines in an overstuffed armchair.
He’s a canvas of ink and that distinguishing scar, a walking story of violence and vice, and I know him—intimately.
Interesting. So not a lackey after all.
I arch an eyebrow in silent recognition. He looks back at me, the scar under his eye pulling taut, and my pulse kicks up a notch at the blank stare he throws my way.
If that’s the way he wants to play it, fine. I won’t be the one drooling all over him if he can’t even give me the courtesy of remembering he rammed his impressive cock in my pussy the other night.
My gaze slides past him, settling on the guy next to him in a matching chair. Fuck me.
My tongue darts out, wetting my lips with surprise and more than a flicker of heat. Did I just hit the jackpot?
Twins.
“Eliza Hughes,” I say. “And you are?”
“Raphael Carver,” my one-nighter states, his voice as dark as those swirling patterns on his arms.
“Tarquin Carver,” his twin introduces himself with his full name as if that wasn’t obvious.
“Carver,” I repeat, letting their names roll off my tongue like I’m tasting a fine wine.
Carver. Fuck me again. Now it all makes sense why I’m here in this house.I should’ve known. The Carvers are one of the most feared families in our twisted society, second only to my own.
Oh, Daddy, what have you done?
Dropping my bags, I cross over to the sofa and sit, leaning back and crossing my black leather-clad legs while keeping my expression schooled in impassivity. They’re both watching me now, probably trying to figure out the game I’m playing. Little do they know, I’ve been bred for this, shaped into a weapon disguised as a woman.
Raphael gives me a cool stare, still devoid of any recognition. It stings, an itch under my skin that says I should be remembered. A few moments in time as hot as ours isn’t something that usually slips a man’s mind. Unless you’re playing games.
But then I let my gaze drift, landing on the guy lounging across from me with slate grey eyes and brown hair. He’s a looker and he knows it. He’s been quiet—too quiet—and it’s about damn time I find out why. “You going to make me guess?” I ask, allowing curiosity to tinge my tone as I take in his rugged features and those piercing blues.
“Oliver Sterling,” he says, extending a hand I don’t take. Not yet. “I’ve heard quite a bit about you.”
