Page 41 of The Kings
Damon hasn’t moved an inch since he called me back.
I meet his gaze and hold it. Not many men can make me feel like avoiding their stare, but he is one of them. Respect is key here, but so is strength. I can’t let him think I’m anything less than strong.
He says nothing.
It’s a tactic used by many, not just in this life, but in all aspects. Stay quiet, so the person on the end of your hook starts rambling just to ease the heavy silence. He won’t make me ramble. Not now, not ever. I’m exactly the same as him, as my father, and he knows it.
“Sit,” he commands, finally.
I do, but I’m ready to move, to react. Everything with Damon is chess; every word, every silence, is a move, and I’ll be damned if I let him wipe me off the board.
Damon’s gaze pierces me, sharp as the blade I keep hidden under my jacket. He leans forward, hands clasped together like he’s praying for a confession. “Raphael, how’s my girl handling university? Any slip-ups?”
“She’s leaving her mark. She’s coming out on top.”
“Details,” he insists, voice cutting through the bullshit.
“She’s networking, making allies. Always two steps ahead.”
“Resourceful?” Damon probes, eyes narrowing to slits.
“Yes, and she’s level-headed. She knows when she needs to ask for help and when she needs to act on her own.”
The moment hangs between us, Damon’s poker face giving nothing away. He suddenly stands, strides over to the mahogany bookcase, and retrieves a slim, nondescript file.
“David Grenville.” His voice is low and laced with something that screams danger. I groan internally, knowing shit is about to hit the fan. He knows. Of course he knows. Why would anyone think otherwise? “He’s got his dirty fingers in more pies than we thought.”
I straighten up, interest piqued. “Oh?”
“Elimination is off the table.” Damon flips the file open, revealing a series of photographs and documents. “Eliza needs to deal with this one. She takes him down; she proves she can run the show when it’s her time.”
Sink or swim. I nod slowly, disappointed that I’m going to have to tell James to stand down from this.
“Good.” He slides the file across the desk towards me. “But there’s more. David’s hired a mercenary—a real piece of work. Name’s Viktor Drago.”
“Drago?” I snatch the file, flipping through the intel. The guy is the major leagues, all muscle and malice. This is the guythat Tarquin tangled with and that Eliza stabbed? Jesus. I’m impressed they made it out alive.
“Find him. Make him talk.” Damon’s orders are clear, the authority behind them unwavering.
“Got it.” With the right pressure, everyone sings.
“Remember, Raphael,” Damon adds, his tone colder than a grave, “it’s not just about getting information. It’s about sending a message.”
“Understood.” I tuck the file under my arm, ready to do what needs to be done. For Eliza, for the Kings.
“Make it count,” he says, and I know it’s more than an order—it’s a commandment in our world.
With another nod, I turn on my heel, dismissed, already envisioning the paths this night might take me down. Time to hunt.
The door clicks shut behind me, sealing away the world of smoke and shadow that is Damon’s office, my mind already focused on the mission at hand.
I stride through the Entrance Hall, mind whirring like a loaded gun. Every step, a new strategy. Every breath, a promise to protect our queen. Eliza doesn’t need a knight in shining armour—she needs a King, and I’m going to be that for her.
Guessing Eliza and Tarquin went back to the car, I head out the front doors.
As expected, Eliza and Tarquin are a pair of silhouettes in the sleek black car idling in the driveway impatiently, its engine purring like some great, restless beast.
“Well?” Eliza’s voice slices through the air as I yank open the door and slide onto the back seat beside her.
