Page 93 of Bared Betrayal
“Yes. That one. The only one I have.”
“That you know of.”
“Anyway.” I give him a shut-the-fuck-up look. “His fiancée has a past that he doesn’t know about.”
“What kind of past? Was she a hooker? Assassin? Republican?”
“No. Jesus. She has some childhood trauma that she hasn’t told him about, and now someone is blackmailing her, threatening to go public with it.”
“Okay, and you are involved, how?”
I take a deep breath to buy some time. How do I say I am in love with my son’s fiancée and I have feasted on her pussy right on this fucking desk? Should I mention I still catch the slightest hint of her perfume in this room, and my cock gets rock hard every time?
Can I admit my involvement in this entire scenario is that Kallie Sawyer is, in fact, mine? Mine to fuck. Mine to use. Mine to protect. But she’s not mine. Sheshouldbe mine. But she’s not. Kallie should be under this desk right now, warming my cock with her mouth, trying to be quiet so Davian doesn’t know she’s there. She should be working on being my good girl so I can reward her with trips to Club Myth. Her biggest worry in the world should be how many lashes she can take and how many times she’ll be able to come for me in one night. Everything else she needs should be on me to provide. Her paint supplies, her clothes—or lack thereof—her food, anything she needs or wants should be my responsibility to provide for her. So, when I get home from a long day at work, she’s there, ready to comfort me and let me work out my frustrations on her perfect body. With the crop, whip, or just my cock.
Aaaand my thoughts are rambling again.
Instead, she is at home, waiting for Sebastian, being neglected by him. I will never understand how any man can ignore a woman like her, especially when he claims to love her.
“Gabriel, where did you go?” Davian waves his hand in front of my face.
I shake my head lightly. “Someone is…stalking her, in a way.”
“In what way?”
“The other day, she called me all panicked, hiding in her closet because there was someone in her house leaving her notes on the refrigerator. So, I set her up in a suite, and then someone delivered an envelope for her at this suite, which means—”
“Someone is following her.”
“Yes.”
“Do you want me to kill them?” He didn’t even hesitate.
“Once I can figure out who the fuck it is, yes.”
“Get to it, then. It’s been a while since I brutally murdered someone.”
I lift a brow. “You, my friend, are one disturbed individual.”
“God, I love it when you talk dirty to me.”
“Why are you here, by the way?”
He sits back in the chair. “I just wanted to let you know that the shipment came in last night safe and sound.” The reason that made my dinner with the ball-shriveler worth it.
“So I hear. And the cargo?” AKA, dozens of women who were being sex trafficked. We needed to get them in the country under the radar. There’s no telling which agencies are being paid off to report back to the people we stole the women from.
“Some are pretty damaged, but all is being taken care of.”
I nod, knowing they are receiving the best medical care. Once they’re fully healed, they’ll be given a choice. The Dark Sovereign would either give them all the assistance they need to acclimate back into the real world, or they will be taken care of at Club Myth for the rest of their lives. Their choice.
“Good.” An email from the hotel slides into my inbox, and I already know what it is. “Now, please leave my office.”
“Gladly. It smells kind of stuffy in here.” He gets up, buttoning up his suit jacket. “See you around, Mr. King.”
The second the door closes behind him, I open the file sent from the hotel’s security. It’s security footage of the front desk, people checking in and out, and staff members moving around. I’m forwarding the video, pausing, rewinding, trying to findsomething. It’s when I’m two hours and twenty-three minutes into the video that I spot a familiar skinny ass in a pencil skirt. Victoria fucking Evans is wearing sunglasses, but that unnatural red hair of hers is unmistakable.
“Motherfucker. Denise!”
