Page 67 of Hostile King

A hushed mumble comes from the clinical room I was banished from earlier. I pause by the doorway, listening to Enrique's deep, smoky rumble. The dominant voice of a man in control of every aspect of his life.

“They won’t be here for long. A day or two, then they’re outta here. I promise.”

I peer around the doorframe where blue eyes energetically polishes the operating table and shakes his head stiffly, a long exhale deflating his broad chest. He still doesn’t speak, not one word.

“Look…Fletcher…I had to help him. I was given assurance there wouldn’t be any kickback. The girl has connections. And now she’s with that fucker, she’s untouchable.”

He slowly wanders around the operating table towards blue eyes—Fletcher—yet keeps a measure of distance. The husky shifts in its seated position, gaze fixed on the brawny man hovering on the periphery of his master's personal space.

“Once I’ve followed through on my side of the deal, that cunt on the porch and his crooked king will be gone.”

I know Shane is guarding the entrance so no one else arrives. Although, I’m not sure how Fletcher got in here without being seen.

The fact Shane is mere steps away from the loaded weapon we’ve stashed gives me peace of mind. He won’t hesitate to shoot these guys now Tomás is in recovery.

Fletcher stops cleaning and quirks a brow, still choosing to stay silent.

“The girl isn’t our concern,” Enrique continues. “Like I said, she’s untouchable. Anything happens to her, and all this goes away. We’ll be dusting ashes from our shoulders in hell, and the animals won’t have anyone to help them.”

All the saliva in my mouth dries, the reassurance of our safety thrumming inside of me. Fletcher nods once, combs his long fingers through the sun tipped lengths on the top of his head, and ruffles the hair. A dispassionate shrug is followed by a subtle curl of his lips.

The soles of my wet feet make a squelchy noise on the wooden floorboards when I finally leave them. As the sound of my movement breaks the stillness, the hairy guard dog growls, low and menacing. Pretending I wasn’t snooping, I push back my shoulders, take a deep breath, and force myself to enter the room.

My gaze darts from Fletcher to Enrique. Nerves crash behind my ribcage, the sensation like chaotic butterflies. When I go to speak, the invisible flutters rush up my throat and carry the words.

“I’ll take you up on the offer of that shirt now, please.”

Both men stare at me, their eyes burning through the damp bare flesh on show at either edge of the towel. Fletcher palms the dog's head, soothing him with touch while his glacial gaze fixates on the faint bruises he had found intriguing before.

Enrique clears his throat and rubs the coarse hairs on his chin. It’s only then when I notice the dull, chunky silver skull ring on his index finger.

“Those are pretty marks on your neck, girl. Does our mutual friend know about those or are you into kinky shit with your lord and master?” His eyes glimmer with unreadable thoughts.

My fingers fly to the discolored skin where they continue to stare.

“Mind your own business,” I say sharply. “That’s personal.”

On my last word, the atmosphere changes, making my skin tingle in a way I can’t explain. A noise from behind pricks my ears. The husky bares its teeth, the vicious snarl foreseeing a war. My pulse surges and every hair on my body stands to attention. Both men visibly straighten, their broad chests lifting a fraction higher as if they are in the presence of royalty.

I spin on the spot, the soaking lengths of my hair whipping the air. The instant my wide eyes settle on him, I forget to breathe. Any trace of uneasiness I might have felt dissipates at the sight of Tomás, his supremacy eating up my attention.

He stands at the opposite side of the clinic, both fists clenched, his left shoulder pressed against the doorframe to offer support while his feet are rooted to the floorboards. Aside from his heaving chest, he remains motionless and stone-cold in his wordless assessment of this unusual scenario.

My head tips to take in his exposed muscular legs, showing no sign of weakness. Sweat gleams on his golden skin, the color gloriously full of life. His usual immaculately presented hair is tousled and wild on the top of his head.

He’s alive—his veins flowing with my blood, his eyes ferocious like a raging furnace.

It’s not only Tomás who’s come back to life; I also feel the blaze inside of me. The brightest light following the darkest hours.

Our gazes clash. The mishmash of emotions I’d felt from the beginning swarm around me, our combined energy more fulfilling than a spoken word. For a nanosecond the murderous shadow in his soulless eyes unravels as he stares at me.

A spike of recognition and a flash of desire strip away his homicidal tendencies. My belly flutters, the intensity of our connection dazzling my senses until I no longer know how I’d survived the past few hours without him.

He’s my real-life fantasy.

My everything.

Relief flares in my heart, along with a spiked awareness of belonging. His enigmatic presence hits me like a ten-ton truck, slamming into my chest, my heart, and my soul. The effortless power he exudes, even after a near death journey, grips me in a choke hold. There’s no questioning how he consumes every element of my being.

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