Page 62 of Coldhearted King

“Smart girl.”

She throws me a smile which will get her in trouble, but I don’t say anything. I just wait for her to gather her things together, then put my hand on the small of her back and guide her toward the door.

Jonathan has the car waiting for us outside. Delilah glances around as he opens the door for her, as if she’s worried someone might see us. I understand her concern, but it’s unlikely anyone aside from my brothers and their PAs will be loitering this late, and I’m not worried about their opinions.

But luckily for her, she doesn’t try to change her mind, sliding into the back seat and looking up at me as I follow her in.

As Jonathan pulls the car into traffic, my gaze is still tangled with Delilah’s; I can’t seem to tear it away. Visions of her laid out before me on my bed—and the things I can do to her—tumble through my mind. A smorgasbord that I get to choose from. Surprisingly, the thought of having her in my own bed doesn’t disturb me as much as I expected it to.

The thought of seeing her spread out over my black silk sheets, or her face buried in one of my pillows as I take her from behind, has blood surging south. I’m about to reach for her when a ringing from her purse breaks the connection between us.

She rummages around and pulls out her phone, her eyes darting to me.

I raise a brow. “You can answer it.” At least that way I’ll know if it’s a man or not.

“Thanks.” She swipes her screen and holds it to her ear. “Hi, Mom.”

I relax, even though I didn’t know I was tense to begin with.

“Oh...I’m just...on my way to a...friend’s place,” she says, her eyes darting to mine again.

I smile to myself and turn to face the window, giving her as much privacy as I can, but I can’t help overhearing her conversation in the close confines of the car. I give up trying to avoid listening.

“You know me, I like being busy,” she says. Then she laughs. “I might not go out and party every night, but I’m not exactly confining myself at home....No. I’m not dating anyone else yet,” she says, and she’s lowered her voice. “Look, Mom, I’m almost at my friend’s place, so I should probably go. I’ll call you later this week.” She’s silent for a second. “I miss you too. I’ll organize a flight home as soon as I can, and we can spend the weekend together. Okay. I love you too. Bye, Mom.”

I’m struck by the genuine warmth and affection in her voice. Have I ever spoken to either of my parents that way? Maybe when I was young. Before I realized they considered my brothers and me as mere pawns in their genetic legacy.

“I’m sorry about that,” she says as she slips her phone into her purse.

“No need to be sorry.” I clear my throat. “You and your mom are close?”

She smiles, her eyes soft. “Yes. It’s only ever been her and me. We’re each other’s best friend.”

“You mentioned before that your father wasn’t in the picture.” I don’t frame it as a question—even though it is—so I’m surprised when, after a small pause, she answers.

“Mom got pregnant with me when she was eighteen. He was older than her, but he wasn’t interested in starting a family. Not with us, anyway.” Her voice is casual—almost flippant—but the shadow in her eyes tells me her tone is a lie.

“Do you see him at all?”

“I occasionally saw him around town when I was growing up, but not since I was sixteen.”

“What happened when you were sixteen?”

She shrugs. “Nothing in particular. He just walked past me in the street.”

Rising anger tightens my ribs. “Did he talk to you? Acknowledge you?”

She looks away before meeting my gaze again. “He saw me, but he just kept going. Climbed into his Mercedes and drove off. I didn’t expect anything different.”

I consciously loosen the fists my hands have tightened into without me realizing. I don’t have a lot of good things to say about my father, but I have even less to say about Delilah’s. “I’d say you were better off without him.”

“I like to think so,” she says, flashing me a small smile that has my heart doing something odd in my chest.

“What does your mom do?”

“She’s a hairdresser.” Delilah absently touches the end of her ponytail, and I imagine her mom probably cut her hair for her when she was younger.

I nod, but instead of continuing the conversation, I look out the window. I’m not used to asking this many questions of the women I’m with. My interest in Delilah is...unusual. Maybe because she’s different from the women I normally sleep with. Considering most of them are part of a social sphere where appearance is everything, vulnerability is considered a lethal weakness. And love...Well, love is a transaction.

---