Page 75 of Coldhearted King

I lift my chin and keep my pace even. I’ll give him a polite nod and continue to the elevator.

But as soon as his eyes lock with mine and his gaze narrows, I know it won’t be that easy.

“Miss West,” he says, and I swallow at the dark tone of his voice.

I come to a stop a few feet from him, aware of Samson’s gaze bouncing between us. “Yes, Mr. King?”

“I’d like to talk to you for a moment, if you don’t mind.”

I consider saying that yes, I do mind, but I have to face him eventually. So I just nod, take a deep breath, and follow him into his office.

CHAPTERTHIRTY

COLE

When I walked past Tate’s office after my meeting and saw Delilah leaning over his desk, her ass cupped by her fitted dress, my jaw had clenched so tight I’m surprised the people walking next to me hadn’t heard my teeth grind together. What the fuck was my brother playing at? I’d been clear with him yesterday that he wasn’t to touch her, and the very next day he has her up in his office with her long legs and her tight skirt and her pretty green eyes.

As soon as I’d gotten off the phone with him, I’d been out my door and making an excuse to talk to Samson about something, just waiting for her to come down the corridor. I should probably question why I’m acting so irrationally about this when I’ve already decided it’s for the best, but I won’t. If Tate thinks I’ll let him have Delilah, he’s sadly mistaken.

She follows me into my office, and her sweet sunshine-and-wildflower scent teases me. A vivid image grows in my mind. In it, I turn and press her against the door, running my nose down the column of her throat and sucking on the tender skin at the base—marking her so that if Tate calls on her again, he’ll see my claim.

Which is fucking ridiculous. Delilah’s already made it clear that our arrangement is over.

I stalk to my desk, but I don’t round it to take my seat. Instead, I stand in front, with my arms crossed, while Delilah hovers near the doorway.

“Close the door,” I tell her.

She complies, her shoulders stiff, then she turns back to me.

“What did Tate want?” I ask.

Her brow furrows. “Didn’t he tell you on the phone?”

“I want to hear it from you.”

She tilts her head. “Do you think he was lying? Why would he? He’s your brother.”

I lean against my desk. “He and I don’t have the closest relationship. I’m not sure I trust him to tell me the truth,” I say, then wonder why I’ve divulged that to her.

“Well, that’s sad.” Genuine sympathy flashes across her face. She’s close to her mom, so maybe she doesn’t get what it’s like to be distant from your family members. But that’s how it is in families like ours. Love, affection, trust—they aren’t part of the equation.

“It’s just the way it is.” I try to get back on track. “So, tell me—”

“What about Roman?”

I stare at her. “What?”

“Are you closer to him?”

“No.”

“Maybe that explains it,” she says, almost to herself.

“Explains what?”

She shakes her head, as if realizing we’ve gotten distracted. She squares her shoulders. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

Her beautiful eyes are on mine, but there’s a shadow in them that wasn’t there before. Regret tugs at me again.Idid that to her. Because she was right. I withheld the truth to get what I wanted. And what I wanted was her. If I’m honest with myself, I still want her. Against all of my personal fucking logic.

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