Page 57 of Obsessed Kings

Apricot yips as his tail hits my leg.

The sales associate glares at me when I lift him up. "Your dog better not bark again. It’s aggravating my tinnitus."

Rook body-slams a tray of jade hair clips into a wall with a crash. "This bitch’s attitude is pissing me off. We’re leaving."

Colt sneers at the woman. "You lost our business, cunt."

My three Kings wrap their arms around me, then lead me out of the store. I look at each of them, strong in their own way. Colt’s black eyes are specked with flares of lightning. Brock’s green irises combine venom with verdure. And Rook? Well, Rook is the strongest of all today. Tall and mighty, his mammoth frame protects me from judgmental eyes, keeping me safe behind his brawn.

I try not to let their protectiveness get to my head. Most girls don't have a single man to keep them safe as they walk down Fifth Avenue, much less three. As I glance around, I see countless women ogling me, slashing me with the pricks of their hateful eyes. They all want what I have. The wrinkly old sugar Daddies they fuck can’t compare to my stallions.

I remember what Brock told me on the quad during our picnic. If a man threatens me on the street or looks at me the wrong way, he’d risk his life to save me. My Kings are brutal with me, but that’s because they’re brutal with everyone. That’s who they are. A lesser man who treats me "kindly" wouldn’t be able to keep me safe. Death and darkness can only be warded off with more darkness.

"Thanks for sticking up for me." My cheeks heat up, and I urge myself not to act like such a foolish girl around these brutes. The way that each man grips me is strong and unrelenting, proof that things could turn in an instant and they could hurt me again. That thought makes my toes curl, even though I wish that it wouldn’t. "She was a little rude."

"Nowomanhas the right to talk down to you." Colt’s steely gaze doesn’t shift. "It doesn’t matter whether she owns one of the 'trendiest' stores in New York. She’s a cum-guzzling cunt who deserves to meet her fate at the end of a baseball bat."

"My football cleats would leave quite an impression on her face." Brock pushes out a primal snarl.

I swoon into Colt’s arms, my heart racing in my chest. I inhale his cologne, basking in the delicious smell. This is what I imagine glaciers smell like in Antarctica.

Colt’s as brutal with me as he is feral. He doesn’t take no for an answer. He fucks my ass when he’s upset and doesn’t let me have a say in it. He’s the only man I’d ever let do that besides Brock and Rook. No one else can keep me safe.

Colt grips the sides of my face. Time stops as a spark drifts out of his eyes and into mine. "We’re going to Hermès. It’s long past due we bought you a Birkin."

Hermès.

A Birkin.

Me.

The fact that these words are even occurring in the same sentence astonishes me. As a girl, I’d sometimes flip through fashion magazines at the grocery store, my eyes roaming over the designer outfits that turned celebrities into goddesses who were superior to everyone I knew in my regular shmegular life. These women had their children draw on their fifty-thousand-dollar crocodile Birkin bags, which any ordinary woman would flip out about. Not them. They were so rich that their five-year-old’s destructive drawings became art. Art differs amongst the poor and the rich. If you live in a trailer park and your whiny three-year-old rips a hole in your knockoff Michael Kors bag, you strangle them. If you're rich, it becomes the crown jewel of your closet.

"I thought you needed to get on a waitlist to buy a Birkin." I turn to my men.

Brock massages my lower back, imbuing me with a sense of safety I wasn’t aware I needed. "Believe me, when you have the money we do, you skip the waitlist. Besides, Rook’s crack whore mother spends every afternoon in the VIP lounge after she purchases whatever new stock they have, because even though she’s a whore for crack and cock, she’s a bigger whore for Hermès."

"A classy crack whore." I say this a little too sharply.

"My mother takes it up the ass, mouth, cunt, tits, and bellybutton every chance she gets. But she won’t fuck a man unless he gives her drugs or he buys her something in an orange bag." Rook has never sounded more serious.

I rest my cheek on Rook’s shoulder. "I’m sorry your mother is a crack whore. That sounds traumatic."

Rook’s eyes go dark. His muscles flinch, turning the pillow under my cheek to stone. "It doesn’t affect me anymore."

Something tells me Rook’s upbringing affects him very much. Internally, I wonder whether his mother’s bad habits had something to do with why he went to juvie as a teenager. I remember how he tensed up the other day when he was fingering my pussy on my bed, and I got the notion that he was thinking about his time in prison for some reason. The urge to ask Rook about his past is overwhelming, but I nip it in the bud. The last thing I want to do is make him more upset.

If I pry, Rook could easily turn on me due to his apoplectic rage. Shove me to my knees and force his cock down my throat in the middle of Fifth Avenue. That’s something I can’t risk. Rook would go back to prison and the tabloids would take pictures of me being face-fucked surrounded by billionaires and high-end whores. I’d be expelled from Saintswood.

My Kings lead me past Prada, Bottega Veneta, and Chanel. I pause in front of Chanel, my heart skipping as I lay eyes on a caviar quilted jumbo flap bag displayed in the window.

My eyes roam over the caviar leather, the glistening CC logo, the iconic strap, and my inner shopaholic can’t help but pang with yearning. Chanel is one of those brands that every girl dreams about. You don't even have to be in the best clothes to want a Chanel bag. In my high school, some girls bought knockoff ones from Canal Street, which was silly. They looked as fake as those sunglasses you pick up on the beach in Mexico. I saw their bags and thought they’d be better off waiting until they had the money to buy the real thing or at least a high-quality rep from RepLadies, but to each their own. Besides, no girl from my high school could’ve afforded a Chanel bag unless they were illegally fucking some sixty-year-old slumlord who was cheating on his wife. We weren’t a wealthy school, so those girls weren’t fooling anyone.

Brock rubs my lower back. "Our whore likes Chanel."

"I’m not your whore. I’m your girl."

Colt sneers as he reaches into my shirt in front of the entire street, then grabs mySlutnecklace. "You’re our fucking whore. No matter how many clothes we buy you that make you look like a princess, you won’t forget who you belong to."

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