Kings of Blood and Money (Underworld Kings)

“Story of my life.” I roll my eyes, letting him go. A clean scent lingers in the air. The bed has been freshly made. The floors have been cleaned, a citrus scent lingering from the cleaner Dominque uses. Sitting up, I head straight to the balcony doors, pulling them wide open. A light dusting of rain has soaked the surrounding trees. Birds are singing to each other as the thunder passes over the house.

My thoughts shift back to Remi as I watch the rain dance over the pool creating little Os on the surface. Images, forbidden and salacious, fire off like canons on a battlefield.

I stayed in my room for two days straight after Noah shamed me before hunger summoned me to find food. Luckily, I didn’t see them again. I don’t know why I came back here—especially when I can go anywhere. But there’s a draw here. Maybe I’m foolish. Maybe the sliver of affection I sometimes felt from Remi was enough for me.

The emptiness closes in around me. I’d grown to be content in my loneliness here.

“I thought I heard someone.” Remi’s voice flips my stomach. I cast a glance to my doorway, my lungs seizing. He’s wearing a navy-blue suit sculpted to embrace the hard physique beneath. His hair is unbrushed and still damp. A slight shadow chases up his jawline. He flashes me his perfect white teeth, his grin wicked and beautiful filled with promise and mischief.

“Going somewhere nice?” I ask, turning to face him, my cheeks heating. His blue eyes spark as they wash over me, halting for a few beats on my bare thighs. A fire lights in my stomach when his hooded gaze shifts to my white shirt, my nipples hardening under his gaze.

“Work,” he finally says, dragging his gaze up to my face. “You’re different.” He tilts his head, eyes narrowing with curiosity. His lips curl into a stupidly sexy smirk. Damn, this boy is pretty.

“You’re different too,” I tell him, confident, unabashed, running my eyes down his body.

“I like it.” He pushes off the doorframe, disappearing down the stairs.

I exhale, my chest heaving, cheeks warm.

These stolen, small moments are why I came back here.

Eleven

Noah

“I hope this doesn’t take long.” My brother’s soft groan draws my focus from the news article I’m reading on my phone.

Another cocaine shipment seized by the government over the weekend. That’s two in the last month. They have to have someone on the inside feeding them information. The Morellos won’t be pleased. This is why we keep our business in the family. You can’t trust anyone.

Remi sighs, fidgeting in his seat like a teen being forced to go on a family trip.

The tires hit gravel and uneven terrain, jolting us around in the back of the car. Rubbing a hand through his messy dark hair, his blue eyes study the window. I scan his navy-blue suit, knowing it came from my wardrobe. The material fit to perfection. The fucker knew he didn’t need to waste his time getting fitted when he could just help himself. I’m just relieved he didn’t put on jeans and a band t-shirt.

Remi isn’t one for this business. He indulges our father and comes to always be here should I ever need back up, but he’d rather be anywhere else. “You have somewhere to be?” I arch a brow, a smirk kicking up my lip as I slip my phone away and give him my full attention.

His gaze slides to mine. “Did you see what Freya was wearing before we left?” He groans, shaking his head and biting his fist before adjusting his slacks at the crotch.

The mention of her name hits me like a physical blow.

Freya.

My smile drops, every muscle tightening, stretching over bone, as her image assaults my mind. Long, dark hair hanging in waves around her shoulders. Huge oval eyes, dark caramel with forest green flecks, unique and stunning. Her small nose and thick lips that push together when she’s sad, like she’s puckering for a kiss. Damn, the girl is fucking beauty. It’s a test on my sanity. The last time I’d laid eyes on her was when she was seventeen. She came back to our house every summer, but I made sure to hardly ever to be there. I couldn’t stand looking at her, knowing she was in our house.

A Gallo, the last of their bloodline.

I don’t know why my father kept her in the first place, let alone for this long. At first, I thought it was a sick joke, a souvenir to show others what happens when you cross him. But that was eleven years ago. She’s still here. Kept as a pet of sorts. One who’s looked after and treated like a human. The only message she evoked was one of insult. Keeping her after what her father did to my mother, my sister—us—it was inconceivable, but my father refused to discuss it.