Kings of Blood and Money (Underworld Kings)

All but one.

Freya.

I’m pulled from my thoughts by the clicking of my bedroom door. The alarm beeps next to me. I dive for the Glock strapped under the bedside table as I spin off the bed to my feet, aimed and ready to kill.

As if my dream summoned her, Freya stands in my doorway.

My chest constricts at the sight of her.

Anger, raw and roaring, warms my blood. Her long, dark hair hangs around her shoulders, down to her tapered waist. The soft light in the hallway illuminates her silhouette.

Even cast in darkness, she’s a beautiful girl, always has been, but now, her curves are sculpted to make a man weak. Her beauty is a fucking curse.

“I’m sorry.” Her soft whisper carries through the darkness, slamming into me. Her voice is more mature now, still as soft as it’s always been, but evolved. “I tried to wake Remi, but he’s not home.” She fumbles over her words, a pitch in her whisper that speaks to the memories of my dream.

Fear.

“What are you doing in here?” I growl, my gun still aimed in her direction.

Her fingers fumble along the wall, finding the light switch, blasting the room in a muted golden glow. Those rich, dark eyes of hers, unusual and inquisitive, run down my body. Her lips part as she takes her fill of my naked form.

I raise my hand to guard my eyes from the intrusion of light. Squinting through my lashes, I take her in. In sleep shorts and a white tank top that’s almost see-through, she’s a vision. I fucking hate her. “Answer the fucking question, Freya,” I bark.

I rarely use her name, have made an effort to avoid her at all costs. It’s a rule my father enforced in us all.

“There’s someone in my room.” Her words break, and it’s then I notice the gentle tremble of her body.

This place has more security than most max security prisons. She had no doubt just been dreaming, but I know from experience not to ignore sounds in the house.

Whipping on a pair of shorts, I double-check that my gun is loaded, already knowing it is.

Moving from the doorway, allowing me to pass, her body huddles behind me, her scent overpowering and intoxicating. She smells of tropical fruit, a hint of coconut and pineapple.

Taking the stairs two at a time, a small hand taps my back to get my attention. Freya holds a finger to her stupidly pouty lips, pointing to the step with her other hand. “Squeaks,” she mouths, her eyes wide in warning.

Avoiding that step, I get to her bedroom door. “Did you close it?” I ask on a hushed whisper. Her head bobs up and down. A prickle of unease washes over her face. A wave of goosebumps dusts her skin. She’s too damn close. “Back up,” I say with a warning scowl.

Opening her door, I enter fast, gun raised. Silence greets me. Movement catches my eye. Her sheer drapes flap from a breeze coming in her window. They’re supposed to stay locked. I sense her move into the room behind me as I survey every inch. I’ve never been in here before. I’m not sure what I expected, but this wasn’t it. She’s so at home here, personality in every aspect of the room.

Her bed at the centre, a fuzzy throw blanket, girly pillows, a discarded iPad blasting a playlist from Spotify through abandoned earphones. Fashion posters cover her walls. A mannequin draped in fabric sits in the corner. A desk covered in lights and little ornaments. A computer switched on, a picture of some band on Google search. There’s an open wardrobe with clothes spilling out, a pile of magazines by the foot of her bed. She’s messy and really at fucking home. It turns my stomach.

How fucking dare she be so at home here. My sister should be here, having this stuff, living this life. “There’s nothing here. Apart from all your shit,” I bite out.

“I heard something, I swear it,” she pleads, holding her hand to her chest, drawing my eyes to the white camisole she’s wearing with no bra on.

Closing my eyes to stop myself from looking at her hard nipples tenting the flimsy fabric, I go to her balcony door. “This shouldn’t be open. We have window alarms for a reason.” I snap, shoving the door closed.

“I like it open. No one could get onto the balcony. I’m too high up.”

“Nothing is impossible, and you put us all at risk with it open.” A sudden scratching sounds from her bed, making her gasp and rush toward me, hiding her body behind mine. Her soft, supple flesh, warm and inviting, pushes against my bare back.

“Did you hear that?” she breathes.

Too close.

She’s too close.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” I growl, pushing at her shoulder for her to move the fuck away from me.