Kings of Blood and Money (Underworld Kings)

She wanted the truth, she got it.

I shoot a text to Caleb, letting him know I’ll be ready to leave in ten, then take the stairs two at a time, barging into Remi’s room.

He’s sitting on his bed, laptop open. “I could have been tugging my junk—five-knuckle shuffling—playing with the one-eyed snake,” he reels off.

“Enough,” I bark, not in the mood for juvenile bullshit.

His demeanor morphs, the killer, the loyal soldier, standing at attention. “What’s wrong?”

“What have you been sharing with Freya? And don’t say your cock or I swear I’ll castrate you and give it to Midnight to play with.”

Flinching, he snaps, “Harsh. You want to enlighten me? I’m not playing guess what pissed you off today,” he bites out, standing with his feet shoulder-width apart, arms folded over his chest. We look so alike, but we’re a million miles apart in every other way.

“The surgeon,” I snarl, the name carrying over the room, lashing him like a whip. He blanches, the tips of his ears turning pink.

“She said Dad told her what he does. We just talked is all.”

“You talk too much, too loosely,” I growl jabbing an angry finger in his direction.

“It’s Freya.” He says her name like it’s holy. His posture slackens, coming undone at just the thought of her.

Exhaling an exasperated breath, I say, “I have to go out. I’ll be back soon.”

“Where’s Freya?” There’s a warning in his tone that’s never been aimed at me before. It stabs at my chest.

“You’re in love with her,” I say, simply, brows crushing down, the weight of saying it out loud consuming.

“Aren’t you?” He jerks a shoulder up.

Tension roils through the space between us, dispersing when I grip the door and say, “I’ll be back in an hour.”

Heat, clammy and suffocating hangs heavy in the air making breathing intolerable when I step outside. Caleb has the car ready. His chin lifts in greeting as he opens the door, handing me a note.

Slipping onto the leather seat, I crank the window, feeling eyes on me from inside the house. This churning inside me, like being on a boat in rough seas, forms into a ball, sitting heavy in my gut as I open the folded note and see the address Freya visited yesterday instead of going to the mall.

It wasn’t supposed to be surveillance to track her movements, just shadowing to keep her safe. Going to the mall was a regular thing for most people, but not Freya. Like Remi, I worried she may become overwhelmed. But we underestimate her. What would she be doing at a church in that part of town?

“Take me there,” I tell Caleb, holding up the piece of paper when he looks at me through the rear-view mirror.

Slipping out my phone, I call Antonio. “Everything set?” he says in greeting.

“Yes,” I confirm.

“Excellent. See you tomorrow.”

I end the call and check the camera on my phone, searching for her.

Guilt seeps into my bones as I watch her sweep up the glass from the broken bottle. I don’t deserve someone gentle like her, but if she isn’t meant for me, why the hell does my heart physically ache at the thought of never touching her again? Those lips, that skin, the soft thud of her heartbeat beneath my palm…

Slowing the car, Caleb drives down a narrow road, turning right at the fork. The streetlights are dim, the area enveloped in the obscurity of the night. The sun has set, but a sticky heat clings to the air like feathers in tar. Sweat beads down my back, soaking the shirt beneath my jacket. Caleb pulls the car to a stop, and I step out, not bothering to wait for him to get to my door.

Buttoning my jacket, I stalk the surroundings, noting a group of youths drinking from a crate of beer outside a laundromat. Their curious eyes prowl over the car and then my form. Whispers mutter between them. I don’t need to tell Caleb to remain vigilant. He’s my hired driver because he has a background in high-ranking security. I prefer not to use him for unpleasantries, but can if things go south.

Lights from inside the church shine through the gaps in the metal bars on the windows. The carved wooden doors seem out of place against the tall, gray brick building.

As I enter, a twang of mildew hangs in the air, invading my nostrils, getting stuck in the back of my throat.

“Can I help you?” a small, round woman asks, her wiry hair bunched up on top of her head. Glasses too small for her face sit on the edge of her large nose. A hand perched on her hip, she surveys me.

“Yesterday, a girl came here,” I say, watching the question transform her. Her shoulders stiffen. He cheeks pale.

Dropping her arm, she waves a hand. Walking over to a pinboard, she begins moving things around.