The Broken Puppet (The Elite King's Club 2)

I get into NYC later that evening and my phone has been ringing nonstop. None from my dad, just from Nate and Tatum, and even a few from Bishop. They won’t understand my need to get away—no one ever does. I love my friends—and whatever the hell the Kings are—but I’m not about to pour my life story to them and drop all the walls I spent years upon years building. I like to think I’m smarter than that.

Pulling into the old ranch, I make my way down the gravel drive, the trees and gardens all immaculately groomed and trimmed. I don’t remember it being this impeccable, but then again, I was all of ten the last time I was here.

I pull up to the front entrance and the valet comes to my door.

“Name?” he asks, the brim of his hat hiding his young features.

“Oh, um, I haven’t made a reservation. Do I need to?” I look around, taking in the rich scale and vast size of the place. It screams elite; of course I need a reservation.

“Yes, I apologize, ma’am.” He speaks English, but he doesn’t sound American.

“Oh!” I act surprised. “That’s okay.”

I’m just about to close the door when a woman’s voice stops me. “Excuse me!” she interrupts from the main entrance. “Madison? Montgomery?” I look her up and down, not sure whether I should respond or drive off. How could she know my name?

The young boy stills, his jaw tensing.

“Uhh.” I internally battle with how to answer. Looking at her again, I notice how she’s dressed immaculately. Tight black pencil skirt, blood-red silk blouse, dark hair pinned up in a tight high ponytail, sharp stilettos. Oh yeah, this woman oozes power and money.

“Yeah?” My brain-to-mouth filter malfunctions, because I sure as fuck did not authorize that answer.

“She doesn’t need a reservation.” The woman floats down the marble steps and makes her way toward us.

“I don’t?” I reply, confusion no doubt evident on my face.

“No, honey.” She smiles, taking my hand. “Come on in. I’ll get the keys to your room.” She must know my father; that’s the only explanation I have. Because how else would she know my name and who I am?

Looking over my shoulder at the young valet, his face is tilted toward the ground, his expressions not visible from where I’m walking. When he looks back to me, his eyes catch mine like a magnet, and I instantly feel a strange sense of familiarity with him. His eyes are milk chocolate, his skin pale, his cheekbones are high and defined, and his jaw is angular. From what I can tell, he can’t be older than sixteen, maybe seventeen—he’s young. His body isn’t very large either; it’s more of a lean stature.

Bringing my attention back to where I’m going, the woman walks through the main glass doors and pauses at the threshold, gesturing for me to enter. Taking this moment to case out the place, I grip onto my shoulder strap and look around uneasily. The place looks the same from my memory, maybe a few things being upgraded, but the concept of the ranch remains the same. Rich, old, and classy. It’s situated on the outskirts of New York, deep in the woods. My father would tell me this was a safe place where we could go shooting in the woods and not be disturbed. I’m beginning to think his idea of disturbed was a little warped. There are red and white drapes that hang over the floor-to-ceiling glass walls in the waiting area to the left, which overlooks the woods. The reception is directly in front of the main entrance, and to the right is where the round stairwell leads you to the bedrooms upstairs.

“Come on, Madison,” the woman says, and it’s then I realize I didn’t catch her name. She must see the look that goes across my face, because she smiles, waving her hand in the air. “How rude of me.”

I step inside, taking her outstretched hand. “I’m Katsia. Nice to meet you.”

And that’s when everything stops.

SHE’S STILL SMILING WHEN I tilt my head, looking over to her. She doesn’t catch my surprise, or I hide it well because her smile doesn’t drop.

What.

The.

Fuck?

Shaking my head, I figured I must have misheard. “Sorry,” I answer shyly. “Hi, I’m Madison. Sorry, I didn’t quite catch your name?”

“Katsia!” she repeats, none the wiser. I shake her hand and mentally slap myself. I knew I shouldn’t have driven off, but if I leave now, will she know that I know? Whatever it is that I think I know. It would be too obvious if I did, though. And then she might kill me with her sharp-as-fuck stilettos, and I’ve had enough near-death experiences to last me a lifetime, so I play dumb.

“Nice to meet you, Katsia.”