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

Dad stops, tilting his head at me. “Does it matter?”

I open my mouth, ready to answer, but close it again. “I guess not.” Because it doesn’t. At least he’s here, and Dad is allowing him to stay. I have to be grateful for that, though Katsia will want that meeting ASAP. I can’t stand her and I don’t trust her. She’s apparently a descendant of Bishop’s family line, and though I’ve only met Bishop’s dad a couple of times, I don’t like him. He’s the king of the Kings, and there’s no way in hell I’d ever cross him. Same as Katsia.

Taking the stairs one at a time, I go straight to Daemon’s room and knock.

“Come in.”

Pushing the door open, I lean on the frame. “Hey, you.”

He smiles, a genuine, big smile, and his eyes light up. He gets up off the bed where he was sitting oddly, staring at…. There’s no TV there, so he was staring at the wall. As he pulls me in for a hug, I wrap my arms around his waist and sink into his embrace. “I’m so sorry about all of this, Daemon.”

“Hush,” he murmurs into my hair. “They just like you safe. Like me. I like that too.”

“Yeah, but they should trust that I trust you.”

Daemon inches back slightly, his eyebrows pulling in as he seems to mull over what I just said. “Trust,” he whispers, and then looks down at me.

“Yes, trust. It’s the feeling you get when you know someone won’t hurt you. It’s loving someone and knowing they wouldn’t betray you.”

Daemon shakes his head, and lets go, stepping backward. “No, Madison. If that is trust, I do not deserve yours. You should not trust me.”

I step forward. “Daemon, I do though.”

He shakes his head, stepping back again until the backs of his legs hit the rocking chair that is in the corner. He takes a seat. “No. You cannot.”

“Daemon—”

“Madison,” Bishop speaks up from the door, and I turn to face him, searching his eyes.

“What?”

“Leave. Now.”

“What?” I snap, then look back to Daemon. “Do you want me to leave?”

Daemon looks up at me from leaning on his elbows, his eyes pained and his face strained. It’s the first time I’ve seen him in any other light aside from my brother, and he’s beautiful. Beautifully ruined. “Ita.”

I look back to Bishop, not knowing what that means. He simply nods, so I look back at Daemon. “Okay.”

I push past Bishop and walk toward my bedroom, flopping down on my bed. Seconds and then minutes pass before Bishop walks back in, shutting the door behind him.

I shoot to my feet. “Is he okay?”

He walks farther into my room, taking a seat on the bed beside me. “Yeah. When he’s like that though, Madison, you need to let him have space. Nothing good will come from pushing Daemon to a point where….” He stops, seeming to think over what he’s about to say.

“Bishop,” I warn, looking toward him. “You need to not lie to me.” He lies down on his back, and I follow, rolling onto my stomach. “Please. Just don’t lie to me. I can handle everyone else lying to me, but not you.”

Turning his head, he looks between my eyes. It’s intense. His stare is always intense; it makes me want to look away, but I’m afraid I won’t feel it again. I want to feel it for as long as I can. Soak it up, bathe in it, swim in it. Now I sound crazy, but maybe I am. Maybe when it comes to him, he brings out the dark, crazy side of me that I’ve always suppressed by being the quiet girl. Because he gives me confidence, all the confidence I need to tackle or do anything, and that’s lethal.

Reaching out, he tucks some of my loose hair behind my ear and smiles softly. “I promise I won’t lie to you.”

I inhale, unable to contain the warm feeling that overflows my insides at his promise. Not once has anyone—not my father, not Nate, no one—promised me those words since I’ve found out about this world. Leaning down, I kiss him, running my lips softly against his. I’m just about to pull away when his hand comes to the back of my neck and he grips onto me, pulling me back down to his mouth. His tongue darts inside and everything in me instantly comes to life. Picking me up, he puts me on his lap, and I straddle him, raking my hair out of my face.

“I’m not used to this,” he murmurs, his hands coming to rest on my thighs.

“Used to what?” I ask, running my pointer finger down his hard chest, over each ab muscle, and eventually down to the lines that disappear under his jeans.

“This, what this is. I’ll fuck it up one way or another. You’re prepared for that—right?” he asks, his tone sincere.