Kings of Blood and Money (Underworld Kings)

A dark cloud comes over his face, the mood shifting. The atmosphere senses the change, thickening to accommodate my brother’s demons.

“I only remember what you told me. I took a bullet to the fucking brain, Noah. Wiped my memory, so, no, I don’t remember.” With that, he shoves me away from him, opening my door and disappearing through it.

“Why are you home so early?” I call after him, seeing only three hours have passed since I dropped him off.

“Because I wanted to be,” he hollers back.

Leaning out the door, I call, “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting. You want a beer?” This is what I love about my brother. He can get defensive and pissed when I act like a dick, but he forgives instantly. “Life’s too short, brother. We know that better than most.” It’s what he once told me when I asked him why he was so forgiving.

“You coming?” he bellows from the bottom of the stairs.

I sure as shit am not going to get back to sleep now.

Rubbing a hand down my face, a slither of scent filters into my nose. It’s muted but unmistakable. Pussy. Freya’s pussy. She wore those fucking shorts today at some point.

Fuck.

Grabbing a couple beers from the fridge and a plate with leftover chicken, I find Remi at his favourite spot by the pool. His shirt unbuttoned, jacket discarded, his frame takes up the entire lounger.

Passing him a beer, I pull the foil off the plate and bite into a leg.

“Why have you always hated her?” Remi asks, helping himself to a chicken wing. His eyes drift up to her bedroom, and I follow his gaze. Her balcony door is wide fucking open.

“For one, she’s a disobedient bitch,” I fume.

“And the other?” He kicks my shoe, flicking a bone in my direction.

I look up at her window. “She’s breathing.”

Twelve

Freya.

A bubble of anger, raw and bottomless, trickles into my blood. As soon as Noah disappears down those steps, I march over to the balcony door and pry it back open. The sticky air does nothing to cool my temper. I’d foolishly hoped with age would come maturity and this unfiltered anger he had toward me would wane. But he’s still an asshole.

There was a time I’d cower at the thought of going into his room. Would have rather stuck pins in my eyes than risk his cruelty. His spiteful words stuck with me over the years, and I realize now I wore them like a cape of shame and isolation. But that’s over. I refuse to allow him to bully me any longer. I still didn’t know why he harbors such disdain toward me or why Remi’s so different, but I know it has something to do with my past life. I don’t even remember that life. I was a kid. We were all kids. Whatever happened…it wasn’t our fight. He doesn’t seem to register that. He’s let the bad fester inside him until all that remains is fury and malicious intent.

I won’t live my life that way anymore.

I can’t.

I hate that even with all his brutality over the years, I longed to be accepted by him. I hate that seeing his powerful body stripped bare nearly makes me choke on my tongue. His body is ridiculous. He looks like he was drawn. So beautiful, painfully so. Tall and athletic. A fighter’s physique. A body like his can only be sculpted from hard work in the gym, the mats, or by a pen. That raven tattoo splashed across his chest, an exact replica of the one I’d seen on Remi’s when he kissed me that night, looked like it was watching me. I wonder if it holds meaning shared by the two of them. How I wish they’d let me in, allow me to be part of them, share those things with me too. A noise outside draws my attention. My curious nature has me seeking out who it belongs to.

My muscles tense when I catch a glimpse of them sitting by the pool. I love that damn pool—love the freedom the deep water falsely makes me believe I have. Expelling an agitated breath, I flick a lamp on and shut my bedroom light off.

Grabbing a blanket and my latest Kirsty Moseley novel, I plan to get lost for a while—try to forget the only romance in my life is with my cat.

Crap. Midnight.

I look around the room, pursing my lips to make a come here sound, but he’s nowhere. My eyes cut to the door. He must have escaped when the twins blew through here.

Dumping my stuff on the bed, I call for him, to no avail. Groaning, I open my bedroom door and venture through the house. “Midnight, you asshole, where are you?” I get to the second floor, stopping at Noah’s open bedroom door, and glare at the betrayal. Midnight is on his back rubbing his body over Noah’s duvet. “You traitor,” I hiss, pushing inside and scooping him up.