Kings of Blood and Money (Underworld Kings)

“I think you’re paranoid.” Her lips tug up at the corners, her tone deep, curling itself around me, thickening my cock.

“Is there anything you want to ask me now?” It’s a dangerous game that could go one of two ways: she plays, and I rip her out of those shorts, bend her over the counter, and fuck her until she can’t stand, or she gets serious and takes the opportunity to pull some more truths out of me.

I watch her, my body almost vibrating, pleading for the version where I get to be buried inside her.

The bottle hovers at her mouth, slowly lowering to the countertop. Looking to the door in the hallway, her brow pinches.

“Everyone is out. You can speak freely.” My chest tightens. She’s not picking my cock. I don’t want to lie to her, but depending on what she asks, I may have to.

“Why didn’t you tell me the truth about what your father does for work?” There it is. Remi has been talking. It’s troubling her. Her attention on the locked door makes sense.

The fact that she called him my father and not just Father eases something in me.

“It’s complicated, layers and layers, stacked too high to get into it when emotions are high,” I say, going back to the fridge for another beer.

“What is your role in what he does?” Her tone is wary, strained.

“As I said, there are layers to the business. I’m whatever he needs me to be. I deal with our family’s investments, collect money owed, arrange and take meetings, plan fucking parties, it would appear,” I groan, trying to lighten the conversation. She stares at me, her body coiled tight.

“Have you hurt people like he does?”

The air around us thickens. The cool glass bottle in my hand, fragile and easily breakable, reminds me of how delicate she is. How easily she would shatter with careless truths.

Silence hangs between us like the ticking of a bomb. The last light of the day fades from the room, casting shadows over her face.

Nimble fingers teeter on the edge of the counter, her own bottle forgotten. “I’m not a surgeon,” I say carefully, muscles solidifying under my skin.

“Is he?” There’s no more brightness in her eyes, the darker shades eclipsing the color.

“What has Remi told you?” Anger boils through my veins. Her tone, stature, and glare are accusatory, judgment rolling off her like steam over a hot spring.

“It doesn’t matter what he told me. I’m asking you.”

Balls. She’s grown big fat fucking balls between her legs.

“I don’t need to justify myself to you or my father,” I snap, the old dynamic slipping back into place so easily. I have to swallow down the urge to bite out hurtful words just to watch the color drain from her face.

“No, you don’t need to, but I had hoped you’d want to, want to help me understand. Because I don’t, and it scares me, Noah.” Her chest heaves. Tears brim her lower lashes. A crimson flush spreads over her skin as she becomes more agitated.

“Do I frighten you?” I ask incredulous. She’s shared her body with me. I’ve fucking cracked my chest open and spilled my heart into her lap. And she’s standing here acting like I’m some kind of monster protecting a bigger monster.

“What happens in that locked corridor scares me, Noah.” She jabs a thumb over to the door.

“Has my father ever hurt you?” I grind out. The clink of the bottle base hitting the counter draws her eyes down.

“No.” She shakes her head, lines denting her brow. “But what about other people? The person in the box the other week?” Her voice becomes shrill. Tears fall to her cheeks. I hate it. But the fucking rage, the need to defend our family, is so overpowering within me, I let her pain, her fragile pieces, fuel me.

“You really want to know who the fuck was in that box, Freya? A pedophile who liked to torture his victims for months before paying off the family—the fucking parents—to stay quiet about it.”

Shadows climb through the room, blanketing her. Tears shed like a waterfall. Her small arms wrap around her body in an attempt to protect herself from the words spewing from my mouth.

“Rich, influential pieces of shit get away with anything, atrocities so depraved, your nightmares couldn’t even make them up. So, forgive me if I don’t lose sleep over my father offering those kids justice. Even if it’s not in the way you can be okay with.”

Curling my hand tighter around the bottle, I launch it across the room, needing the outlet. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t scream as the glass shatters against the wall, raining down like hailstones tinkering over the tiled floor.

Fuck this. I have other shit to be dealing with. I leave her standing there in the kitchen, shrouded in the dark reality of who we are.