Broken Crown (Mafia Royals 5)

He’s it.

King. Is. It. A King.

And I’m nothing but a pawn in a game my dead father couldn’t wait to use, and my stupid uncle couldn’t wait to throw into the game.

My family officially sucks.

“And so does King,” my brain reminds me.

No, no, no, no, no.

I rebuke those stupid thoughts and wait for him to say something like, hey, that was fun last night, or we did good, or hey, only six more days left, I like your boobs.

“Food,” King finally says. His eyes don’t trail down my body, they don’t pause and look at my right boob that has just been exposed, and his hands don’t sneak beneath the covers. He simply grins like this is the easiest thing in the world and then tugs the comforter from my body. “Go get dressed.”

I immediately cover myself as much as I can with an awkward arm across my breasts and one lower.

Again, he doesn’t look. “Go, I’m starving. I hear they have great bacon.”

“Bacon,” I repeat. “You’re thinking about bacon?”

“Hell no.” He leans forward. “I’m thinking about eating”—he licks his lips—“basically everything but bacon, but since it was a long night, I’m going to take it easy on you, bite down on something that tastes less sweet and suffer… and trust me. I will be suffering.”

“By eating bacon,” I state.

“By eating food when I want to be eating you.” He shrugs. “I’m basically a martyr at this point.”

My jaw drops.

He smiles again and tilts my chin back up with his pointer finger. “Get dressed, don’t make me tell you again.”

I grit my teeth. “You can’t just threaten me because you’re the next mother fu—”

His hands clamp down on my bare thighs and spreads them. “I’m sorry, did you want to feed me first?”

My entire body trembles. I shake my head. “No, thank you.”

“So polite,” he whispers, and this time I feel it; I feel it all over my body like he’s running his hands lightly across my skin. “Six days.”

He just has to remind me again.

I bite my lower lip. “Six days.”

“Let the countdown begin then.” He winks.

I feel his hands on my thighs the entire time I shower. Dress. And walk next to him down the hallway and into the elevator and wonder if I made a huge error in aligning myself with him knowing full well what his touch does to me—something Roman’s doesn’t.

I burn.

Chapter Twenty-One

“Just because you can’t understand something, it doesn’t mean it’s wrong.” —King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table

King

My phone has been going off in my pocket the entire walk down the hall, but I don’t have time for it—only for her. I touch her lower back, my fingertips dancing along her spine, wishing they could touch her skin again and drink her in.

Our moment in time was incredible, and now I feel like a complete simp because I can’t stop thinking about each line and plump curve of her lips, each moan, knowing full well that I am the lucky bastard who got her to scream.

I’m so busy patting myself on the back that I don’t notice when the elevator doors open, revealing Roman and Tiffany, another one of the bodyguards I assigned to Del. It’s too late to avoid running into them.

Roman’s eyes burn into both of us as though he had his own ticket to our show last night and decided to splurge and plop himself in the front row with popcorn, Junior Mints, and the extra-large Coke.

I lift my chin; he lowers his as if to threaten me. It takes every shred of strength I have not to shove Del behind me, blocking her from his view.

“You should answer your phone more often,” Roman barks out.

I wrap an arm around Del and grin even though I know he’s right. “I was a little busy—we… were a little busy.”

Roman clenches his jaw. “Right, of course, how could I forget, congratulations again on a beautiful wedding based on true love and fairy tales, sorry to interrupt the birds flying around your head while you skip through the forest but—there’s a hit out for both of you.”

The blood drains from my head. “Both?”

“Both,” he confirms. “So the boss sent us down here for extra protection.”

“Yes, he nearly had to leave his spleen on the table in order to come down with me, right, Roman?” Tiffany elbows him. The overhead lights gleam on her short blonde hair that’s slicked back into a tight bun. Her ever-present red lipstick stands out vividly against her fair skin. Her “uniform,” the black suit provided for her, is crisp and perfectly tailored.

Roman grunts and rolls his eyes. “It wasn’t that bad.”

Tiffany snorts and looks over at Del and mouths. “It was.”

“Anyway.” He clears his throat. “We’ve been instructed to shadow you two for the rest of your six days here.”