Long Live The King Anthology: Fifteen Steamy Contemporary Royal Romances

by Vivian Wood

  His voice is mild. “I could. Leave him alone, I mean. If you want me to.”

  It was always leading to this. I try to keep my voice steady. “What do you mean?”

  “Ten thousand dollars.” He pulls out a thick envelope. I can guess what’s inside. Money. It’s his gamble. In this rundown tenement, his odds are good. “Would you like this, Penny?”

  “No, leave her out of this,” Daddy says. “She didn’t have nothing to do with it.”

  “You’ll have to give the money to Damon yourself,” Jonathan Scott says to Daddy, his dark liquid gaze still trained on me. “Do you think you could manage that? Or would you gamble again, hoping to turn it into twenty or thirty thousand?”

  We may not need to give that money to Damon Scott, but Daddy doesn’t know that. It still hurts to think he might trade my life for one last gamble. Then again isn’t that what he always does?

  “I’ll make sure he gets it,” I say, imagining myself waiting in the apartment for him. How safe I would be. It’s enough to make me laugh, if I was capable of smiling. What an illusion, safety. The impressive thing isn’t what I can do with numbers, with lines and curves in my head. The impressive thing is that I ever believed, even for one moment, that home would be safe.

  “You won’t,” Jonathan Scott says, casual in his dismissal.

  “Why not?” I say, almost a whisper.

  “You’ll be with me.”

  With him, where Damon can find me. Where Damon can save me.

  At least I hope so.

  “No!” Daddy fights to stand. And fails. “You can’t do this.”

  Jonathan Scott gives me a smile that’s almost handsome. If I didn’t know how evil he was I could have been fooled. It’s enough to prove he doesn’t have to force girls. With his smooth silver fox looks and his money he could have anyone he wanted. He prefers to force.

  “It’s up to you,” he says.

  “You’re a monster,” I tell him, this one statement sincere.

  “That’s right,” he murmurs. “Fight me.”

  Don’t fight them. I’m shaking with something—maybe fear, maybe anger. I prefer to be angry. Some part of me thinks it might seem more realistic, but the truth is I am angry. It’s not pretend. “How dare you do this?”

  “Offer you money? Well, sure, call the cops. Tell them how horrible I am for paying your daddy’s debts.”

  “Aren’t the police in your pockets?” I ask bitterly.

  “Or you can take your chances with Damon Scott. He has quite a reputation.” He glances at Daddy’s broken leg. “I suppose you’re already familiar with it. What did he promise to take next?”

  Daddy looks at me, his eyes helpless. It doesn’t matter who broke his knee. Doesn’t matter that the debt to Damon Scott has been won, because that was the deal I made. To be bait for this man. This dark king.

  “Tick tock,” the king says. “Would you like the money?”

  He shifts ever so slightly on the old lumpy sofa, revealing a flash of silver in his coat. A gun. Will he use it if I refuse him? It doesn’t matter, because this is my purpose.

  “I’ll do it.”

  In a graceful move he stands and strides from the room, leaving the money on the sofa. It’s too much to hope that he’s changed his mind as soon as I’ve agreed. No, he expects me to follow him. I’m not even worth a basic command. I’m a dog, trained to heel by poverty, trained to obey by circumstances.

  “Wait,” I call after him into the hallway. “I’m coming.”

  There are only minutes to run back, to hold Daddy’s trembling hand. To squeeze.

  “Damon Scott will come,” I whisper, breathless. “I’ll try to leave a trail. Tell him to follow me. Tell him what happened.”

  His eyes are wide, helpless. I don’t even know if he’s hearing me.

  I grasp a handful of coins from my tip jar, mostly pennies left after digging out the quarters and dimes to spend. A few nickels. And that’s what I need—dark copper pennies made green and blackened from use.

  I run down the stairs, the coins clutched in my sweaty palm. It’s only on the street that he stops, as motionless and contained as if he had been standing there all along. I’m out of breath, still wearing my old diner uniform. A handful of loose change he can’t see.

  “I don’t wait for you, little girl. That’s not how this works.”

  Go to hell. That probably isn’t going to help my position any.

  And that’s not what I really want to say. Please find me, Damon. He’s the only one who can solve this for me. He’s also the reason I’m in the middle of this, a twisted game of tug-of-war between father and son.

  “Okay,” I say softly. “I’ll be good. I swear.”

  “Do you really think Daddy is going to use the money to pay off the debt?”

  I don’t care about the debt anymore. Don’t care about the money. What I care about is that Daddy tells Damon Scott what happened. “He knows what I’m giving up.”

  Silver eyes gleam in the dark. “Do you?”

  I glare at him. “You want to have sex with me.”

  “Wrong.”

  Goose bumps rise on my skin, despite the warm night. It only makes it worse. “What, then?”

  “I want to break you down into parts—into hope and despair. Into love and fear. I want to consume your humanity, feast on you, until there’s nothing left but a small, jagged core at the center.”

  What a bastard. “Why?”

  He laughs. “Do you ever think about how mechanical sex is? Men so desperate for something warm and wet to fuck. A purely physical sensation. We might as well be automatons.”

  I’ve never thought about sex like that. I never think about it at all.

  That’s a lie, Penny. You think about Damon.

  He continues, his expression severe. “I learned to block out physical sensations as a child. Pain. Sex. Hunger. They only touch our bodies. Not our minds.”

  I swallow hard, remembering how that wild boy had left home. Something had been done to him. And something had been done to the man in front of me. Men turned into monsters. “What happened to you?”

  He holds his hand out like I’m a little girl crossing the street. “Come along.”

  “You’re insane.”

  “No, little peach. I’m the only sane one in a world full of rabid animals.”

  Please find me, Damon. Find me in time. I put my empty hand in his. He squeezes gently, as if to comfort me. It’s a strange sensation, to be consoled by my enemy. Less strange to be led by the king. I drop a single penny near the curb, hoping it will be small enough to escape notice, hoping it will shine enough to bring Damon to me.

  He takes me down two streets with a familiarity that shows he’s used to walking the west side streets. Every few steps I drop a penny, leaving a trail for him to follow.

  As long as he comes in time. Please, Damon.

  The sign for the Midtown Asylum has long since crumbled, leaving only a large, plantation-style building. On either side, there are houses falling down. It’s dark inside them. Empty.

  We’re alone. The last coin falls into the overgrown weeds.

  He unlocks the front door and steps inside, finally releasing me.

  Leaving me to stare at the pictures spread over the floor. The insides of senators’ houses. The interiors of city hall. Windows into our twisted little world.

  “The desk,” he says, hanging his coat on a hook like this is a five-star hotel instead of a broken down mental hospital.

  I take a step forward, horrified to find my bedroom in a photo. “You watched me.”

  My faded quilt and my kitten poster. The room I had undressed in and slept in. The bed where I had touched myself thinking of Damon Scott.

  As if he can read my thoughts he smiles. “Sometimes at night, I’d hear you breathe faster. See your hand moving under the covers. It’s so beautiful, the way you love yourself.”

  My eyes widen. “I’m not leaving here, am I?”

&
nbsp; “Not alive.” He sounds almost regretful about that.

  The last thing I see will be those silver eyes. I run for the door, knowing I’m trapped.

  Of course he catches me.

  That night I learn why Damon Scott could hold his breath underwater for so long. Because his father forced him there, longer and longer until he had to adapt to survive. It’s a brutal existence, the water closing in on you, almost praying for death because it would be a relief. Green tiles. Black water. The certainty that this will be the last thing I see.

  The decision to survive, if only to spite the monster.

  My body is broken and split apart. Violated. Twisted into something unfeeling.

  That night my mind cracks into a million splinters.

  But the king was wrong about one thing. I don’t die, no matter how many times I wish I would. I learn to hold my breath, the same way Damon Scott did. We have something in common now. We’re both monsters. Not the kind you can see on the outside. He wears a secret smile on his handsome face. Bruises faded back to pale skin on my naked body.

  It’s only inside that something can never be repaired.

  Only inside that I never really leave the water.

  Inside that I learn to need the dark.

  Chapter Fourteen

  All those years ago I didn’t like the water. I was too busy clinging to the slippery rubber, too frantic kicking to stay close to Mama. Way too afraid of drifting away.

  And then Damon Scott came into my life. A force of nature. A tidal wave. And I learn that there are compensations for drowning. That I can float, my body shivering and catatonic.

  My mind can float, too.

  That’s how Damon finds me.

  He pulls my body from the water, his hands iron-hard on my bruised skin. Strong arms cradle my limp body. Held so close I could hear his heart beating, too fast. I want to tell him—don’t worry. I’m okay here, floating down the river in my head.

  Except I can’t say a word. That’s one thing about floating.

  I hear him talking to me, his low voice so different than ever before. He’s been amused and casually cruel. Never terrified and tense, never broken.

  The words come through a thick swirl of dark water, my thoughts inky black.

  “Wake up, sweetheart. Talk to me. Oh God, what did he do to you? Tell me where you’re hurt. Let me help you.” He speaks faster the longer he goes, his voice turning hoarse. “Beautiful girl. Smart girl. Come back to me.”

  He carries me for what feels like miles, my uniform drenched, his grip impossibly tight.

  Part of me wonders how we must look, a man in a suit carrying a half-conscious girl. Does no one stop him? Does no one wonder? The irony is that he’s the only man who would protect me.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispers against my forehead. “God, I’m so sorry. I tried to stay away from you. I wanted to keep you safe. If he knew… if he touched you…”

  Jonathan Scott did more than touch me. He tortured me. He violated me in every way that a man can hurt a woman. I’m sure there’s tearing, enough to show what’s happened. I wish there weren’t any marks, not because it would hurt me less, but because it would hurt him less.

  The unlikely prince come to take me away.

  No white horse, though. Only his bespoke Italian loafers against the asphalt. It takes me a moment to realize that it’s raining, the water on my skin fresh and clean. Unlike that horrible pool of water where I had been trapped, unlike the salty tears I couldn’t hold in.

  Damon swears, but I wish I could tell him the rain will help. I don’t want to be dirty.

  We reach a building in the historic district, with white stone and black metal balconies on each window. He pushes inside as if he owns the place, and maybe he does. Maybe he owns the entire street.

  I hear a feminine gasp. “Is she—”

  Is she dead? That’s what the unknown woman asks.

  The strange part is not knowing the answer. Am I dead?

  “She’ll wish she was,” Damon says, his voice hard.

  It sounds like a threat, but I feel the tension in his body. He’s worried about me. About what happened before he showed up. Before Jonathan Scott shoved me into a black pool of water and closed a grate on top of me, trapping me inside. Before he held me down and—

  My mind shies away from the truth.

  Maybe I would wish I were dead, by the time this is over.

  “What can I do?” the woman asks.

  It makes me wonder if she’s Damon’s girlfriend. His lover. His prostitute? I don’t know how he deals with women, except to pay them. She must be close to him if she was in his house.

  “Blankets,” he says. “Every single one you can find.”

  That sounds practical, but I don’t feel cold. I don’t feel anything, really.

  Damon carries me upstairs and lays me down on a large bed. His bed?

  He pulls back the covers, settling my wet body into the middle. Part of me recognizes that it must be comfortable—the way I sink into the mattress, the velvet drapes hanging from a thickly carved bedframe. I’m disconnected from my body, though. As if it sank to the bottom of the water, landing on hard rocks.

  And my mind kept floating along.

  “Damon,” I whisper, surprised to find my lips cracked and hard. How can they be dry after almost drowning? Everything feels upside down, inside out.

  His eyes look pure black. “I’m here.”

  “Don’t leave,” I whisper, swallowing hard to get the words out. “Please.”

  “Not yet.” It’s a promise, both to stay and to go. I have him for now, which is more than I ever thought I would have. More than a peasant girl deserves with a prince.

  “I’m sorry.”

  He swears. “Don’t.”

  “You found them. Tell me you found them—”

  “Yes, your breadcrumbs. My smart girl. My beautiful girl.” He presses a kiss to my forehead. I know his lips are touching my skin. Some part of me registers that fact. But I don’t feel anything. Not pleasure. Not fear. When he brushed his knuckles against my cheek at the diner I’d felt the echo of his touch for days. And now I can’t feel anything.

  The woman comes into the room with an armful of quilts and blankets. She’s older than me but not by much. Very beautiful. It wouldn’t surprise me if they were together, but she doesn’t look jealous. She looks worried, about me.

  Damon reaches to the neckline of my uniform. There’s no warning before he rips it away.

  I should feel something. Embarrassment as I’m exposed, naked and bruised. At least I should feel cold as the air touches my damp skin. I’m still separate from my body, unable to feel a thing.

  “What are you doing?” the woman asks, concern plain in her soft voice.

  Damon gives her a hard look. “Fucking her limp body. What do you think?”

  It’s the same voice he used years ago. What would I want with a puny kid?

  And then he unclasps his belt. It makes a whip-like sound through the air as he pulls it off. The old me would have flinched at the sound. Now I just stare, unblinking, unfeeling.

  “I can do it,” the woman says, moving as if to undress.

  A cold laugh. “As much as I’d love to see the two of you in bed together, I don’t want to see what happens when Gabriel finds out I saw you naked.”

  “You saw me naked at the auction,” she says.

  “That doesn’t count. You weren’t his then.”

  So they aren’t together. I can’t even feel relief, not with the word auction hanging in the air. Is that what would have happened to me? And as horrible as that sounds, wouldn’t that have been better than this?

  Anything would be better than this.

  Damon pushes the damp white fabric from his shoulders, revealing hard packed muscle and lines of ink. I hadn’t expected to see tattoos beneath that expensive suit fabric. None of it peeks out onto his hands or neck. It’s all perfectly contained to his chest, his abs. Ancient scrollw
ork and dragon scales over a modern man.

  What’s the point of getting such beautiful artwork on skin no one can see?

  “I’ll go find Anders,” the woman says.

  Damon’s voice is a drawl, closer as the bed dips in his direction. “Really intent on making this a threesome, aren’t you?”

  “He’s a doctor.”

  “He lost his license,” Damon says, his touch burning hot as he pulls me into his arms. Oh God, I didn’t feel anything. I didn’t want to feel anything, but he’s like a flame. I’m consumed by him.

  I want the girl to be worried about me now, to help me get away from this.

  To pull me out of the fire, but she seems content to leave me there, especially as Damon smooths a wet lock of hair away from my cheek. He probably looks gentle, but she can’t see how it burns.

  Only Damon’s eyes are cold, black stones that give nothing away.

  “Gabriel said it was fine,” she says. “Anders stitched his gunshot wound.”

  Damon glances at her. “Gabriel was shot?”

  “Grazed. On his neck. The bullet was meant for me.”

  “You don’t know that,” says a new voice, male and gravelly.

  The girl sounds surprised. “You shouldn’t be standing.”

  “And you shouldn’t be in Damon’s bedroom.”

  “This is his bedroom?” she asks, uncertain.

  So this is his bed. And this is his house.

  Of course it is. Expensive and luxurious and completely impersonal.

  It doesn’t mean anything that he brought me here, that he holds me tight as if he can’t stand to let go. I tell myself that, but it still burns too hot. His arms and his abs. He’s hard and warm and painful.

  And then I feel something against my hip. Oh God.

  I may not have gone all the way with Brennan but I recognize that. This one’s bigger and more insistent. When I try to squirm away Damon holds me tighter.

  “I heard you almost died,” Damon says, his voice casual, as if he’s not throbbing against me. “Did you lose…what? A whole teaspoon of blood?”

  The man responds with equal languor. “A quarter cup, at least. We should talk.”

  I can already hear the words. They whip around in the water between us. Words about Jonathan Scott and about pain. About bullets and about sex.