by May Sage
Something wasn’t adding up. If it had just been about helping Ryn as he claimed, he would have gone to Maverick to sign the quarter-of-a-million-dollar bonus. He’d brought it to him instead.
Callum was playing with human-sized, flesh and blood pawns.
Callum, who never played chess anymore, because he was too tired to win.
He hadn’t lost a game since his childhood. Not against their father, not against Desmond, and not against the punk kids who won global competitions. The king of Kings had moved, and there would be no knowing the endgame until checkmate.
“What are you up to?”
“Trust me when I say, it’s not that hard to figure out, Des. Now if you’ll excuse me, your leftovers are waiting for me.”
Callum headed out of his office, whistling. "What we do in the name of brotherly love,” he said before passing through the office door.
Desmond was left confused and alarmed, with Ryn’s severance package in his hands.
Desmond went to take his place behind his brother’s desk, reaching for the stack of documents.
Callum's office was the exact opposite of his. Dark wood with green and gold accents, dim lighting, and a clutter of antique objects; an old clock that had belonged to their mother, a large bookcase full of first editions, a few pieces of art that belonged in museums. Only one wall had been kept bare, save for one painting right in the middle. Callum changed the painting frequently, always looking for a better fit. Right now, it was a woodland scene, featuring a muse playing in a lake. Desmond gave the painting two weeks, tops. It was well-executed, but it didn't suit his brother.
He'd never felt quite comfortable in the office. It had too much personality. If Desmond hadn't known Callum, he could have guessed most of his character just after glancing through the room. It betrayed his love of art, literature, and organized chaos; the books were shelved in alphabetical order, each piece of art seemed to have its place.
Desmond didn’t get it. He preferred his white, simple space to clear his head. After two minutes in Callum’s armchair, he gave up; he wasn’t able to concentrate here. Especially not on Ryn’s fucking severance package. He gathered the papers on top of the desk. He could very well do Callum’s workload in his own office.
His hand stilled, hovering over a piece of paper covered in red and black.
Desmond had never been into modern art; he didn’t quite understand it. Somehow, he understood this one, though. It was darkness, pain, and hope all at once, with light shining through and trying to fight the shadowy monsters.
It was Ryn’s. He knew it, to his core, before his eyes zeroed in on her signature.
He lifted the piece of paper, frowning, because he didn’t simply understand it. He felt it.
Desmond found himself placing it right against Callum’s wall to see how it would look up there.
Perfect. Ryn had a place here, amongst Callum’s bric-a-brac. But hell if he was letting his brother keep it, regardless.
He put the drawing on top of the pile of documents before walking out of the office and locking the door behind him.
23
Rage
Four weeks ago
Ryn tried not to feel self-conscious as she filed documents, answered emails, and worked on Wallace's schedule, but knowing that her movements were recorded and observed by a bunch of people at Knightley Security was stressful.
Get it together, Woodrow, she told herself. If she couldn't deal with them watching her complete admin tasks, how was she going to survive what would happen later?
There was zero doubt in her mind that Wallace would touch her at the first opportunity. He hadn't been able to get his fill of her over the weekend, after all. The dirty pig would call her to his office as soon as he was done with his appointments for the day. For once, she was looking forward to it. That was it, her one chance. If she played her cards right today, she'd be done with him.
The first three hours of the day passed at a snail's pace, but after she admitted Wallace's last appointment into her boss's office, she tensed, started sweating, stomach heaving. Her heart beat at an unreasonable pace, she couldn't concentrate on any tasks at hand. How long would the contractor spend with Wallace? Ten minutes, a full hour? She had no idea.
Ryn tried to keep her hands occupied, if only so that she didn't seem to act suspiciously. She knew she couldn't do anything to blow this opportunity. Wallace was an arrogant dick, but he wasn't entirely stupid. If he suspected that she was acting strange, he might be careful about what he said. She wished she could grab a shot of vodka to calm her nerves. As it was two in the afternoon and she was at the office, a cup of chamomile tea was the next best thing.
Ryn found herself adjusting her scarf a few times, checking that the tiny little camera was still in place. It was.
Oh, God. Could she do this? What if she messed it up? What if she managed, but Wallace had the time to release her sister's video before he was locked up? She was biting her lip nervously when the representative of a bricklaying firm K.C. was considering came out of Wallace's office, smiling at her.
"Mr. Clarke told me to send you in on my way out, Miss Woodrow."
She froze, her blood running cold. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Could she do this? Knowing that a bunch of people, Desmond King among them, were probably watching right now?
She forced herself to breathe out. She could, and more importantly, she had to. Besides, how different was it from being paraded in The Tower half naked?
"Kathryn!" Wallace barked.
She got to her feet and walked in, trying to appear calmer than she was.
"Mr. Clarke."
"Close the door."
She remained where she stood. She was trying her very best to act like everything was normal, and her normal attitude was as belligerent as possible.
"I'd prefer to keep it open, sir," she stated stubbornly.
Wallace's large belly jiggled under his fitted shirt as he laughed. "Who knew you were an exhibitionist? I'll keep that in mind for later. Now, close the damn door and get over here. What you'd prefer does not interest me."
She pulled the door closed behind her and advanced into the overly stuffy office she hated more than anything in the world.
Desmond had lived through horrors so terrible many would have gone mad. It had broken him, for a while. He'd had to put together every part of him, transform himself, control his instincts, his thoughts, and his body.
His father made his first million at age twenty-eight. Desmond had been five at the time. Some nosy paparazzo made a feature about the King family, including him, his baby brother Callum, and both of his parents. The asshole gave personal details, like the name of the preschool he attended and which park his au pair took him to. A couple of months later, a white van stopped them on their way from the school to the park. Pretty Mireille, his sweet au pair with the most delectable French accent, a lovely girl who made him madeleines and croissants from scratch, was snatched along with him.
Desmond had heard people discuss their very first memory. He never shared his. He might have been young, but he remembered everything about the three following days. There was nothing clear in memories before the kidnapping. It was as if his life had started then. In many ways, it had. Before then, Desmond King might have been an average, admittedly slightly spoiled kid. After, he was something else altogether.
The kidnappers demanded money from his father. To make sure they were taken seriously, they sent a video along with their ransom note.
Before Desmond's eyes, they destroyed Mireille with belts, knives, cocks. So many other ways. There had been four men. They'd laughed as they tortured the poor girl. It took a few days for the ordeal to be over. They carried on abusing the girl up until the very last moment. Desmond saw it all.
There was no doubt that Mireille would have been killed by the gang of psychos if the team sent by his father hadn't managed to hunt them down and save them.
Desmond stopped attending preschool, refusing
to take one step outside of his house for months. Eventually, he saw that his mother and father were worrying about him a little too much. To appease them, he said he'd go to school in the fall.
"I have conditions," the little boy of six stated. "We will drive the whole way. Physical activities will be held indoors. I will be taken to and from school by someone strong."
His parents exchanged a glance, before agreeing.
"Of course. You want to be safe. It's very natural after what happened to you."
That hadn't been it, though. Not quite. He wasn't worried about his safety as much as that of those around him. The psychos hadn't touched him, he was valuable to them. But there wouldn't be another Mireille.
Since then, he'd been careful to assess situation, remain in control at all times. He took up martial arts, and collected black belts like they were going out of fashion.
In his teens, Desmond developed a deep self-disgust when he found that unlike the boys and girls around him, he had no interest in a blow job between classes, a quicky in the back of a car. No, what he liked was a lot darker than that. Desmond hated his thoughts, his needs, his very flesh. Cutting at his skin where no one could see it helped at first. Then it wasn't enough. He turned to other ways to destroy himself. Drugs, alcohol, anything that made him forget who, what he was. He might have spiraled out of control, if he hadn't had the best father in the world.
Most kids were found jerking off to porn at some point. Desmond could have died of embarrassment when his dad caught him in front of some BDSM. He expected Damian King to yell, demand to know what was wrong with him, perhaps. Instead, his father laughed.
"How time flies, my boy. It was just yesterday that I showed you how to ride a bike. Now, look at you. Eighteen, and into bondage. Fucking hell, your mother's gonna kill me, but I may as well take you to The Tower now."
The Tower had changed his life. Stopped him from hating himself, made him realize that his desire for control wasn't a problem; plenty of men and woman actually wanted to relinquish control to him, let him bind them and push their limits.
Damian also encouraged his son to shadow him at work. Within months, Desmond understood their adult-toy business more than most employees. He reluctantly attended college to acquire the knowledge necessary to be of help to his father. At twenty-three, when his mother died, Damian stepped back for a few months, and Desmond found that all eyes were turning to him. He started to run the company like it was the most natural thing in the world. Within a year, he got international deals, pushing K.O.K. to the next level. Two years later, his younger brother wanted to get into pharma and construction, and the rest was history, firmly behind him.
Desmond was thirty-six now. It had been nineteen years since the angry, disgusted, lost teenager had disappeared. For the first time since then, the boy rushed to the surface, yelling at the top of his lungs, screaming at him to save Ryn from the monster who'd just hit her, who was fucking her, insulting her right before his eyes. Nothing could be worth this. How the fucking hell had they let her go into his office, suspecting what would happen? Fuck.
Desmond attempted to rationalize. It had been three years since it had started. Three years since Wallace had first started raping Ryn. One of his executives, destroying one of his employees. Right before his eyes. He'd turned a blind eye to it. He'd watched her kneel to him and hadn't questioned it.
The scars on his torso practically itched.
Mireille had been broken after three days. How had Ryn survived this?
“I…” Tommy, the Kingsley Security technician recording the scene, whispered.
Nothing else came out of his mouth; what was there to say?
Desmond's expression must have betrayed his intense fury, because Maverik called him, almost gently. “Desmond?”
“I want him killed," he stated. "Beaten, like her, first. And castrated.”
Wallace was careful not to hit Ryn's face, or on the exposed parts of her legs and arms, but he was hurting her just about everywhere else. Desmond had never contemplated murder until then, but he wouldn't have hesitated before shooting that asshole.
Maverick nodded his agreement, and Callum added helpfully, “Sounds good to me. And we know plenty of people who can arrange that once he’s behind bars.”
They did.
“I didn’t hear a word of that,” said Tommy. “Also, I fucking approve.”
They stopped talking when they heard Ryn's next words.
“You’re pathetic. You think this makes you powerful? You think stealing money from the company you work for makes you successful? You’re just a piece of trash, and I can’t wait to see you fall.”
Wallace's next kick was to her stomach. She'd expected it, braced herself for it.
“I just fucked your ass raw, and I fuck the Kings every time I wanna take what’s theirs. They’re pathetic, and I am powerful, stupid girl. Go make yourself presentable. You’re on the clock. Don’t put panties on. Whores don’t need those.”
Desmond picked up his jacket, heading out.
“That’s a wrap. We have everything we need. Call Ryn," he ordered Maverick. "Tell her to get out of there right now; I’m on my way to pick her up.”
He couldn't go up to Wallace's office. If he did, he'd end up being locked up for cold-blooded murder.
24
Lost
Ryn got dressed, straightening her clothing on autopilot, her hands shaking. It was just another time Wallace had put his hands on her. Just another day. Her normal. Telling and repeating that to herself didn't change the way she felt. Exposed, ashamed, dirty, sick to her stomach.
Other people knew now. It somehow made her reality more concrete, more disgusting.
She played with the camera on her scarf again, half hoping it had worked okay, and half dreading it, because if it had, then they all knew what she was. A whore. A disgusting, ugly, fat sexagenarian's whore.
Robotically, she walked out of the office and went to sit behind her desk in the hallway. After a while, she was pulled out of limbo by the vibration of the company phone on her desk. Her eyes widened when she saw that she had three missed calls and a text, all from Maverick King.
Funny that what had got her in trouble first had been a porn video—a video featuring someone else no less—and now, her solution to take care of it was an actual porn video with her as the main character. At least her face wouldn't be on record. Desmond had promised that the court case would be closed. He said her name wouldn't be pulled into it.
Her stomach dropped. Yeah, right. Since when did she believe the word of a business tycoon like him?
Please, please please, she begged every force in the universe, hoping that they'd recorded everything they needed. That she wouldn't have to repeat the performance for them. The very thought made her want to scream and cry.
She unlocked her screen, and finally breathed easy.
"Get your stuff, get out of there. Desmond is picking you up."
She lifted a brow. Desmond himself? She hadn't expected to see the CEO again after he'd dropped her off at work this morning. But when she went down and out of the lobby, the old Jaguar was parked right in front of the building. Desmond King was leaning on it. He had sunglasses on, but somehow, she could tell that his look had never been so cold. Just like that, she knew. He'd watched. She looked down at her feet. Desmond wordlessly opened the passenger side of the car, inviting her in.
She slid onto the leather seat, and looked up at the tall, daunting building harboring King Construction. Hopefully, it would be the last time she saw it.
Desmond got in the driver’s seat, and started accelerating. Five minutes passed before she found the courage to ask, "Where are we going?"
"Away from K.C.,” he replied. "Other than that, no idea. Any preference?"
She had so many questions crossing her mind. Like, didn't he have tons of appointments? Surely there were employees he could pay to drive subordinates around like this.
"Away from K.C. soun
ds good," was all she said.
She leaned back on the seat and breathed in and out. Desmond's car drove around Manhattan without aim, braving the Madison Avenue traffic at least twice.
"You hungry?" he asked after a while.
"Not particularly."
He frowned behind the sunglasses. "When was the last time you ate?"
She thought it out. "I had cereal at your place this morning."
"Six hours ago. You're sure—”
"I'm sure," she confirmed. "I feel sick."
He didn't push after that, for a while. Then, he proposed, "Movies?" out of the blue.
She found herself chuckling. "I have to give it to you, most of what you say and do is entirely unexpected."
"I'll take that as a compliment. What sort of movies are you into?”
“I don’t know,” she shrugged. “Silliness? Fantasy stuff, like Lord of the Rings, and action flicks, too.”
“I’ve never seen Lord of the Rings,” Demon confessed, making her eyes widen and her mouth fall open.
“You’ve never seen…what’s wrong with you?”
He shrugged. “I read the books as a kid. Loved them. I don’t need to see how they ruined them.”
“Lord of the Rings is literally the only movie that’s better than the book. Tolkien was a genius at world building and storytelling, but his lengthy descriptions and lyrical nonsense were a little much, really. The movie doesn’t have a boring moment.”
“The books didn’t either, in my opinion. Some of us happen to enjoy lengthy descriptions and lyrical nonsense.”
She crossed her arms, put out. “Saying the book is superior without checking the movie first is dumb.”
Desmond smirked. “I don’t have time for nine hours of movies, Ryn.”
Probably true. She sighed in defeat, while something at the back of her mind wondered why he had time for this. Driving her around, offering to take her to eat something or watch a movie.