by Rina Kent
His words send a tingle of pride down my spine. Not that I need Jonathan to tell me I’m no coward, but the fact that he’s probably always thought that way about me says something. No idea what, but it does.
He reaches a hand to my face and I stiffen. Is he going to stroke my cheek?
Now that I think about it, Jonathan hardly touches my face — if ever. The only time he’s done so was earlier when he checked my temperature. He’s never attempted to kiss me either. Not that I would peg Jonathan as the emotional type who would do that, but —
Why am I even thinking about it? First, the tightness in my chest because he left last night. And now, the fact that he didn’t touch my face or kiss me?
Instead of touching me, Jonathan reaches behind me and shuts the tap. My stomach sinks in with something different to relief.
He removes his jacket and lays it on the towel hanger, then undoes his shirt’s cuffs and rolls his sleeves up to expose his taut arms with masculine veins.
By the time he crouches beside me, I’m watching him as if he’s an alien. “What are you doing?”
He flops a hand in the bubbly water, right between my legs like he knows exactly where that is.
His strong fingers grab my aching thigh and rub long circles with a tenderness that I never thought Jonathan was capable of.
My muscles loosen with every passing second and his touch turns more soothing, pleasurable even. My head lies against the edge of the tub and my eyes flutter closed.
My legs open of their own accord the more Jonathan massages my inner thighs, his fingers inching towards my sensitive core, but not touching.
A low moan fills the air and it’s with utter horror that I realise it’s mine. I sink my teeth into the cushion of my bottom lip to keep any further sound from escaping.
Jonathan's pace slows, but he doesn’t stop. “You like this.”
I remain silent, refusing to admit my depraved thoughts.
He grips me by my sex, making my eyes shoot open. The intensity that greets me in his darkened features turns me breathless.
“If you like something I do to you, I expect you to say it. You don’t get to deny it while still enjoying it. We’ve already established that you belong to me.”
“You’ve established that. I never agreed to it.”
“Yes, you did. Not with words, but it was written in big capital letters when you screamed my name as your cunt strangled my dick. It’s right here with the way your folds are inviting me inside even when sore.”
My cheeks redden at the explicit image he paints in my head. Damn him and how easily he can rile me up.
When I say nothing, Jonathan removes his hand from between my legs and stands up. He pulls out a towel and dries his hands on it with sure, firm movements.
“T-that’s it?” I don’t know why the words escape my mouth. I was supposed to ask that to myself.
“That’s it. You don’t deserve something you don’t admit to enjoying.” He throws me an indecipherable glance. “I expect you in the dining room in fifteen minutes. Every minute you’re late will be taken out on your arse.”
And with that, he leaves the bathroom.
A frustrated scream bubbles up in my throat, but I trap it inside and flop under the water, letting it cover me whole. Not that it does anything to cool the flames he left behind.
Damn Jonathan King to the darkest pit of hell.
And because I want to strangle him — not in a sexy kind of way — I waltz to the dining room five minutes late.
The bath actually helped. My muscles are less sore, but they still ache and I feel him inside me with every step I take.
I’m dressed in my light pink sleeveless dress, my hair is loose, and I put on red lipstick. I need all my confidence today. And maybe I want to get on Jonathan’s nerves as much as he gets on mine. After all, he does stop and stare whenever I paint my lips red.
By the time I join Jonathan, he doesn’t appear in a good mood. He watches me with that furrowed expression that usually means disapproval.
“You’re five minutes late.”
“I had to get ready.”
“Excuses only make your case worse, not better, wild one.”
I lift a shoulder and pull my seat. Jonathan tuts and I sigh. Of course.
Making a detour, I go straight to him and sit on his lap. I hate how familiar — and dare I say, comfortable — this seat has become.
“Why do you always call me that?” I murmur in an effortless attempt to not focus on his presence at my back.
“What?”
“Wild one.”
“You’ve been wild since you were a child.”
“I was not.”
His lips twitch in that almost-smile of his, but he returns to a neutral expression soon after.
Jonathan grabs a small piece of bread and places it at my mouth. “Now, eat.”
I wrap my lips around it, but when they brush against his finger, a jolt of electricity blooms between us.
Our gazes bind and it’s like they can’t get unlocked. Jonathan’s dark grey eyes almost turn black as I keep my lips on his finger for a second too long.
Heat spreads beneath my clothes, forming goosebumps over my skin and ending straight between my thighs.
“Careful, Aurora. You’re tempting me to fuck you right here and now. After I punish you for those five minutes of tardiness, of course.” The raspiness of his voice and the words he says turn me into a bundle of inexplicable emotions.
I don’t remove my lips.
Shit. It’s like I’m opening my legs for him all over again. The fact that I’m still sore doesn’t even matter anymore.
Jonathan’s lips turn up into a seductive smile that worsens the state of my ruined knickers. “Is that an invitation, wild one?”
The piece of bread has melted in my mouth, and I swallow it, the sound loud and intrusive in the middle of the silence.
Before I can say anything, the door to the dining room barges open.
“Well, well, what do we have here?”
24
Aurora
For a second, I’m too stunned to react.
I’m now used to having meals alone with Jonathan and his devious mind and wandering hands. Margot and Tom never interrupt us, which I assume is due to Jonathan’s orders.
So the moment I hear that familiar voice, I get caught into a denial game, thinking this is a play of my imagination. Or even that Harris decided to be an arsehole today.
But it’s neither Harris’s face nor his voice. It’s…
Aiden.
My nephew whom I’ve never officially met, despite begging Alicia to bring him over during her visits to Leeds. She said she would but had never kept that particular promise.
My nephew who called me ‘Mum’ upon first meeting me because he didn’t know I existed in the first place.
He walks inside, a hand shoved in his dark jeans pocket. His strides are purposeful and confident. Just like Jonathan. He’s also a carbon copy of his father, looks-wise. The dark hair and the grey eyes. The proud nose and the chiselled jaw. Even the permanent disapproving look is the same.
And it’s now directed on me.
That’s when I realise the compromising position Aiden has walked in on. I’m sitting on his father’s lap, lips wrapped around his damn finger.
I startle, trying to stand up, but Jonathan holds me tight by the hip. I beg him with wild eyes to let me go. He might be too assertive to care about what his son thinks, but I do. So much so that every second he holds me against him, I’m close to the point of hyperventilating.
He must see the panic on my features, and since Jonathan doesn’t really care about others, I suspect he’ll never let me go. But then, his fingers loosen from around my waist and I use the opportunity to get off his lap.
My breathing shortens as I smooth my dress and touch my hair in a shameful attempt to pull myself together.
This isn’t how I wanted to see Aiden again.
/> Besides, there’s a tiny part of me that didn’t actually want to meet him. Jonathan was right, the guilt I feel towards Aiden is too big to be translated into words.
I figured that since I moved here, I’d have to confront him eventually, but I never thought it would be under such circumstances.
If he didn’t hate me before, he sure as shit must now.
I should’ve asked Jonathan when he’d return from his honeymoon. Maybe I would’ve been more prepared if I had. Or at least not been sitting on his father’s lap, sucking on his fingers.
Aiden stops a seat away from his father, his lips set in a line, hot fury emanating off him in waves. “What, and I can’t stress this enough, the fuck is going on here?”
I swallow. “It’s not —”
“Did I talk to you?” Aiden cuts me off, his attention still zeroed in on his father.
Fine. I deserve that. Doesn’t mean it hurts any less, though.
Aiden is the last thing Alicia left behind. Aside from me, he’s the only one who shares DNA with her.
And despite looking like Jonathan, I can feel the touch Alicia left in him. That might sound creepy, though, so I don’t dare to voice that thought.
“I’m waiting, Jonathan.” Aiden plants his hand on the table, meeting his father’s gaze as if he’s a rival.
Jonathan’s expression remains neutral. The same blankness he wears so well doesn’t waver. It’s almost like his only son didn’t just walk in on him in a sexual position with his aunt.
This is so fucked up.
“I do not answer to you.” Jonathan takes a sip of his coffee ever so leisurely.
“You answer to your dick then? Is that it?”
My eyes widen, flying straight to Jonathan, kind of afraid about the wrath he’ll strike on his son. The older King continues sipping from his mug of coffee as if Aiden didn’t just say what he did. If he hadn’t spoken aloud, I’d suspect Jonathan didn’t even hear him.
“How dare you bring this whore to the place Alicia called home?”
I bite my tongue, but I can’t let this slide. I won’t. I may feel guilty towards Aiden, but I won’t allow him or anyone else to treat me this way.
Squaring my shoulders, I glare at him, but before I can say anything, Jonathan stands up abruptly, slamming both his hands on the table and meeting Aiden’s merciless gaze with one of his own.
However, Jonathan’s is more intense and the tic in his jaw enunciates it to a frightening level.
“Enough. This is the first and last time you disrespect her under my roof. Do it again and you’ll have me to answer to.”
I grab my watch to stop my shaky fingers from moving. I never thought I’d need Jonathan to stand up for me until I saw it myself.
Not that it forgives anything he’s done — and continues to do — but the fact that he won’t allow anyone, even his own son, to speak to me that way means something.
I don’t know what it is. But it does.
“Remember what you told me last year?” Aiden’s left eye twitches. “The part about how I have no respect for my mother’s memory? Who, between the two us, doesn’t have respect for her, Jonathan? Huh? Because I sure as shit am not sitting with her doppelgänger on my lap.”
His words slam into me, even though Jonathan remains unaffected. My fingers continue their quivering and I clear my throat. “I…I’m going to go.”
“Stay. This is my house and if he doesn’t like what he sees, he’ll be the one to leave,” Jonathan says with his usual authoritative tone of voice, then addresses Aiden, “After all, you didn’t hesitate to marry Ethan’s daughter.”
“Elsa. Her name is Elsa, Jonathan, and she had nothing to do with whatever feud you have with Ethan.”
Stepping backwards, I inch towards the door. Not only do I not want to be caught in the middle of a father-son quarrel, but I also don’t want to be the cause behind it. I don’t want to witness the two people Alicia loved more than the world itself go at each other’s throats.
It’s almost like a fight between a king and the rebel crown prince.
By the time I’m at the door, Jonathan throws me a disapproving glance, probably because of the way I’m leaving after he insisted I stay.
We’re different, he and I. While he doesn’t care about yelling at Aiden, I do. The scene breaks my heart.
Jonathan is an emotionless man. Or more accurately, his feelings don’t resurface, so I didn’t expect him to have a sappy father-son relationship with Aiden. But I also didn’t expect this hostility either. I thought Alicia’s early, unexpected death would’ve brought them together. Apparently not.
That sure as hell doesn’t help my guilt trip towards Aiden. Maybe things would’ve been different if I’d been there for him since the funeral.
Or if I hadn’t fucked his father.
I hang my head as I grab my bag and make a beeline towards my car. My phone dings and I smile as Layla’s name appears on the screen.
Layla: Are you late because of daddy kink?
Layla: Say yes and I’ll pay for lunch for a week.
Layla: It can even be a lie. Just say yes.
I smile and shake my head. Despite being a devout Muslim who prays five times a day, fasts during Ramadan, drinks no alcohol, has no sex before marriage, and eats no pork, Layla has the wildest fantasies, I swear.
What I love about her the most is that she isn’t afraid to let those fantasies show or to even joke about them. She also doesn’t judge how others live their lives as long as they don’t judge hers. She’s never once tried to apply her beliefs on me. Back at uni, she accepted me the way I was, scars and all, and never probed hard about my past.
The first time she brought me to her home for Eid and her family welcomed me to their table, as if I’d always belonged there, was when I found some sort of balance after struggling with it for so long.
Aurora: No.
Layla: You’re so cruel. How could you kill the fantasy so brutally? *crying emoji* X3
Biting my lower lip, I type.
Aurora: But I am sore.
Layla: I knew it!
Layla: Details, mate. Details! You can’t keep me hanging like that. The suspense is killing me here.
Aurora: I’ll be in the office in a bit.
Layla: Fine, I’ll be productive until you come. By the way, why did you leave early yesterday? Are you okay?
The memories of Stephan and the panic attack I had nearly assault me all over again.
But since Jonathan flipped me on my stomach and fucked me so thoroughly, those have been the least of my worries.
Go figure.
Ever since the day I walked into that police station and uncovered the murder of not only one woman but seven, he has been in the forefront of my mind.
He has been the first thought I wake up to every day and the last thought I sleep to every night.
Until last night.
Actually, it started after Jonathan taught me in the roughest way that my body is, in fact, not dead.
I slide into my car and place my bag on the passenger seat. When I lift my head, I’m startled by the shadow perching against my window.
Aiden. His features are still closed off like earlier. If anything, his quarrel with Jonathan seems to have turned him angrier.
Swallowing, I lower the glass. The low sound echoes in the deafening silence.
“I want you gone,” he says ever so casually, as if it can be done by merely giving a vocal order.
He’s Jonathan’s son, all right.
“I can’t.”
“What do you mean you can’t? Just disappear like you’ve been doing so well for the past eleven years.”
“I understand that you don’t like this situation, I don’t either, but —”
“If you don’t like it, then leave. No buts are needed.”
I grit my teeth. “If you’d let me finish my sentence, I would’ve told you I don’t have a choice.”
“Even if this is one of Jonathan
’s games, surely you can find a way out. I don’t care what it is as long as you stay as far away from this place as possible.” His gaze meets mine with distaste. “You might be Alicia’s doppelgänger, but I can’t even stand to look at you.”
“Why not?” My voice softens.
“Because you’re fake. You might resemble her, but you’ll never be her.”
“I’ve never tried to be Alicia.”
“Is that why you’re fucking Jonathan?”
I purse my lips to not snap at him for speaking to me this way. He must’ve inherited the entitlement gene from his father.
“He gets bored easily, you know. The moment he finally sees that he can’t get Alicia back through you, he’ll throw you out as if you never existed.”
“That’s exactly what I want, Aiden.”
He watches me peculiarly for a bit, then steps back. I take it as my cue to leave the property.
I have no doubt that I’ll face Aiden again. No idea how that will go, but I’ll make sure not to be caught in that position with Jonathan a second time.
As I drive to work, I feel eyes following me.
At first, I chalk it up to paranoia since I’ve had many false alarms in the past. Especially after the attack.
But as it stays persistent and strong, I realise that maybe, just maybe, this isn’t a false alarm after all.
25
Aurora
A few days later, I’m attending a double charity dinner organised by Layla’s local mosque and a church for orphaned children’s associations.
We do this annually. Layla and I help her mother and their neighbours cook, and then we try to invite as many rich people as possible. Meaning, many of our clients. Some appear, some send cheques, and others ignore us altogether.
It doesn’t stop us from trying, though. We still send invitations to our contact list every year and try to retarget them.
It’s the one time I’m not ashamed to spam. If someone has given me their business card, they should expect an invitation for this.
The hall we rented for the event is big enough to fit not only our invitees, but also the orphaned children, their support, and the associations who will benefit from the money we’ll raise tonight.