by May Sage
"Let's be clear here. Callum is the brains, heart, and soul behind King Industries. I control. Maverick pushes. Callum created us, and he keeps us alive. He has the drive to purchase businesses, encourage every expansion, get us excited about every new venture. I cannot afford to saddle him with deadweight. If you were entirely unsuitable for the position, we wouldn't be having this conversation."
She shifted in her seat. "But working with someone who knows...." The words trailed off.
"Callum doesn't give a damn, Ryn." Desmond tried to explain who his brother was. “All right, so two years ago, we had an appointment he didn't really want to attend. He didn't show up. I wasn't surprised. But after leaving, I actually found him by the street outside the restaurant, sitting with a homeless guy, stroking his dog, and playing his guitar."
Ryn's mouth fell open. "You're kidding."
"He ended up with fleas on his tailor-made suit, so he gave his jacket to the homeless guy."
Ryn's little nose wrinkled and a giggle escaped her. A sweet, short, entirely involuntary sound that surprised them both. It moved something in Desmond, warming him all over. Suddenly, nothing mattered as much as hearing it again.
"By the way, his assistant's job is preventing that sort of thing from happening when the appointments are actually important. Callum is...eccentric. Very indifferent to social norms. And he has a despicable habit of finding a ridiculous nickname for just about everyone he meets." Desmond grimaced in contempt.
“He sounds okay,” she admitted. “Right. Why did he change his assistant five times in three years?”
Fair question. "The first was promoted; the second got married and resigned. The last three were moved to other departments, each time at his request."
He could see her close off.
"So, he banged them and fired them," she stated point-blank, her tone cold.
It wasn't surprising that she would come to such a conclusion, given her history.
"No, quite the opposite. They made inappropriate and unwelcome advances. My brother can be quite charming, but he simply isn't interested in anyone who works for him."
She nodded, somewhat skeptically. "Okay, fair. What's next in the Spanish Inquisition, sir?"
His eyes locked on hers. This time, she looked away, blushing. Between strangers, the little word out of her lips wouldn't have mattered, but they were both members of The Tower. He stifled a smile. "Please don't call me that again."
She liked to challenge him, but even she was too wise to ask why.
"Right. Yep. Got it. Great idea."
"Good girl," he replied with a smirk, unable to prevent himself.
Teasing her was so very natural.
Ryn rolled her eyes.
Desmond tried to focus again. “Do you have a five-year plan in mind?"
"Nope. Not yet. My world has done a one-eighty very recently, and I don't know where I'm headed quite yet."
She smiled, visibly pleased.
A giggle, first, then a smile. She'd relaxed so much over the last few minutes. Realizing why, he blurted, "Blood sugar. You were prickly when you first got here because of low blood sugar."
She rolled her eyes. "Or maybe because you're irritating." Then she admitted, "But yeah, it's probably wise not to talk to me before I've ingested any food. And caffeine."
He made a mental note, before carrying on his "Spanish Inquisition," as she called it.
"What's your weakness?"
"Loyalty. I'm very attached to the people in my life, although some have done little to deserve it."
"Your greatest strength?"
"Flexibility."
It took a lot of effort to prevent himself from remarking upon the poor choice of word, but something told him she wouldn’t appreciate a jest about how far she could bend down.
"I will adapt to situations very fast," Ryn added.
He nodded. "As a child, what did you aspire to be?"
"A painter."
He lifted a curious brow. No singer, ballerina, or actress for her.
“Oh?”
"I used to draw all the time with crappy crayons. When my father got a better job, my little sister and my mother went on shopping trips, bought some clothes and shoes. My big sister bought ballet shoes, and I bought drawing equipment. In high school art class, I discovered oil painting. I didn't stop for a decade.”
“But now, you’ve stopped painting,” he guessed.
"Three years ago," she replied without elaborating.
He needn't ask why.
Wallace Clarke was in prison, and he was staying there. He'd made Ryn a promise, and he'd kept it.
Desmond had spent all day Tuesday throwing his weight around to make sure that the asshole remained behind bars for a long time. He’d dug deep into the scum's finances with Maverick’s help. They managed to find evidence of tax evasion and fraud, for millions. Shoving those folders at the right people had ensured that the bail would be set for an amount the prick couldn't afford. His assets were frozen, and he’d lost all support. Clarke was done.
Right now, Desmond wished the man wasn't safely behind bars, with hundreds of police officers guarding him. He wished he'd kept him locked in a soundproofed dungeon in The Tower instead, and taken his time with him.
He had all the toys, tools that he'd always made use of to please his partners. But he knew just where the limit was, when pleasure became real pain—the kind his lovers didn't enjoy. That's where he normally stopped. With Wallace, he would have crossed every line.
Desmond's darkest instincts wanted to hurt him, hear him scream, see him bleed for what he'd done to the woman seated in front of him.
He lifted his Earl Grey to his lips, taking a sip.
“We have to talk about this, you know,” Ryn said, tilting her head to him.
Desmond braced himself. She wanted him to explain why he wasn’t leaving her alone, and he was ill-equipped for that particular conversation right now. He just didn’t know.
“You're functioning without coffee,” she finally said. “That’s not natural. Are you some sort of robot?”
His shoulders relaxed. Ah, caffeine. Well, that conversation he could handle, at least.
"I used to drink americanos by the bucketload in my twenties, but the caffeine rush followed by lethargy didn't suit me. I switched to tea. Typically, I drink matcha. When it’s unavailable, Earl Grey works.”
Ryn grimaced in disgust.
"I think I hate you."
He had to smile, mostly because he could tell she didn’t. "I'm sure. Now, tell me. You step into a DC movie—”
"Why not Marvel?" she demanded.
"Because DC has considerably better character crafting, and because I said so."
She was pure astonishment, eyes wide open in shock. "What's wrong with you?"
"I'm the one asking the interview questions. My rules. DC movie. Your nemesis is making you choose between saving a dog, or a human criminal. Which do you pick?"
"No one say words like nemesis," she told him, rolling her eyes. "I pick the dog."
"The person closest to your heart, or a small innocent child?"
That one made her pause. "The child."
"A nurse, or your favorite artist?"
She had to think it through again. "Do I have a Spider-Man option? Like, I jump to save one then manage to get the other one, too, just in time?"
"And this is why we're talking about DC, not Marvel. No. You must choose."
She considered it. "You want me to say the nurse. Someone who's dedicated their life to helping people and all that. That's the answer. But try living one day without art. Nothing beautiful, no music, no movie. We'll all die someday. What'll be left is what artists have immortalized. I choose the artist."
He had expected her to pick the nurse. He was glad she hadn't.
Desmond lowered his tea and finished eating his omelet in silence.
"Do I get the job?" she asked when he was done.
"It's up to Callum."
"Does Callum ever reject people you send to him?"
As his brother never had, he replied, "You got the job."
9
Fallen
Three years ago
Kathryn stared at the screen in disbelief, her mouth hanging open. In front of her eyes, a curly-haired, russet-eyed woman with gold skin was getting fucked by three men, and visibly enjoying it. A woman who looked just like her. A little thinner, perhaps. If that wasn't bad enough, it was the head of the department where she worked who was showing it to her.
At long last, the video finally stopped.
Her throat was dry, and her eyes started to water. When she managed to speak, her voice sounded hoarse.
"I know what it looks like, but that's not me," she told Wallace Clarke firmly. "My sister. We look alike, but I swear...."
Wallace walked around his desk and sat on the guest chair next to her. He tapped her knees.
"I believe you, Kathryn. You've been a model employee so far. But do you think that anyone else, anyone who doesn't know you like I do, will care about what you have to say if this goes online?"
Kathryn frowned. It wasn't online? How did he have it then?
"I can prove it, if anyone doubts it. For one, I never had breast surgery, and I have a beauty spot on my stomach."
"King Industries is a billion-dollar corporation. We operate under their umbrella. You know why? Because having a construction company that builds affordable housing looks good. The board of directors loves keeping up a positive image. This video doesn't exactly look good, Kathryn. If it gets out, I can guarantee that this company, nor any reputable business, for that matter, will not be in a position to hire you."
She controlled her breathing, attempting to focus, to make sense of the situation. Finally, she asked, "How did you get this video, sir?"
Wallace's smile made her want to vomit. "A charming young lady came to me with an offer. I have bought this video. You'll be relieved to know that there was a very tight contract: she has deleted every copy of this video and assured me that she would never make another one again. We have an iron-clad contract; she’ll need to give me my money back if she goes against it."
She stared at her boss without a word.
"What do you want?"
Wallace's hand slid from her knee, up her leg, and rested right under the hem of her skirt. She was going to be sick.
"How about you show me that beauty spot, Kathryn dear?"
It had been three years ago, and she didn't see anything else in her future. Wallace had made her his whore, his toy. And worse yet: her sister was the one who'd reduced her to this.
If she protested, went to the police, or did any such thing, Wallace would release the video. He was right; she would never be able to find another job after that. Unless she wanted to start a career as a porn star. Sometimes, she wondered if it wouldn't be better than what she lived through right now.
About two weeks before Ryn’s fall from grace, Bex was admitted into a hospital. She had a rare form of cancer, and God knew her parents couldn't pay for her care. Bex had been working temp jobs, and Medicare didn’t cover the trials that could potentially save her life. Covering the costs fell upon Ryn. If she lost her job, and couldn’t manage to find another one for a while, her sister wouldn’t get the care she needed.
It wasn’t only sex. Soon after he’d made her into his little slave, Wallace promoted her, and used her company login to steal, spy, lie, and cheat.
Some days were easier than others. Some days, she didn’t feel like jumping off a high tower.
That day had been one of the good ones, until Desmond had looked at her with those damn piercing gray eyes that seemed to see right through her, exposing all of her dirty laundry for all to see.
"Don't look away. I need to see your eyes."
She did as she was told. Whatever Desmond said, she had to obey, least he complain to Wallace about her misconduct. She’d spread her legs and suck his cock when he told her to. This was what she was now. A whore.
Sometimes, she wondered if her sister had done that to her to drag her down to her level, so she wouldn’t be the only Woodrow trash in the family.
“Good. Put your seatbelt on and let’s get out of this dump.”
The elegant townhouse in the village was hardly a dump to her, but she wasn’t Desmond King. They made their way silently to Madison Avenue in the busy evening traffic. Desmond’s attention was on the road, but she could tell that he observed her from the corner of his eye at every opportunity.
They stopped in front of an exclusive apartment complex with concierges and doormen. One of the doormen came forward, but Desmond dismissed him with one wave of his hand.
“Aren’t we going out?”
“No,” he replied, and without explaining himself, he demanded, “Tell me how long Wallace’s had you under his thumb, Kathryn.”
Terror. She’d never felt it that way. When Wallace had blackmailed her, it had been almost civilized. He’d presented his material and told her what she was going to do if she wanted to keep it under wraps. It was akin to a business transaction.
Desmond King wasn’t Wallace Clarke. His eyes said that he wanted nothing more than chaos. Destruction. He was truly dangerous, she could tell.
“Kathryn, listen to me very carefully,” his dark, sensual voice drawled. “I’m only going to say this once. I am not your enemy.”
She doubted that; he looked so angry, so threatening.
“I’ve seen the look in your eyes before. In mine. I was you, once. In the grasp of a monster, unable to walk away, frightened to try. We’ve traced money stolen from K.C. to you, but everything tells me that your scumbag of a boss is behind this. Now, we can work on a case with you, or without you. One of these options ensures that you’ll have me on your side, no matter what. Your call.”
Your call. When was the last time anything had been up to her? She looked away, toward the slow-moving traffic, and this time, Desmond let her.
“I didn’t steal any money. Not for me. Wallace made me.”
“What does he have on you?”
“Never mind that. That’s my problem. I’ll help, but I have a condition. He has to be arrested, right away. Arrested, and kept in prison. He can’t come out and get to me. Deal?”
Those maddening eyes stayed on her; she felt their heat, although she was still staring out the window, away from him.
“Deal.” On that note, he undid his seatbelt, and hers. “Come on up.”
She hesitated for just an instant.
“Let’s get something straight right away. I will never put my hands on a person who doesn’t welcome my advances. Not now, not ever. Come on up. So we can talk.”
10
New Page
Now
She had to give him this: Desmond hadn't lied. Callum King was a workaholic, and a slave driver to boot.
Ryn glanced at the time before answering her phone. Four in the morning.
"Katharina, are you available?"
He also hadn’t been joking about Callum’s inclination for asinine nicknames.
There was only one suitable answer to that question. "Yes, sir."
"Meet me at the office. Hong Kong got back to me about the extension deal."
Oh, shit. "Good news?" she hazarded hopefully.
She'd been thrown right in the deep end when she'd started working for him three weeks ago: he'd fired his assistant at the beginning of a long-term plan to open a Hong Kong subsidiary of King Pharmaceuticals. Now Callum was knees-deep into it. It took a while to catch up and understand the industry's jargon, but after spending most of her working hours studying the project, Ryn felt involved. Callum's enthusiasm was contagious; he had a way of making people think that their work would directly affect the outcome of the deal. It would be a personal failure if it didn't go through.
"It's a clusterfuck. I want to get back to them with a counterproposal by the end of their working day—in two hours."
She'd met Callum the day after Desmond had finished his weird breakfast interview. The middle King brother was, if possible, more inscrutable than the first. He talked, explaining the gist of his current project, and asked her to type it up. When she was done, he read over her notes, before handing her his schedule for five minutes. He took his planner back, and asked her to recall all of the appointments she could remember. Ryn didn't think she'd ever been that stressed; these tests on precision and memory always sucked, but the long-haired, dark-eyed King's eyes seemed to take in every single thing about her, and find her lacking.
She was pretty certain he'd tell her to fuck off, but at the end of the interview, Callum sighed and told her, "You're starting now. Pick up a laptop and a phone down at HR after signing your contract. Be ready by twelve, we're driving to Westbrook's."
Ryn had bitten her lip. She didn't know who Westbrook was, but she was pretty certain she wasn't dressed for it. Executive assistants to men like Callum King wore smart, perfectly pressed power suits, not white jeans and red blouses. That was the nicest thing she'd found in her personal closet.
Wallace had gotten her to bring all of her work clothes to his place. He'd thrown away most of it, the suits he didn't approve of, and bought her a new wardrobe, mostly composed of low necklines, tight fabrics, and shorter skirts. As slutty as business suits could be.
She hadn't even tried to see if she could recover them. She was sitting on her last paycheck from K.C., but that money was going out of her account in just a few days to pay for Bex’s care. Now she wished she'd bought herself at least one business suit, although none of what she could have afforded would have been suitable to accompany a King.
At HR, she read through the contract a short, attractive man pushed her way four times, out of habit, trying to see if she found anything suspicious.
In all honesty, the contract was good. Too good to be true. It was a permanent position, they took into consideration her five years with the firm, and gave her a series of benefits that made her head spin: a business credit card, access to professional drivers, the apartment, an allowance for clothes and business meals. Her heart sank.