Hail to the King

by May Sage

  He shrugged. “I don’t read comics, so they’re not trampling over one of my favorite universes. Besides, I generally attend the premieres.”

  Of course he did. Show-off.

  She was almost feeling like herself by the time he parked his car. Desmond didn't try to make her talk about the elephant in the room, not even mentioning Wallace. The movie was fun, and when they were done, they walked aimlessly toward Central Park, rather than heading right for his car.

  "Do you often go to the theater?" he asked.

  She shook her head. She hadn't had the time, money, or energy to do anything like that for a while now.

  "No, I think this was my first trip to the movies this year."

  He shook his head. "You'll have to catch up. There were good movies out this year. And riveting Netflix originals, too.”

  She had to shake her head. "Way to make yourself sound like a human being, Mr. Billionaire."

  He smiled briefly. "I learned a long time ago that working non-stop without any form of entertainment is taxing and counterproductive. I go to the theater, watch movies, and eat out."

  "And hang out in a BDSM club," she added, regretting it immediately.

  Why couldn't she stop challenging him? The guy was being nice to her.

  "That, too," he added with a shrug. "A lot of people do it. The Tower is just a little more selective in its attendee list. Besides, The Tower mostly counts as work. My brothers and I manage the administrative side of things."

  She snorted, pretty sure she could recall seeing Callum doing things that most definitely didn't count as administrative duties in the past.

  "Mostly," he repeated. Desmond hesitated. "I'm certain your experience will have colored The Tower in a certain light, but we work to make it a safe environment where consenting adults play, guiltlessly. Your case..." it took him a while to find his words. "I believe your case is entirely isolated. However, I intend to talk to my brothers about setting up interviews with any member who seems to have been forced in any way."

  She nodded, because she couldn't find what to say. "Thanks, but that didn't help me?" "Too bad that wasn't your policy like, three years ago?"

  What had happened to her wasn't his fault at all, and she refused to take it out on him. She wasn't that girl. But fuck, she definitely wanted to take it out on someone, or something. She needed to scream, yell, punch.

  "What's on your mind?" he asked, studying her face closely.

  Ryn smiled. "I was considering investing in a punching bag when I can afford one," she explained.

  That somehow made him frown. "You earn a fair wage as a senior executive assistant in one of our firms."

  She shrugged. “I have…” what was the word? “Responsibilities.”

  Desmond turned to her. “Are you in trouble, Ryn?”

  She chuckled. “Understatement. But I manage.”

  “You don’t,” he told her. “But we’ll see that you’re compensated after the trial. Wallace is going to have to fork out a lot of money in damages and—”

  She should have seen it coming. Of course. That was why he was taking her out to the movies and walking with her.

  "You'll shove some my way so I keep my mouth shut," she finished for him, her tone holding some venom. "Didn't it cross your mind that I'd keep my mouth shut anyway, because I don't want to be portrayed as a boss-shagging slut in front of the entire world?"

  Desmond turned to her, sharply. "That's not what I said, Ryn."

  "You know what? Forget it. Thanks for the drive, the walk, the movie. We're done. Have a nice life."

  She walked away, refusing to admit that she'd felt a little bit better for a moment. All while he'd been playing an angle. She had to walk away with what was left of her pride before he got to her. Whatever money he offered her, she wasn't going to touch it. It would have been basically being paid for three years of sex. Not happening.

  25

  Scars

  Now

  Ryn paced in her apartment, noticing how empty and impersonal it was for the first time; it could have been just about anyone's place. Beige walls, a brown fabric sofa with brown cushions, basic appliances. She hadn't decorated it, hadn't added so much as a throw on the sofa or a candle atop a console. As if she'd known she didn't quite belong here. As if she'd known she'd be asked to leave.

  And yet, although she'd done nothing to make this place hers, she liked it. How could she not? It was the nicest place she'd lived in since her teenage years. There was a doorman and a concierge, and she even had a bit of a view from the twelfth floor. The building was new, and the large elevator had always worked. She didn't have to think about the neighbors, to wonder if they'd decide to come knocking in the middle of the night. She was safe.

  Ryn started to hyperventilate. She was safe, but what would be in store for her next? She was a month ahead on Bex's payments for once, but what about the month after that?

  She told herself to breathe. Callum was a man of his word, and he'd promised her a fair severance, taking into consideration the five years she'd spent working for King Industries. Besides, he'd also mentioned that she could be moved to another subsidiary of the company. She hadn't been canned. Not exactly.

  Why did it feel like it, then? Like she'd failed, somehow. Given up too fast.

  She got up without knowing where her feet would lead her and headed to the one corner of the living room that seemed alive.

  There was a blank canvas on the easel. Feeling ridiculously secure thanks to the indulgent paycheck she'd received twice, she'd splurged on a bit of equipment. Refusing to feel guilty about spending a few hundred dollars on herself for the first time in years, Ryn pushed aside all logic, put some music on, and grabbed a paint brush.

  She had no idea how much time she spent in her zone, when an obnoxious sound pulled her out of it. She frowned. No one ever rang her bell. In the month since she'd lived here, she'd literally not had one visitor.

  Ryn headed to the intercom and picked it up.

  "Hello?"

  "Ms. Woodrow, it's Robbie down at the front desk."

  The doorman in charge tonight. She breathed out, glad for the extra level of security.

  "Hi, Robbie. Did I get a delivery?"

  "No, ma'am. I have a Mister King for you, asking if he may come up."

  Her eyes widened. Once glance at her phone told her it was almost midnight already. What did Callum want with her at this time of the night? Then she remembered: it was Callum. She doubted the man ever slept at all.

  "Sure. Let him in."

  Strange that she felt so very safe at the thought of her boss coming inside her home. Five weeks. It had only been five weeks since one King had burst into her mess of a life, and thrust her into the path of another King. Just a month. After three years of torment, it shouldn't have been sufficient, but somehow, it was. Ryn had desperately grabbed onto Desmond with both hands, putting her faith in him when he'd promised a way out of her nightmare. He'd delivered. He'd also promised that his brother was honorable, and she'd believed him. It was as simple as that. She trusted them. Which also explained why she felt so hurt and lost now that Callum had pushed her aside.

  She wondered what was more embarrassing: the way she let herself depend upon quasi-strangers, or the fact that she harbored a crush on one of them.

  Ryn refused to let herself feel bad right now. What did it matter? In a few weeks, she'd be on the other coast, or even on another continent. She glanced at the mirror in her entryway and tried to smile at her reflection. Not very convincing, but at least she wasn't crying.

  Her doorbell rang, and she opened the door.

  Ryn froze in place, speechless, with her mouth hanging open.

  Wrong King.

  "Ryn."

  She forced herself to close her mouth, swallow her saliva, and speak. "Desmond." Her voice sounded hoarse to her own ears.

  Desmond King was standing on her "you better have tacos" welcome mat, a champagne bottle in his hand.


  "I'm afraid I'm currently short on tacos. Do you accept Dom Perignon as an alternative?"

  She stepped aside. "No tacos necessary. Err—come in. Sorry about the mess."

  She wouldn't have called her place messy in front of anyone else, but she'd seen his spotless apartment. There were a couple of plates and glasses in her sink, and she'd left her tea mug out on her coffee table. And of course, her corner was a mess of colors. She'd been careful enough to cover the floor with plastic to avoid staining.

  Ryn blushed self-consciously when she remembered that the painting she'd started to clear her mind was in plain view. She didn't even know what it looked like; it hadn't been about making something pretty.

  Of course, Desmond zeroed in on the easel the moment he walked in.

  He contemplated it for a long time; too long. At least, he wasn't laughing at her, like Callum.

  "Am I interrupting your work?" he asked, a frown between his brows.

  "No, don't worry about it, I was just messing around," she replied, looking down at her hands and folding them nervously when she saw she had paint all over her fingers.

  One of his brows arched.

  "What can I do for you?" she asked, eager to change the subject.

  Desmond lifted the bottle in his hand. "I heard you've resigned. Callum didn't say much, but I understand you intend to leave town. I saw he attached a transfer form to your severance package."

  She breathed in, out, and nodded. "It's for the best. There are...memories here. Things I can't stop thinking about. Except when I'm painting, I guess."

  "And you truly believe that running away to Hong Kong or San Francisco is going to stop your memories, or stop you from thinking, Kathryn?"

  She looked away from his intense stare. She didn't like the sound of her full name on his lips, after he'd called her Ryn so often. It sounded harsh and forbidding. What did he want her to say, that it wasn't her own idea? That his brother had all but shoved her out the door? But in the hours since she'd discussed it with Callum, she'd started to understand what he was trying to do.

  "Callum said he cared about my well-being. I did my best to hide it, but he saw that I was spiraling. I can't do my job properly here. He also said that my getting out of town was probably good for you."

  My brother and I have very little empathy toward the rest of the world. Maverick escaped it, but we’re absolute assholes. We do not pity. Not our style. I can get you out of New York, because I care about your well-being, and because I want to protect my brother.

  None of that quite made sense to her still, but she got the gist of it. Desmond had shown an interest in her, and Callum wanted to make sure she didn't take advantage of his generosity. Her chest constricted in pain every time she replayed those words. Partially because she'd believed Callum had become a friend of sorts. Maybe friend wasn't the right word; he was her boss, and he certainly acted like it, but he'd seemed to like her well enough. She should have seen his praises for what they were: empty flattery.

  "Ryn, look at me."

  She kept staring down, somewhat defiantly.

  "Ryn." Desmond closed the distance between them and lifted his hand to her face, gently tilting her chin up with his index finger. "I came here to congratulate you and wish you well on your journey. I expected you'd be relieved. But you're sad, pissed, and lost. Talk to me."

  "Why?" she shouted, pushing his hand away. "It's my life, my problems, my messed-up mind. Why the hell do you care?" She walked away, grabbing her empty cup and heading to the kitchen, starting to wash her dishes, just so she had something to do with her hands. A reason to look away from him.

  He followed, so Ryn continued.

  "We're not friends. We don't know each other. We live in worlds so different we might as well be in different stratospheres. Why does it matter what I do?"

  "Because you made me, okay!" he practically shouted.

  She turned back to him, frowning. For the very first time, Desmond didn't seem poised, calm, and collected. He'd raised his voice. Right now, his perfect features betrayed frustration and exasperation, no doubt mirroring hers.

  "I've destroyed empires, stone by stone. You were with Callum today when we took over a company for fun. We'll fire dozens, if not hundreds, of employees, just like that. My brothers and I take what we want, and make no apology for it. It's just business. Everything is business. You should have been, too. But you messed that up."

  She opened her mouth, unsure what would come out of it, because she was entirely lost. Desmond wasn't finished though. He stepped forward. "You clung to me and cried. I'm a shark. I'm a Dom. I'm a sadist. You know that, and yet, you trusted me. You let yourself be vulnerable in front of me. Kathryn, I care because you forced me to."

  Ryn closed her mouth, thought things through, before telling him, "That doesn't make sense and you're weird as fuck."

  He laughed, running his hand through his neatly combed silky hair.

  "Be that as it may, here I am. I don't want you to go; not now. What you need is help and support, from your friends, your family, and you're not going to get that on the other side of the continent."

  She sighed. "Callum suggested the transfer. Honestly, he has a point. I'm okay when I work, or when I distract myself with painting, but...."

  She bit her lip. No way was she sharing what was happening to her. Not with him, Mr. Perfect.

  Desmond leaned on the breakfast bar, while slowly undoing the cufflinks of his left sleeve. She watched the whole thing, confused, but refusing to question him because his movements were strangely fascinating, and somewhat sensual. No way was she risking his stopping whatever he was up to. He pulled his sleeve up, and folded it around his elbow. Ryn gasped. Holy fuck. How and why was this so fucking hot? It was just a hairy forearm, for heaven's sake! But somehow seeing the tight muscles and the bare skin made her flush like a teenager. Suddenly, she got the whole thing about women showing ankles back in the day. Seeing hints of flesh unexpectedly was incredibly beguiling.

  This time, it was she who stepped forward to stand in his personal space. She grabbed his arm and stared at it in silent horror. Then her eyes returned to Desmond, full of questions. The inside of his arm was marred by faded scars, horizontal cuts along his wrist.

  "Don't fret. It's been almost two decades since I hurt myself. But I know how this story goes. Self-hatred, self-disgust, emptiness. Scar tissue inside and out. Let it fester too long, and it'll never disappear."

  "Desmond...."

  "Here is how it's going to go. I'm going to tell you one thing about my demons, my scars, and you'll tell me one thing about yours."

  She continued staring at him, one question still clear in her mind. Why was he doing this? Really. Desmond fucking King had other places to be on a Thursday night.

  Then she realized one thing. It didn't matter. She wanted to know everything about those scars. She wanted to know if they'd truly disappeared. Because if he'd been truly damaged, like her, and had somehow managed to pull through it, there was hope for her, too.

  "Okay, but we're going to need something stronger than sparkly wine if we're going there."

  26

  Different Strokes

  This was a terrible idea. An hour after he'd proposed the asinine game, Ryn's cheap bottle of bourbon was well on its way to being empty, and she knew him better than anyone alive, his brothers included.

  The deal had been one fact about him, one fact about her, but he didn't want to know her favorite band; he wanted her to open up her wounds, tell him about what hurt inside, let him in deep so he could pull her out of the pit. He knew that wouldn’t happen until she trusted him, until she knew just how much he could understand her. So he told her about Mireille. Everything he remembered, from the woman's smiles, her scent, her laugh, to what had happened to her when they'd been kidnapped. He shared all the details. Ryn didn't interrupt, and didn't move unless it was to top his glass up. She'd been right. Champagne wouldn't have cut it for this particular discussion.<
br />
  The story wasn't about telling her the shit he'd dealt with, however.

  “I saw professionals about moving on, for years. Decades, really. All of them assured me I could move past it, that I could be normal. They lied. Normal people worry about bills and dating. That's not me. Never could be, after that. My path diverged from normalcy, and trying to fit back in a normal box killed me. So, I distracted myself however I could.” He lifted his left arm, still bare. “This was just one of the ways. Somehow, pain let my mind go blank. So did alcohol, drugs, fighting—” He interrupted himself. “Let's just say your painting is a hell of a lot healthier than what I resorted to. But I was a child. You're smarter, more mature. That doesn't mean you have to magically be okay with everything, Ryn.”

  She took a minute to collect her thoughts before saying, “I'm mostly okay. Really. Knowing that he's behind bars has helped tremendously. There's just....”

  Her voice trailed off, and her whiskey eyes dropped to her nails again.

  Desmond truly hated her submissive demeanor. It wasn't born of a desire to be dominated; it was shame, fear, and uncertainty.

  "Well?" he prompted, doing his best to remain where he stood.

  It wouldn't do to tilt her head up again. He hadn't been able to help himself the first time, but he had to keep his distance. He was here as a friend. Nothing more.

  “Is it what he's blackmailed you about?” Desmond guessed.

  Ryn sighed, and shook her head. “No, not just that. I mean, it could come back to ruin my life again, but my problem isn't the what ifs. It's what's happening to me now. I hated what he's turned me into. I hated being his whore, his toy to play with and give away. I've never felt so dirty, so disgusting as when he touched me. And yet, I feel...” she bit her lip, leaving it at that.

  Oh, hell. Desmond stared at the door, every inch of his being screaming at him. He needed to get the fuck out of there. But he couldn't. She'd opened up. If he retreated now, it wouldn't happen again; not with him, maybe not with anyone else.