by Amarie Avant
“I love you, Jag. Now, tell me the names of five people you’ve worked with at the church where your mother used to assist?”
“Paul.”
“Okay… four more,” she actually has laughter in her voice. It makes me want to steal her more and force her to be mine.
“Michael. Matthew.” I shrug, the names from The Good Book my mom used to read to me as a child.
“Ha! Don’t lie, that’s a sin.”
I laugh. “I don’t know their names Mikayla. I don’t need to know there baked. I’m in town so…” my mother’s spirit will tell me how to win you back? Shit, fuck, or her God says something! I don’t know. “I’m in town for you.”
“Don’t. We both have busy lives.” She says. I wouldn’t take offense but then I glance at the flat screen television. She and Prince Fari are being mentioned on the news.
My teeth grit at the sight of him standing with her in front of the land. “I almost took a mission today.”
There’s dead air.
“If I can’t have you, might as well bathe in someone’s blood.”
“I can’t have a Hitman as a King, Jag. You have to choose.”
“Chose? You aren’t even an option, are you?” I watch as he wraps an arm around her. He gave her money for their crops. I’ve offered her help, but she took his money instead.
“What happened to fighting for me forever? Just words huh? That men say when they want to get something.”
“That’s right, uthando lwami. I want you. I crave you with every fiber in my fucking body. You keep denying me and I’ll take you the good old fashion way–”
CLICK.
My fist jets through the air so swiftly it makes a swoosh sound. Now, Prince Fari has his arm around her, the fucker is speaking of the two countries helping each other.
I power off the television.
It’s two hours before I’m supposed to be at the landing strip.
I text Trick.
ME: I’m not coming. Send my apologies to your niece.
Mikayla
I grit my teeth and cuss under my breath. It’s unbecoming for a royal, I know. But that’s what Jagger Johansson does to me.
“What’s wrong?” Trick asks, dressed in casual jeans and a shirt for once.
I rub my thumb over the armrest of the buttery soft leather chair that I’m sitting in. Outside of the tiny window is Durban, Africa. I’m so damn close to the beach city where Jagger lives, and damn it I can feel his tension. Wherever the hell he’s at.
“Jagger, he’s being his usual rude self.”
Trick glances away from me.
I scoff. “No, you didn’t tell him did you!”
“I didn’t…” he doesn’t sound convincing.
“Yeah? Well, I don’t believe you. I wanted Jagger to want to go visit your niece regardless of him being aware that I’m going or not.”
“You have my word, I didn’t tell him. Although, it’s over my head why you would not want him to know. He loves you. Would’ve been incentive.”
“What do you mean would’ve? He should be here soon, right?”
“Just got a text from him.” Trick sighs. “The bastard told me to apologize to my niece for him.”
“Bastard.” I repeat, shocked. Trick stuck his neck out for us! Who lets down a little kid?
“Bloody fucking arsehole is what he is.”
“Let’s give it a few?” I ask.
Trick slinks into the chair across from me. “I could kill him for this. I put my arse on the line for him. Missed the meeting with my niece for him. She got a field goal and I didn’t see it.”
“You have done a lot to help,” I sympathize in a murmur almost ready to cry.
This was supposed to be the test. Hell, I even gave Jagger a pass. If he knew the names of a select few people that he’s worked with at the church these past few months, then I knew it was a selfless act for him. That he gave a damn for the human race.
That he could truly love me.
But the visit with Trick’s niece was the real test. If he considered going. Just himself and Trick to support his niece, then, I really would know that Jagger was more than just an evil, vile, rude–
“What are you doing here?”
The voice is all too familiar, deep, two parts brooding, one part sexy. I glance into warm blue pools of water for eyes.
Jagger stands at the entrance of the jet, larger than life.
“You came…” I murmur.
He’s in front of my chair in seconds, on his knees. “I’m a fucking asshole. I won’t hurt you, Mikayla. It was never my intention, even from day one, to hurt a hair on your head, to see a tear fall down your cheek,” he brushes his thumb across my cheekbone. “Look, you don’t have a reason to give me a fucking chance, but I’m going to beg. I’m going to sit here on my fucking knees until you let me love you. I can’t do it with me in one place and you the other. I can’t think–”
“Actually, mate,” Trick cuts into what, so far, has been beautiful speech that I’m eating up every word of. He says, “You’re gonna have to get off your knees and sit your keister in a seat. I don’t give a damn how much bloody whining you want to do. But my niece is depending on us.”
“Okay,” Jagger stands. “I’m… I’m sorry, Trick.”
“I only ever required a thank you. My niece will take the same, in person.”
I laugh at Trick. He’s a man who leaves me speechless, at times. But right now, I’m speechless because of Jagger.
He sits down and grabs my hand. “I don’t know how to love, Mikayla. If you let me build a house down the hill from your palace—shit, I’ll even pitch a tent—I’ll learn. I just can’t be so far away from you.”
“You won’t get angry?”
“No.”
“Or threaten to murder any Navieans when they disagree with you?”
“Eh…no.”
I laugh at his response. “Don’t lie to me.”
He nods slowly and then says earnestly, “All I can promise is that I’ll try.”
It’s awkward, him in a chair beside me, but I reach over and kiss the man whose held my heart hostage from the very first day. Then our lips are pulled apart as we’re yanked back by the acceleration of the jet. Trick was serious about getting to London. I laugh at how invigorating my life has become since Jagger forced me to adore the beast. Jagger takes my hand. We have much more loving to do…
Author’s Note:
There are no words to express how much I enjoyed writing Black Queen, Dark Knight. If you enjoyed it as well, I kindly ask that you’d leave a review on Amazon. Your reviews encourage me to continue, with this passion, and they’re a welcome reprieve from my career in the mental and social health field… very challenging, high intense day to day. It’s like being a firefighter, while offering therapeutic services.
As promised, I have a gift in store for you. Actually, two gifts.:
Join my release giveaway on my Facebook Fan Page
And the second, which in my opinion is the best, just keep scrolling. I am such a big fan of assassin stories, and therefore, I thought I’d share my debut novel, and the beginning of my X Member Organization. The man who claimed my heart and never let it go was none other than Victor D’Ross. I have loved a few of my heroes since them, but Jagger is on the same level as Vic. Cold blooded exterior, with a goodness about them that is second to none. If you’ve read the FEAR series, I truly love and thank you for your support. Feel free to read it again or leave me a review on Amazon. If you haven’t read it, I am confident that you’ll love it as much as you enjoyed Black Queen, Dark Knight.
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Dammit, I love this cover! Blood splatter and all.
You are in for a treat.
Oh, bu
t before you sink your teeth into this erotic thriller, leave me a review on Amazon for Black Queen, Dark Knight.
FEAR:
Falling in love with an Alpha
Billionaire
A BWWM Billionaire Romance
AMARIE AVANT
Philophobia (Gr phillia, love + phobia, fear)
A fear of emotional attachment; fear of being in, or falling in love.
Prologue
Luxury Whitson
Twenty-eight days ago, I met Victor. If it were the month of February, then I could at least say that we knew each other for an entire month before I fell in love with him. Nope, it’s October.
Before I could stop myself, I had become lost to Victor's mesmerizing ways. It all had to do with his eyes. But this evening instead of a pair of hypnotic aquas, Victor’s pale, blue irises reach into my soul as we stand outside of a row of artsy shops in Harlem. It’s one of those nights, where the cold chills you to the core, and the full moon provides warning. If only I had taken heed to the dreariness of the evening before I decided to leave my loft. Damn, I could get lost in ‘if onlys.’
I was lost to Victor oh so easily, and all too quickly. So, for almost a month, I let my instincts come second to the desire that overtook my body at his sensual touch. Even then, Victor had this presence about him. A concoction of oxytocin, adrenaline, pheromones and sex had my mindless twenty-two-year-old self in a mindless state of bliss for the thirty-something Doctor Victor Finch. He exuded sex, and a plethora of other intense emotions.
The most provoking one being…fear.
Now, I gaze up at him, attempting to hide how well aware I am of his confidence, his ability to control my movements. My thoughts Me. Victor’s presence rules me. In that detached tone of his, crisp air flows out of his mouth as Victor asks, “Lux, do you fear me?”
Yet, that sexy British accent that drew me to him in the past no longer holds weight. I bite my bottom lip as I glance downward from Victor's thick, jet-black hair. He has sun-kissed skin and the angles of his face remind me of a lion, with those full eyebrows and brow lines, even the way they accentuate his eyes. An Italian suit drapes over every inch of his perfect muscles, like it was made only for him–even after all the physical activity of murder only a few minutes ago…
My hand grips the side of my olive-green silk dress that complements my warm, brown tone. Reddish-brown curly wisps of hair fall from the bun on top of my head. My freckled skin feels clammy and my heart is racing, though nobody’s chasing us anymore. Even in this expensive Burberry dress, I’m not half as suave as my date, as I try to catch my breath.
We’ve been running for a while. But at 4’11 and add a few more inches for my shiny black stilettos, it’s hard to keep up with his 6 foot frame as we run for dear life. Technically, I started running. My date just murdered 5 people and kept up with me. Yeah, I was really running away from Victor…
Now, the monster behind the drop, dead gorgeous Adonis god has finally composed himself. All to ask me one simple question.
“Well, do you fear me?” Victor enunciates every word, as if clarity is the most important part of this moment. Those concrete words vibrate through my chest cavity. As intelligent as the doctor is, I’m not entirely sure he's aware that our date ended at the very moment the first man’s body hit the cold asphalt.
A nanosecond after the first man’s heart had stopped beating, Victor had already claimed another soul. He murdered them all with ease. Now he wants to know if I'm afraid of him. The height factor is warning me to lie. To glance up into his eyes and say ‘no, why would you think I’m afraid of you?’—And not in some condescending tone, either. Looking into those eyes will surely be the death of me.
All the while it’s impossible to forget how he's handled my body in ways that bring tears to my eyes and causes orgasms to slide pass my thick, pink lips. But this man’s body was made to kill. Victor is a lethal weapon.
“Luxury!” Victor commands as the bright moon and starless sky casts a shadow against his thick frame. “Are you afraid of me?”
“Noooo...” My gaze slips downward in a coy ploy. Victor steps up to me. His woodsy, masculine cologne shoots hot thrills down my body, but a chill has already crept up my spine. Although, I’m playing up the vulnerable card, I quickly react. My knee goes toward royal jewels that I've knelt before, licked, sucked, tasted, and thoroughly enjoyed during our short relationship. Not even positive that I connected with his manhood, I turn quickly, almost tripping in my stilettos.
“Help!” I shout while running down the stretch of the alley. These three-inch heels, despite having given more height, are killing me. But Victor’s agile movements while murdering and the sound of the third man’s neck cracking echoes within my ears, spurring me on.
“Help!” I cry out, cold air rushing into my lungs, fighting against my will to survive. Even though any man brave enough to save me would be putting himself in danger, my pleading continues.
One of my shoes catches a pothole and frigid water splashes onto my bare legs. As I make it toward an open street, there’s a crowd of partygoers at an outdoor restaurant/club to my right. The pop music blares through the speakers. Not a single person turns from gyrating or enjoying their drinks.
My hands scissor as I try to wave down a taxi, while the freezing air stifles my bones.
“Are you okay?” a black man asks as he leaves the bar. He’s holding onto a young woman with cornrows swooped over the side of her face. She’s doing that one-two step after a few too many drinks, and here he is being the good guy. God, I need to get back with my brothers.
Oh shit, what if Victor decides to kill them too? Throat constricted, I nod vigorously, and offer the man a weak smile as the taxi comes to a stop. The black guy shrugs, and tells his girlfriend they’ll get the next cab as she giggles. When I look back, Victor is standing at the exit of the alley, less than ten yards away. Only his muscular frame is visible from the darkness. But no matter the distance, Victor can see straight through me. He always could.
I snatch open the door and hurry in. Tears stream down my freckled cheeks as I watch Victor through the rain-spotted, dirty window. His handsome face is masked by the night. But I can feel his intense gaze. I always loved the way he looked at me. Intensely. He made me believe I was the only woman in the world. Sliding down into the seat, I endeavor to be invisible.
The cab pulls away, but I don’t breathe freely yet.
My hands shake with such fierceness that it’s a feat just to reach into my bejeweled purse to grab my cellphone. While holding the iPhone in front of me, I notice a few red splotches of blood on my dress. I recall the two innocent joggers who seemed to have gotten it the worst. It is like a light switch flipped to ‘off’ in Victor’s brain. Every seed of his emotion died in that moment, as did the people who were near us.
“Where to, Miss?” The cab driver looks through the rearview mirror as we head down 138th Street.
For a second, I close my eyes, and try to remember my address. Within a jumbled haze of fear, I recall it, and then quickly tell the driver.
I take a hesitating, unsure breath as I quickly type the words into a text message: “DON’T CALL ME EVER AGAIN.” Mouth tensed, my thumb jabs the ‘send’ button. Victor isn’t the first man of my race that I've dated, but it will be a cold day in hell before my dating resume boasts another swirl!
Slumping in the sticky back seat, I try not to blink. Each time my lavender, shimmery eyelids close, I picture Victor flipping out. Not too long ago, we were rushing out of the club, kissing, rubbing and ready to fuck. Then… Those deaths were so vivid.
“Ma’am, you all right?” the driver asks, looking through the rearview window with worried eyes.
Again, I nod.
About ten minutes later, the taxi zips up to the curb of a brownstone, that houses an art gallery, a coffee shop and a discount store below my home. I take the side gate and buzz the elevator for the two-bedroom, second floor loft I share with my father.
I have the upstairs portion of our home; it has been modified for privacy. My father’s room is toward the back on the lower level. The house is a jewel and a prime piece of property in Harlem. It was an upgrade from growing up in The Bronx. The move to Harlem placed me in the middle of the most creative, diverse culture in the universe.
I should have known Dad would've still been up as I tip toe inside. Thanks to the open floor plan, Dad’s back is facing me. He’s sitting on his La-Z-Boy with its creases and worn out fabric, a tiny patch of missing hair is almost hidden behind the 57-year old’s disheveled reddish-brown Afro. I have the same hair color, but with spirally curls.
We have invested in a lot black art while living in the African Renaissance capital. There are canvases on the brick wall to my left, since the other three walls are glass; we've always alternated between figurines, clays, and a few African statues.
George and Wheezy have Dad laughing so loud it almost matches the volume of the television—he’s hard of hearing so I welcome the buffer. Silent as possible, I slip off my stilettos on the mat, step onto the glossy wood floors, and then quietly take to the free-landing staircase. My hand goes to the cool brick wall, as I inhale, and head up.
“Lux? Luxury, that you?” Dad turns around, smiling with his freckles. “Did you have fun on your date?”
Fun! It was a friggen nightmare! His simple inquiry triggers the flood gates. I burst into tears. Shit, I am halfway up the stairs.
“What did that bastard do to you?” Dad arises hastily. Besides inheriting his freckles, I'm also stunted with his height. And as with me, Victor could step on him like a bug. But Dad has high hopes for Victor and me, since Victor knew so much of my father. If my dad isn't home watching old sitcoms and laughing at the top of his lungs at something sarcastic quip Fred Sanford had made, Doctor Jonah Whitson would've been at his research office at Greco Technologies. That is where I met Dr. Victor Finch, my dad's newest associate.