King’s Captive

by Amber Bardan

So maybe I understated, but Dad certainly needn’t know about that.

  Joel reaches my side.

  “Crap, I forgot to put lipstick on.” I turn with a bounce. Nope, not chickening out. I make a beeline toward the driveway. Truly, it’s better for Dad not to have a direct visual of his little girl when Joel admits to the heinous violation of putting his inferior lips on mine. I jog toward the front of the house. Poor guy’s going to be on night duty forever. He won’t get sacked, though. You don’t recruit people for the kind of lifestyle Dad and his guys lead, with their loyalty and codes, and then sack someone when they fuck up.

  Nope, you don’t sack them.

  I round the corner.

  You punish them.

  A man stands in the driveway behind the roses. My steps slow. Haven’t seen him before. There’d be no forgetting him.

  He watches me approach, hands in pockets of gray suit pants, almost as though he’s been waiting all morning for me to come to him. I stop, the wide branches of a rosebush separate us. He slides off sunglasses, and tucks them into his inside breast pocket. My attention follows his hand, catching on his open shirt collar. There’s a tattoo springing from that shirt. A snake head rising like a coil of smoke out of the green leaves of an apple tree. Never seen ink like this. Unsettling and beautiful. I catch my breath. Must have walked faster than I thought.

  “Sorry I’m late.”

  I get stuck on his eyes. They’re so bright, it’s tricky to look right at them. I’m staring. I probably shouldn’t stare at a man like this.

  He breaks free a rose low on a stem, then circles the bush. “Happy birthday.”

  He extends the rose. It’s so gorgeous, this frilly antique rose, half-cream and tinged with pink. It’s also my rose already.

  Of course.

  Benjamin Carlisle...

  I look him over. He’s big, and rough, and the sight of him sends warmth fluttering to my core. I’m not pissed at Dad so much anymore.

  I take the rose between thorns. I mean, I’m not planning the wedding, but I’ll be up tonight imagining the honeymoon.

  “So, you’re late to my party, and instead of bringing a gift you mutilate my favorite rosebush right in front of me.” I bring the rose to my nose and look up at him. “Takes balls.”

  His expression shifts, not quite a smile. He’s examining me a lot harder than I examined him. Heat creeps to my cheeks.

  Maybe he came here under duress. Flirt with the spoiled rich girl with the important daddy. But he’s changing his mind about wanting to be here. The rose in my hand tells me as much.

  The way his gaze sucks me in tells me more.

  I’ve been called pretty since I was a kid. No one ever called me sexy. He’s calling me sexy right now, just not out loud. Seduction enters his expression in the squint of his gaze, the softening of his jaw. Nearly enough to make a good girl strip on the spot.

  And I’m not even much of a good girl. At least not by choice.

  “I’m Sarah.” I extend my hand.

  His entire being shifts—a flinch like someone taking a bullet—then it’s gone. He takes my hand before I can move it away.

  “I don’t think I’m going to call you that.”

  My limbs stiffen. Tingles run from my enveloped palm into my shoulder. His eyes don’t leave mine. He steps closer.

  My chin rises to hold his gaze. “What do you think you’ll be calling me, then?”

  His expression heats. My spine bends a little toward him. No man has ever looked at me quite like this.

  My skin sensitizes, alert as though it’s separate from the rest of my body. There’s sweat on my upper lip and a chill on my shoulders.

  He reaches for me, fingers on the back of my neck, thumb on my jaw.

  It’s an odd way to touch a stranger—proprietary.

  Inappropriate.

  My breath speeds up, a nervous thrill jolting through me.

  His cheek pulses, and his fingers tighten on the back of my head, his expression straining like he’s lifting weights. I can’t tell if he’s going to kiss or attack me.

  My vision sharpens, and I know the wicked truth.

  I want both.

  Want him to press me up behind the house and raise my skirt. Touch me roughly. He leans in and his breath meets mine, and rushes into my lungs.

  My pussy floods, an almost embarrassing slickness.

  The taste of his breath is as familiar to me as my own, even though we’ve never met. Maybe because I’ve fantasized about this for so long.

  His burning gaze seems to compel my thighs open.

  Fantasized about a man who wouldn’t be afraid to take what he wanted. Who wouldn’t care what my father thought. Who’d take me from this ranch where I’ve been so fucking alone...

  “Sarah.”

  I jerk back, out of Benjamin’s grasp.

  Dad jogs toward us. He doesn’t jog—ever. He rarely calls me Sarah. “Go sit with Mrs. Carlisle.”

  Dad’s entire torso expands with his breaths. “You... What are you doing?”

  “Julius King,” says the man who’s apparently not Benjamin Carlisle.

  He eases back from me only slightly, but his body language has shifted light-years. The way his jaw snaps is vicious. He doesn’t extend his hand to Dad the way he did me. “I thought it was time we met in person. Our business won’t be delayed any longer.”

  “Sarah, I said go sit with Mrs. Carlisle.” Dad’s face matches the crimson of his neck.

  I look between the men, then take a step toward the garden.

  Julius grabs my arm, just above the elbow, almost like the way I’d taken my dad’s earlier, except there’s no affection in this gesture. “I’ll join you. It was quite the drive to get here and I’m thirsty.”

  He leads me toward the tables.

  “You can’t be here,” Dad shouts. “What are you doing?”

  My legs turn brittle, as though my muscles have lost elasticity. I glance over my shoulder at Dad.

  “What does it look like, I’m joining the party.”

  Julius escorts me to the table. There’s something in his movements now, a brittle edge that wasn’t there before. I tug my arm. His grip tightens. I look at him under the screen of my eyelashes. He meets my gaze. I hold the stare. His hand opens and I slide free, resisting the need twitching in my thighs to speed up.

  “Joel,” Dad calls. “Frisk him.”

  I smooth my dress over my backside and lower myself into the seat next to Mrs. Carlisle.

  “Let’s make this a little easier.” Julius flicks the button on his jacket and holds one side open, revealing a holster on his hip.

  Joel steps forward, shotgun in his left hand, and reaches for the holster with his right. He pauses, glancing at Julius before yanking out the handgun.

  Julius rebuttons his jacket, then pulls back a chair, and seats himself at the head of the table.

  Dad doesn’t sit. “You shouldn’t have come here.”

  “I’d have to say I disagree.” Julius motions to Brice, one of Dad’s regular staff, who’s on serving duty, carrying a teapot. Brice fills Julius’s cup, then fills mine and Mrs. Carlisle’s too.

  Steam curls from my favorite teacup.

  “Sit, Anthony.” Julius leans forward, takes a scone and cream puff from a platter and places them on a china plate.

  Dad’s fists close at his sides.

  “I really didn’t think it’d take you this long to figure things out.” Julius sucks icing sugar from his thumb, then his index and forefinger. He sucks with lips too wide for a man. They’re the only touchable part of his face.

  “But now you have, it’s time we wrap up our outstanding business.” He wipes his hands on a napkin next to his plate. “You took something of mine and

I’ve come to take it back.”

  Dad’s staff, a handful of the thirteen men that call this homestead home, drift toward the table.

  “You have no idea what you’re doing.” Dad’s voice cracks like a whip.

  Mrs. Carlisle wipes her face on a napkin. “We’ll make it another time, Anthony?”

  Dad keeps his attention fixed on Julius. “Of course, Silvia, I’ll speak to you tonight.” There’s something about the way he says her first name. Familiarity.

  I glance between them.

  Mrs. Carlisle rises.

  “Why don’t you sit back down,” Julius says without looking at her.

  She plops right back down onto her backside.

  Dad scowls, giving a sharp nod to Joel.

  Joel shoves the handgun in the waistband of his pants and raises the shotgun, points it right at Julius’s chest.

  I shoot to my feet. “Dad.”

  Julius butters his scone, then tosses the knife onto a plate. The clatter rings clear and sharp through the now-silent garden. “Let’s pretend that you don’t know exactly why I’m here and I’ll spell it out.”

  Violence sizzles from Julius. It’s like the dry vibration of a rattlesnake.

  “Joel, take this shit head to the north barn. I’ll deal with him in a minute.”

  My pulse leaps, the hair on the back of my neck tingles.

  I glance at Dad. Doesn’t he see it, doesn’t he feel it? His expression twists in a way I’ve never seen before—and I’ve always known my father’s temper.

  That anger’s tampering with his senses.

  Julius stands slowly. The barrel of the shotgun catches on the button of his jacket. He doesn’t take his gaze from my father. “I didn’t come for blood, but if that’s what you want, I am more than willing to give it to you.”

  “Dad.” My heel wobbles on the grass. “I think we should ask Mr. King to leave.”

  “Go inside, Sarah,” Dad barks without a glance at me.

  Dad’s staff Jim and Pete, followed by Brice, reach us, closing a circle around the table.

  Look. At. Me.

  Dad stares at Julius. If he looked at me, he’d see. Dad knows me, he’d recognize the warning in my eyes if he looked at me. It’d crack through that pride. But there’s a tunnel between the two men, everything outside the tunnel’s disappearing.

  I take a step and close the foot of space between me and Julius, then rest my hand on his shoulder. He turns his head, looks at me even when there’s a gun pointed at his chest.

  I blink but don’t look away from those strange eyes. “Please, Julius, I’d like you to leave.”

  Half his mouth rises to one side. “Sorry, baby, but there’s business to be done.”

  “Don’t speak to her.” Dad points a twitching finger at Julius, then cocks his head at Jim.

  Jim seizes Julius’s arms, yanks them behind him. Joel steps back and lifts the gun skyward. Dad makes a fist. I jerk my hand from Julius. Dad swings, his fist ramming Julius’s middle.

  I squeak, but Julius doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move a muscle. He takes a breath, then breathes it out. Kind of like a sigh. “Bad decision, Anthony.”

  Dad glances to me. “I said get the fuck inside, Sarah.” He glanced but he’s not looking, not seeing. Dad unbuttons and rolls up his sleeves.

  My heart goes wild, pulse trembling the skin at my neck.

  I’ve never seen Dad do this. His face is twisted, vacant of something that’s always there when he’s with me. He’s getting ready to do the things I’ve spent most of my life pretending he doesn’t really do.

  “Don’t do this. Just let him leave.” I step in front of Julius King. Put my body between him and my dad.

  Stare my father down.

  Dad’s always been impulsive. He’s impulsive now. I’ve always been the one who keeps him grounded. This shouldn’t be happening. Not on my birthday. Not in my home. Not with my dad and not to Julius. Most especially not in front of Mrs. Carlisle.

  But Dad’s still not seeing me.

  “Don’t do this,” I repeat.

  “Take her inside, Joel.”

  Joel reaches for me with his free, unarmed hand. I glance at Mrs. Carlisle. She leans back in her chair, watching the entire thing and drinking her tea.

  I frown. How can she look so calm?

  Joel’s hand closes on my wrist, and he yanks me forward.

  “Dad!”

  I’ve ceased to exist. He doesn’t look at me. He’s shutting me out.

  Maybe I’ve always been excluded, because I’ve never seen anything like this.

  A crack splits the air behind me.

  Joel’s eyes widen. He drops my wrist. I leap back. Jim slumps to the ground. Dad shouts, and the world slows.

  Joel raises the shotgun.

  Julius’s hand closes over the barrel before it can touch his chest. He moves in a blur. The butt slams into Joel’s face. Blood sprays, then there’s a click. Julius has the handgun from Joel’s pants, and now it’s back in his hand—blunt end shoved against my father’s forehead.

  Chapter Eight

  Sound ripples through the garden. Must be Sunday. The air is still, not a ruffle of breeze, except for that vibration. The chime fades and another rises in its place. The gentle sound of a new week beginning.

  On the swing under a tree, surrounded by everything beautiful, the plants and flowers, hedges and lawn, the scent of the sea, I know why there’s a church here.

  Why people once came here, married in the pretty chapel, why they needed bells to ring.

  Even if I can’t understand why it still chimes every Sunday.

  The tension in my veins expands, tightening in my chest. Unless even this sound is part of the way he plays me. The last hum washes over me. I slide my feet off the swing and rub my arms. This week is different to others, the ring of church bells not marking time, but counting it down.

  Three weeks—less than three weeks.

  I rise and stalk across the garden. Halt at the sight of Julius’s lone figure striding through the chapel’s open doors. A bitter laugh rises in my throat. Now, that’s what I call blasphemy.

  Julius—the snake—walking into church.

  I follow the path to the front of the chapel.

  It’s the sweetest chapel you’ve ever seen. Sandstone, big wood doors, stained-glass angels in the windows. I’ve never been inside. It’s always locked except for Sundays when the bells ring. But today I step toward the open doors. I want to see, need to know what he does in there. My fingers meet the solid wood frame of the archway. My gaze shoots like an arrow let loose clean down the center aisle.

  My heartbeat flutters my chest.

  Of all things I expected it wasn’t this. Stockpiles of weapons, crates of guns, mountains of filthy drugs—those are the things that should fill this church. For it to be Julius King’s church, that’s the only way I can wrap my mind around him being in here.

  I scan the chapel corner to corner. Stumble through the door. Rows of pews, a long carpet flowing down the aisle and Julius.

  Julius King on his knees. I grip the back of a pew. His head is bowed.

  What the hell is he doing?

  He can’t be. But he is. He’s praying.

  This place was never meant to be all that holy. It’s an amenity. An arrangement of stone and brick, built to look pretty and host a civil service, one that visitors paid money for. That’s why it’s here, why it was built. Yet here and now, I watch the devil pray.

  A rustle of black fabric draws my attention from Julius. If I thought that it wasn’t possible for the shock halting my breath to be more complete, the sight that meets my eyes sucks every last molecule of oxygen from my lungs.

  Pa steps from the back room in priest robes.

  Goddamn actual priests robes.

  He carries a plate and a cup. My hands slide on the wood between my fingers. They must be having a dress-up lunch. Because that possibility, as ludicrous as it may be, beats the hell out of the one I’m actually seeing.

  For a few long moments I see exactly nothing. Just a series of movements I hardly process. Then Julius opens his mouth, and Pa places something on his tongue—the body of Christ, if I remember right from school.

  How does the building not catch fire?

  Really, if there’s a God, shouldn’t he be doing some serious biblical smiting right now?

  I’d appreciate some smiting.

  Julius takes a cup next, a cup of blood isn’t it supposed to be? Blood and wine—blood and tea. Almost the same.

  His head tilts back and he drinks. I taste them in my own mouth, on my own tongue. Copper and sweetness hitting the back of my throat.

  I back away, bumping into the rear wall before turning and running through the doors into the sunlight. Fresh air fills my lungs and I take in big restoring mouthfuls.

  Julius is religious.

  He believes in God. Any faith I might have had flows out of me. I can’t reconcile this. Or at least I can’t reconcile how he reconciles this. Has he not heard God’s stance on killing people?

  Not too sure, I never did listen much to the nuns, but I’d say he’s not too keen on blackmail and holding people prisoner either. How does a person do what he does, then go to church? Pray like a devout. Take a sacrament. Why does he come?

  For absolution?

  I turn slowly, look back at where I came from. Brush hair out of my eyes.

  No, you have to be sorry for absolution.

  * * *

  I hover at the edge of the path, around the corner from the veggie patch. The place I can’t seem to move myself past. Not sure if I want the bitterness burning my veins spilling out. Not sure I’ll be able to stem the flow.

  By this time on a Sunday I’m usually gardening with Pa.

  Yanking out the old man’s weeds and keeping his garden in order, because I’m really very sweet like that. Even if he is an evil old sack of bones who doesn’t deserve my sympathy.

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