King's Horses

by Lana Sky

  It’s such a sick, twisted thought. And when he stiffens, I know the awful truth.

  “You wanted it to happen, didn’t you?” Disgust makes my voice shake, but he doesn’t even blink.

  “And if I did?”

  “You wouldn’t…” Pain claws through my chest and I’m forced to brace one hand against the desk, clutching at the fabric over my heart with the other. The answer is clear in his silence: yes, he would. “So was this all just an act, then?” My throat tightens, choking my voice. “Why?”

  “How could I trust you?” He sounds so damn calm. Composed. “You run from me at the gala. You scream at me at the Haven event. You accuse me of abuse. And I’m supposed to believe you’ll willingly let me touch you in public? Hold you? Don’t be so naïve, Snow. I needed you to trust me again—”

  “Naïve?” God, he makes that word sound like some magic spell that excuses his actions. Maybe I am. For one brief second, I actually thought we could…

  What? Start over?

  Fighting back moisture building behind my eyes, I change tack. “You want me to trust you, but then you lie to me…” Damn it. I’m crying. Tears fall hard, and I taste salt as I attempt to swipe them away.

  Warmth grazes my chin. His finger?

  “Don’t fucking touch me!” I stagger to the opposite end of the room, ensuring that a leather armchair stays between us. “How could you plan something so sick? It’s almost like…” Then a sudden suspicion creeps into my thoughts. No. He wouldn’t go that far…would he? As insane as it sounds, I have to voice the accusation out loud. “It’s almost like you released the recordings.”

  He’s so blank. His mouth doesn’t even twitch.

  And once again, I’ve hit on the truth.

  “No.” I shake my head. “God, tell me you didn’t.”

  His gaze fixates on the wall beyond my head. “What else was I supposed to do, Snow? We weren’t exactly on speaking terms. You wouldn’t even look at me—”

  “Because you disgust me!” I can’t catch my breath. Can’t breathe. The need for fresh air drives me toward the door, but he steps forward, blocking my path.

  “Don’t do this,” he warns, his tone hardening. “Please. We’ve made more progress in one damn night than we ever could have if—”

  “Progress?” I choke out a laugh, and I don’t even recognize the high-pitched trill. “You call lying to me and making my brother look like a fool progress? You can forget about whatever you think you’ve won. There’s no way in hell you could convince me to stay in the same room as you.”

  Something cold settles in his gaze, turning indigo to ice. “Unfortunately, that’s an impossible request. As you yourself suggested, we just put it in writing.”

  And, now, I know what goal he was after all along: I’ve fallen into his trap. “You unimaginable bastard.”

  He has the nerve to frown as if insulted. “I gave you every stipulation you required.”

  “Damn you! And if I refuse now, what? Will you kick my brothers off the board and steal the rug out from under me all over again?” I don’t even need to see his face to know the answer: He would. He will. “Go to hell.”

  “Snow!”

  His hand brushes my forearm, but I shove my way past him, racing for the entrance to the suite. I reach the elevator unmolested and slam the call button for the elevator until the doors finally part. I rush inside, and when I turn, I find him watching me from the mouth of the hall. Shadow encases half of his face, rendering his expression unreadable. Not that I need to see it to decipher him.

  “Don’t bother wasting your breath on your threats,” I spit at him, grasping at the wall for balance as the doors shut. I don’t sound confident in the slightest, and I hate that he’ll get to relish breaking me for a second time. “Don’t remind me of what I promised you. Do to those fucking papers what you did to my house: Burn them!”

  Ding!

  The elevator descends, and I suspect I have roughly a minute before he’ll come after me. Men like Blake Lorenz are wolves; rarely do they let their chosen prey escape. Especially not when the damned soul’s already bleeding. Somehow, I manage to make it out of the parking garage on my own, which leaves me on a busy city avenue with no sense of direction.

  By fate or by chance, I flag a cab down and have the driver take me straight to the hotel. Curious looks follow me as I race inside and head up to the suite Ronan rented. He must have had the staff looking for me, because he’s already in the hall, grabbing me the moment I step off the elevator.

  I wait for the insults. The shouting. The lectures. But all he does is take one look at my face and pulls me into his arms, no questions asked. And I can’t stop myself from sobbing openly, clinging to his chest with my face buried in the fabric of his shirt. He hasn’t changed from the suit he was wearing last night, and going off the dampness on his shirt, he was out all night, hunting for me on foot. Because he loves me.

  He may not be perfect, but he’d never manipulate my emotions on a sick whim.

  Though he will try to protect me from them.

  I draw back from him, raising a hand to shield the worst of my bloodshot eyes from his gaze. “I need to know everything you kept from me,” I stammer, knowing that I sound insane. Incoherent. Desperate. “Please.” I brace my hand on his jaw when he turns away. “Messages? Letters?”

  His jaw clenches in reluctant confirmation.

  “Then give them to me. Please. I need to read them. I…I need to burn them.”

  Chapter 8

  Ronan leaves me alone on the floor of my room with an old shoebox. It must have contained one of his newer purchases for me—piles of which litter my room.

  Brushing the emotion churning in my stomach aside, I wrench the lid off.

  And my heart is assaulted for a second time.

  The damn thing is filled to the brim with envelopes, each one heavy with its own unfathomable burden. Each one from Blake Lorenz—all of them but one. Ronan must have shuffled it into the mix without meaning to, a letter directed to all of us: the Hollingses. It’s from the lawyer who managed our trust, and bile seeps up my throat as I wrench it open and flip through the contents.

  Dear God. It’s a summary of outstanding bills as well as a statement acknowledging the loss of the house and our assets. So, so much gone in just a few days. Because of me and my once-impending marriage to Daniel Ellingston. I let him ruin the Hollings name.

  And the worst part?

  I’m not even a goddamn Hollings.

  My skin chills at the thought. I think it’s the first time I ever let myself admit it, even inside my head. I, Snowy Gale, am not a Hollings. After twenty-four years of brainwashing and striving to protect the family name, I’ve never felt hollower without that heritage than I ever felt in Papa’s shadow. Would Daniel have even wanted me if he knew who I really am? A half-Lloyd bastard, my mother’s dirty little secret?

  Mulling over the answer isn’t worth the effort.

  But it does give me one slim, pathetic, childish bit of hope at how I can help fix this mess for Ronan and Hunter. Clutching the letter to my chest, I hunt for a leather bag and shove the documents into it. After a moment’s hesitation, I stow Blake’s letters inside it as well. Then I enter the hallway, knowing I’m in for a fight when Ronan comes to block my path.

  “Please,” he says, eyeing my bag, his expression strained. “I can’t take this.”

  “I know. I’m sorry—”

  “Are you? You want to know all the shit I’ve kept from you just to keep you from getting worse? The messages that bastard left for you? The police haven’t done a goddamn thing, and you just waltz out to dinner with the motherfucker?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Forget it.” His expression draws tight, closing against me.

  All I can do is shake my head and push past him, knowing he won’t touch me. “I’ll make this right,” I swear as I fumble to get the door open. “I promise. I promise I will.”

 
He lets me go, but I know better than to leave through the main entrance. I slip out through a side door instead and walk the entire way to the James Baylor law offices uptown. Inside the lobby, a receptionist wrinkles her mouth at my outfit. She directs me without comment, and I enter an office at the very back of the building, where James Baylor himself is seated behind a mahogany desk.

  “Ms. Hollings.” He warily shuffles the documents before him and places them aside. “To what do I owe this visit?”

  “How bad is it?”

  He wrinkles his nose, jolting the wire-rimmed glasses resting on his nose. “I’m not sure I understand what you mean, Ms. Hollings—”

  “Our finances,” I clarify, more harshly than I intended. “Please don’t lie to me. How bad?”

  “Ronan’s medical bills are outstanding,” the man says with brusque efficiency. “There are the back taxes on the property to contend with, not to mention your family’s current expenses.”

  Like the expensive clothing and hotel suites.

  “All of it totals in excess of thousands,” Baylor finishes. “Hundreds of thousands.”

  “B-but what if I can fix it?” My fingers shake as I fish the letter from my bag and place it on the desk. “You can start by telling me that none of this matters. Not if… Not if I’m really not a Hollings.”

  After what feels like hours, James’s secretary enters to place a steaming mug of tea before me. Just as quickly, she’s gone, and I feel no closer to an ounce of hope.

  “So you’re saying there’s nothing that can be done?”

  Mr. Baylor slowly shakes his head. “I’m afraid not.”

  I pinch my wrist in exasperation—a childish, last-ditch effort to ensure that this all isn’t some insane nightmare. But I don’t wake up, and there’s no reprieve from the dread building in my veins. “Not even if I took a blood test? Had my siblings disown me?”

  “I’m afraid there’s nothing that can be done about the business,” Mr. Baylor admits, his tone grave. “However…” A curious expression flits over his weathered features. Amusement? Shock? He stands and approaches a wooden cabinet on the other end of the room before I can decipher it. “You are your mother’s daughter, after all,” he murmurs, though I’m not entirely sure if he’s speaking to me.

  “Sir?”

  “You must understand: She instructed me to only reveal this information if you were either married, to have a child, or if you broached the topic yourself. She had it expressed in writing.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He rummages through a stack of files and emerges with a black folder in hand. Frowning, he hands it to me. “She had me make the arrangements shortly before she died. From Harrison Lloyd—accounts he’d transferred to her long before his conviction.”

  Numb, I peer at the pages within the file. Stocks. Bank statements. Businesses. All quietly transferred to Elizabeth Hollings throughout nearly fourteen years—right before Harrison Lloyd’s downfall.

  “It’s all yours,” Mr. Baylor explains at the exact moment I realize the staggering sum of the combined estate.

  “Th-this can’t be right?”

  “Twelve million dollars. It may seem redundant,” Mr. Baylor remarks, “but congratulations, Ms. Hollings. You are a very wealthy woman. Though…there is one catch.”

  Dazed, I look up and find him shuffling a stack of documents. “What is it?”

  “If I were to give you this money now, it could technically be caught up with the rest of your family’s estate.”

  “Oh?” I swallow hard.

  “But,” he adds, glancing warily at the door. “Far be it from me to suggest anything nefarious, of course. But if you were to find some other way for the money to get into your hands, I could make the arrangements…”

  “Like fraud?” I cringe from the thought. Hunter may have been driven to follow Papa’s tactics, but I refuse to.

  “No,” the man says quickly. “Of course not. Think of it as careful accounting.”

  “And if I were to do that…how would I?”

  Mr. Baylor shrugs. “Any way that would see you legitimately receive the funds from another source.”

  “And then I could use it?” My mind spins with what such a sum could solve. My debt with Harlow. Ronan’s hospital bills. Our running tab at the hotel.

  “As far as I’m concerned, Ms. Hollings, there would be nothing preventing you from doing so,” Mr. Baylor says. “Nothing at all.”

  Nothing but finding someone willing to give me twelve million dollars under the pretense of free will. Considering my family’s reputation and looming scandal…

  Well, it sounds easy enough.

  Chapter 9

  Blake

  Broken glass crunches underfoot, but I’m already grasping for the next thing to throw. A lamp this time. It strikes the door frame with a violent thud, ripping a chunk of wood from it in the process.

  Damn.

  Damn.

  Damn it!

  I’m sorry. How hard would it be to fucking say?

  I pretend like I don’t know the answer: impossible. A romantic sap from a fairytale could declare as much and all would be well. The princess would be his again. Happily fucking after.

  But not me. I’ve been the villain of the story from the start and nothing I do now could erase the past. The things I’ve done. To her. For her.

  If she knew them all she’d do more than run.

  She’d fall—like Humpty Dumpty in that fucking story we once made our own—shattered to pieces. Nothing could ever put them together again.

  Not all the king’s men.

  Not all the king’s horses.

  And as pathetic as it makes me feel, and as much as I swore to never give that woman power over me again…

  I’d rather die than watch that happen.

  If only death was anything but final when it came to Snowy Hollings. I’ve been relegated to the shadows once because of her, forced to watch from a distance as she lived on without me. And now?

  I’m too fucking close.

  Besides, it’s not like she has anywhere left to run. I’ve already covered every base on the gameboard. Checkmate.

  I exhale sharply, reminding myself of that point—my ace in the hole. She’s as good as a caged bird. It’s only a matter of time before she realizes that.

  Maybe if I tell myself that lie enough times, I’ll finally fucking believe it.

  Snowy

  * * *

  I wander the streets beyond the law offices for what feels like hours before an impulse I can’t name drives me into a cab. When the driver asks my destination, I rattle off one address merely out of habit. It’s only as the cab finally reaches the crest of a familiar hill on the outskirts of Mayfield that I realize my blunder.

  Hollings Manor is a smoldering, decrepit ruin that looks like a stain on the otherwise pristine landscape. As I step from the cab, I can still smell the smoke. Still see the flames licking at the unfeeling sky.

  I still feel that pain.

  And I hate him for doing this to me. This twisted, broken landscape is the only haven I have left. The overgrown and neglected weeds offer no solace as I wander toward the back of the property, desperate to reconcile my entire upbringing with what I know now.

  Did it kill my mother every day, having to look at me and lie?

  Or having to see Brandt, a constant reminder of the man whose bed she crawled into every night?

  From what I remember, Harrison Lloyd was a cold, unfeeling man, yet he left me, his bastard, more of a legacy than the boy he’d raised as his son for seventeen years. I doubt Brandt had any heartwarming stories of the man to tell. Our dirty little secret was that he spent so much time with me to avoid having to enter his home for as long as he could. If his father wasn’t berating him for some stupid slight, then he was hitting him.

  Everyone knew of the abuse, but no one said anything. They smiled, and invited the Lloyds over for brunch, and ignored the black eye their son
would occasionally sport.

  It was the Mayfield way.

  But I saw him—so beautiful, so sweet. I saw his desperate struggle to avoid hate. He never wanted to become Harrison. He never wanted to resemble the man he called Father.

  And my mother, as charming as she was, must have loved such a disturbed man. After all, she died for him.

  I blink, noticing my surroundings for the first time. I’m nearing the lake, stumbling down the beaten path. Tears stream down my cheeks, a hateful reminder of how much like Elizabeth I am. I’m pathetic. Manipulative. Violence and hate must be hereditary aphrodisiacs, because whenever I think of Blake Lorenz, and the awful things he’s done to my body…

  I don’t feel disgust—not like how I should. No matter how badly he treated me, my body sure had no problem orgasming against him. On him. The vulgar memories set my cheeks on fire, and I start to run, aiming for the only refuge in sight.

  The boathouse door is locked. I have to force a window open and climb through it. Inside, I find that Blake Lorenz left his exercise equipment behind. Along with something else thrown in the middle of the space as if in afterthought. My heart races as I approach the small object and sink to the floor beside it.

  I brush a trembling finger over the cover of a leather-bound book and it doesn’t disappear. A heartbeat later, I clutch it to me with everything I have, and the tears fall faster. The worn copy of Humpty Dumpty is all I have left, and I imbibe its pages with a million tears and unsuppressed pain. I bleed into the tiny, remaining sliver of Brandt Lloyd, and I know in my soul that I’d eagerly trade away all of Mama’s money just to hold on to this moment forever.

  Far too soon, the thud of approaching footsteps shatters it. Gasping, I lurch to my feet. Hiding is my first instinct, and I eye one of the old bookshelves in the corner. Then rage sets in, squaring my shoulders and flooding my limbs with reckless energy. Facing the door, I march toward it and throw it open.