King's Horses

by Lana Sky

  “Just stay the hell away from me!”

  “I’m so sorry,” a woman remarks, her voice a dreamy murmur. “I just… It was such a beautiful house.”

  Huh? I fixate my gaze on a figure tiptoeing along the edge of the dock, her arms outstretched. Her bare toes stand out in harsh contrast to the gray wood. Around her legs flutters a thin, white nightgown. It and a curtain of wavy, blond curls are her only protection from the biting chill in the air. Looking up, she notices me, but her eyes are too wide, her pupils unfocused.

  “It’s you,” she says softly, swaying dangerously close to the water. “You’re really here. I’m sorry for trespassing, but maybe… You can tell me what it’s like.”

  I blink as recognition conjures a name to my tongue. “Masha?” She seems no less beautiful and young than she did the first night I saw her. But something is wrong. Alarm prickles down my spine and I start toward her, fighting to keep my expression blank. “What are you doing here?” I glance around but don’t see Blake—or anyone else for that matter. Did she walk all this way alone? “Are you okay?”

  She smiles, but I’ve never seen a sadder, more forlorn expression. “Is the water too cold?” she asks, turning her gaze toward it. “God, I just hope it isn’t cold.”

  She turns on her heels, as lithe as a dancer, putting her back toward the lake. A sad tilt of her lips is her best attempt at another charming grin. Then she falls.

  “No!” Adrenaline surges. Somehow, I fling my heels aside and dive into the water blind. Ignoring the stinging sensation, I open my eyes and strain through the gloomy, dank waters. Sunlight plays over a pale, sinking shape and I swim toward it, grasping, pulling.

  I’ll never understand how I manage to drag her onshore, gasping and dazed but still breathing. Then I find my cell phone inside my purse, discarded near the dock, and without loosening my grip on Masha’s slender body, I call 911.

  Masha doesn’t say a word during the ten-minute wait for the ambulance. She merely stares up at the sky, her hair a golden tangle beneath her. As the sirens wail in the background, she giggles brokenly. Then tears form in her eyes and roll down her cheeks. By the time the paramedics usher her onto a stretcher, she’s sobbing.

  While I watch her, my heart breaks. I wish I could pity her. Feel sorry for her.

  But all I see in her pathetic, shivering form…is myself.

  “Snowy!”

  I’m grabbed from behind and whirled around to face a man I almost don’t recognize at first. Blake Lorenz looks haggard in a way I’ve never seen a man look—not even Ronan. My brother always appeared fragile when distraught. Blake radiates fury and pain, seeming ten times larger and more dangerous than any predator.

  “What the hell happened?” He’s shaking me, I realize as my head is jostled back and forth. He grips my arms so tightly that his knuckles whiten. With his teeth pulled back from his upper lip, he looks crazed, and if I doubted that he had a soul in his twisted, broken being, then I’m proven wrong. It belongs solely to Masha.

  “She fell into the lake,” I whisper. The moment he stiffens, I suspect that Blake knows damn well Masha didn’t simply “fall.”

  “Mother of God.” He releases me so suddenly that I stumble and have to throw my arms out for balance. He races to Masha, who watches him, shivering on a stretcher as paramedics escort her toward the front of the property, where the ambulance must be parked.

  He murmurs something to her in what I assume is German. She answers him tiredly, her voice cracking.

  “I’m sorry,” she says in English. “I’m so, so sorry.”

  Her words are swallowed by the wind as she’s hustled up the path. Blake lunges on the tips of his toes as if intending to follow. At the last minute, he turns to me. One look at my shuddering frame and he strips his suit jacket before draping it around my shoulders.

  “You jumped in after her,” he croaks, fingering my damp hair. “You saved her—”

  “I didn’t do it for you.” Only God knows where the vitriol comes from.

  How is it possible to hate him now, even as he grapples with his sister’s distress? Maybe it’s loathing directed solely inward, because a part of me wants nothing more than to hold him, and press him for answers, and offer support. I want to know the truth about Masha, which he seems so desperate to hide. I want to know more about him.

  But, even now, his expression forms a door, cutting me off from any hint of emotion. “Thank you anyway,” he rasps, taking a step back.

  And if I were a good woman, I’d let it end here. I’d hold my barbs for another time. I wouldn’t want so badly to kick him while he’s down, showing him more courtesy than he’s ever shown me. But, deep down, I’m just a vengeful sinner.

  Like mother, like daughter.

  “You can take those documents and you can rip them to shreds,” I tell him, hating how breathless I sound.

  He’s stoic once more, but I’m the one sobbing openly, huddling beneath his warmth even though I want nothing more than to shrug it off. I try, but my fingers won’t release the tailored cotton. When gestures fail me, my words are the only weapon I have left.

  “I changed my mind. Forget our agreement. It’s over.”

  His jaw clenches, a subtle warning. “I suggest you think carefully—”

  “Or what? You’ll throw my brothers off the board out of spite? Rescind your offer of assistance?” I don’t even need to see the stubborn tilt of his jaw to know the truth. Harrison may not be his biological father, but the man trained him well. He’s just as heartless. Just as cold. And I’ll treat him the same way my mother did Harrison: like a glorified bank. “Do it. I’ve decided that I don’t need nor do I want your help.”

  “Oh?” His eyes narrow and I can’t ignore how my breath stalls in my chest. “And what the hell do you intend to do?”

  I push past him and start toward the path with my head held high, even as my heart turns to stone. “I’ll do what I should have done before I ever signed my life away to you.”

  He inhales sharply, a growl-like sound that stops me dead in my tracks. “You don’t mean to…” He sounds doubtful. As if I wouldn’t be that stupid. That spiteful.

  “Why not?” I can’t bring myself to face him. I glare at the trees in front of me instead. So much land tied to a single family’s name. Forrest would die to know what’s become of his goddamn legacy. If I were to thank Blake for one damn thing, it would be for finally severing any ties I had to it. “Maybe I’ll let you have a front-row seat.”

  The idea forming in my head is too childish to ever enact. So devious. Perhaps only someone as demented as he is would ever propose it. Fittingly, he doesn’t even need a further hint to guess my intent.

  “No.” He advances, and before I can move, my forearm is in his grip. “Hell no. Fuck no. I won’t let you near it. Do you hear me?”

  “Oh yes!” I wrench away from him, but he doesn’t relent. Neither do I. I twist and tug until my arm strains in its socket, which draws a cry from my lips.

  Finally, he lets me go, and I race up the path. When I’m a safe distance away, I turn for one last quip.

  “If you want to play your sick games, I won’t be a participant. I’ll find another man to make me his toy,” I snarl. “Anyone but you.”

  “Snow…” His eyes practically glow in the faded daylight, more monstrous than human. “Don’t. You don’t fucking mean it.”

  I manage to smile, even as tears continue to fall and my legs buckle beneath me. “I do. See you at Bolles. I’d rather auction myself in a room full of strangers than ever trust you again.”

  Then I turn, leaving him there.

  And I run.

  Chapter 10

  With the hotel out of the question and no other refuge in mind, I’m once again forced to rely on pure impulse. Maybe it’s the thought of Masha, so pale and innocent, that drives me toward her polar opposite.

  “Snowy?” Sloane looks at me like I’m a three-headed demon cursed to darken her ornate doorste
p.

  I’m standing in the foyer of the Sebastián mansion, clutching a leather handbag to my chest, my clothing drenched and worthless, my eyes bloodshot. Honestly, I don’t know what to expect. A warm welcome? A cold shoulder?

  Suddenly, the Spanish beauty snaps her fingers to summon a maid. “Hot tea,” she demands. “And call my manicurist.” She eyes my cracked, worn nails with a frown. Gently, she takes my hand, tugging me inside and toward the winding staircase. “It’s about time we had the chance to properly catch up.”

  Two hours later, I’m bundled in a robe, lounging on a chaise in the upstairs spa of the Sebastián home. Sloane is sprawled on a chair beside me, a mug of tea in her freshly manicured hand. A frown tugs at her mouth, and she lowers her gaze while flicking an imaginary piece of lint from her lap.

  “I tried to call, you know? When you didn’t return it, I thought… Everything got so insane.”

  “I know,” I say.

  Sloane, on a good day, was my friend only in the most superficial of terms. Being seen on my arm got her exposure, and I let her screw my fiancé in secret. Everyone won. Until now. I don’t find Daniel lurking in this posh suite, and Sloane seems determined to avoid mentioning him by name—along with any other men rumored to be in my orbit.

  “You can bring up the headlines,” I blurt. “I won’t be upset. It’s all lies.”

  “Really?” Sloane raises an eyebrow, her lips pursed as if to trap a multitude of questions behind them. In the end, she settles on one. “Is he really as bad as they say?”

  All I can do is shake my head.

  Sloane sighs. “Good. But I’ll make sure Daddy doesn’t invite him to any future galas—”

  “You don’t have to do that,” I say. “There’s nothing between us.”

  “Like you and Daniel?” Sloane prods.

  I glance at her sharply. “What do you mean?”

  “You dated him for nearly two years, and in an instant, it’s all over.” She sounds more wistful than I’d like.

  “Well, he did singlehandedly cause my family’s ruin,” I remind.

  “I didn’t mean it like that.” Sloane bites her lower lip, parting her thick hair with her fingers. “I just mean… He loved you, you know. He really did.”

  I mull over that statement. Somehow, I don’t bring myself to mention the obvious catch to his so-called love—their dalliances behind my back, for instance.

  “Just admit it,” Sloane adds before I can respond at all. “If you could go back, before everything happened. You would, wouldn’t you?”

  Would I? I turn away, eyeing the view of the Sebastiáns’ estate from a nearby window. It’s a far cry from the bustling city landscape glimpsed from Blake’s penthouse. Here, the neat gardens and fountains create a carefully crafted fantasy, like the backdrop of a gilded cage.

  “I don’t know…”

  “So that’s a yes, then,” Sloane counters, her tone cold. “Bad investments aside, at least Daniel never wound up in the tabloids under the guise of assaulting you.”

  “I don’t want to fight,” I admit. Instead, I draw my knees to my chest, admiring my neatly trimmed toes with pale-pink nails. “If it makes you feel any better, I need a favor.”

  “Oh?” She faces me, suddenly animated. “Money? References? A tabloid contact?”

  She practically squeals at the possibilities. Apparently, her life has been boring without being caught in the whirlwind that is the Hollings rumor mill.

  “No.” I draw in a breath and release it with a harsh sigh. “You know men. Like…like the kind who belong to my father’s club?”

  A perfectly trimmed black eyebrow shoots into a fringe of black hair. “Que? Oh, Snowy, you aren’t that girl. Those men… It’s not like you think.”

  Her serious tone makes me wonder just what experience she has with Bolles men. But I’ve tangled with the worst of them all.

  “It’s not like that. I need you to contact one of them to arrange something.”

  “Oh?” She leans in, drowning me beneath the sweet scent of her perfume. “Like what?”

  “An auction,” I blurt, and her eyes widen. “But it’s not what you think. And I need your help to ensure that it goes exactly how I need it to.”

  Riling Blake aside, an auction could have a much more practical purpose. Securing my mother’s money, for one. Mr. Baylor claimed that, as long as a transaction was legitimate, it would be legal. He never mentioned whether said agreement couldn’t be scandalous…

  “I’m listening,” Sloane says, her expression wary. “Okay. Tell me what you need me to do.”

  Hours later, my plan sounds less insane, at least on paper. In fact, arranging to auction off a woman’s body is surprisingly like arranging an engagement party. There are guests to invite and outfits to plan. At least in this case, the venue is already secure. Through Sloane and her wealth of masculine contacts, I have an in at Bolles.

  More importantly, I have a date.

  Tomorrow night.

  “Are you sure about this?” Sloane asks from beyond the door of her private en suite bathroom. Her concern seems genuine—the most authentic emotion I’ve ever witnessed her express. Perhaps she’s right to be. I told her only as much as I had to.

  One, that I needed to arrange an auction at Bolles on short notice.

  Two, that I needed a man to secretly bid on my behalf, with a limit I specified.

  “For what it’s worth, I’d trust Andrew with my life,” Sloane adds. “He’s gay. He only joined Bolles because his father is a homophobic puta and the membership keeps him off his back.”

  She’s trying to assure me, but I doubt anything can. I’m insane. Any woman would have to be to recklessly throw herself into the fire with only a thin lifeline as protection. Reckless or scorned. Hell hath no fury, after all, and I’ve been bathed by the flames too many times to fear them now.

  “I…I think I’m ready.”

  Sloane opens the door and gasps at my appearance. Rather than risk crossing my brothers to fetch a gown from home, I was forced to raid Sloane’s private collection. Where my wardrobe was designed to sparkle and shine, her gowns were composed with another goal in mind entirely.

  “You look like sex,” she says, nodding appreciatively.

  I agree with her. Wearing a skintight black gown that hugs my nonexistent curves, I look like sex as Blake Lorenz taught me. Dirty, brutal fucking. A screen of lace covers my breasts, and only a strategic placement of the design shields my nipples from view. Two waist-high slits on either side render the skirt little more than an ineffective dangling bit of silk. With my hair wrangled by Sloane’s stylist into a tight knot at the nape of my neck, there are no wayward curls to shield my face from view. Or the fierce expression I barely recognize, enhanced by burgundy lipstick and eyes lined in kohl.

  Tonight, I intend to take my life back from Blake Lorenz—no matter what it costs me.

  “You look…terrifying,” Sloane amends, though a bit of sadness seeped into her tone.

  I look over and find her frowning. She doesn’t recognize this new woman, either. Whether that’s a good thing or bad, I’ve yet to decide.

  “I need one last favor,” I start after one last glance at myself in the mirror.

  “Already ahead of you,” she says. “Do you want to take the limo or the Rolls?”

  Bolles welcomes me like an old friend. The strained, unhealthy kind with no warmth lost between meetings. How Papa used to taunt me with it, using it like the cruelest punishment, even the night he assaulted me.

  Desperate girls spread their legs in Bolles.

  Angry, bitter, jaded ones, however? We bare our legs proudly in couture and stroll into the club with our chins jutting into the air. Nothing can reach me through the impenetrable shield hate has formed around my heart. Not the lingering, lustful glances cast my way or the curious, amused ones by the few hostesses already demeaning themselves for the members of this establishment.

  Inside, I head directly for the foy
er and into the spacious lounge on the bottom level. Chandeliers cast a seductive, soft glow over the inhabitants: men in suits and girls in skimpier attire than mine. They eye me like a new toy placed on the shelf of an exclusive store.

  One of them, a smirking blond with his shirt unbuttoned to reveal a muscular chest, approaches me. “I’m Andrew,” he says, eyeing me up and down. “Sloane told me all about you.”

  For a split second, doubt creeps in as his gaze rakes over my breasts. Before I stiffen fully, he winks.

  “This way. The arrangements have already been made.”

  He leads me past the billiard room, into an even wider area. At first appraisal, it resembles a lounge of some kind, with a round platform in the center surrounded by black leather chairs. A silvery spotlight adds a mysterious atmosphere, only enhanced by the dark-blue walls and polished marble floors. Men are already seated, facing what I’m beginning to suspect is a stage. Dressed in expensive suits, they’re watching. Waiting.

  For the first time, real alarm sinks into my veins, fighting with determination for potency. Do I really intend to demean myself just to make a point? With one glance at the few empty chairs—and the one man missing from this crowd—I have my answer.

  Hell fucking yes.

  “Don’t worry.”

  I jump as a hand presses against my lower back, but it’s only Andrew, gently guiding me forward.

  “You’re the last…guest of the evening,” he assures me. “I’m sure you’ll fetch an interesting price.”

  This must be an event they regularly hold here, I realize. Lingering on the outskirts of the room are other women dressed no less shamelessly. Have all of them been bought and sold already? Disgraced heiresses? Desperate waitresses? Women looking for a thrill, as Sloane admitted to me?

  I can’t find the pride to pity any of them as I approach the raised platform. There’s no announcer there to add pomp and circumstance. No thrilling music to count the seconds down. The moment I brace a heel against the dais, a man calls out, “Five hundred.”