The King - S.R. Jones Page 0,84

can you bring an ice pack, some anti-inflammatories, and some breakfast to my room please? The breakfast is for Cassie; bring the things she likes. And coffee … no, sorry, peach tea. Iced.”

He hangs up.

“I’ve got shit I have to do; things are fucked. I need to get to work, but you stay here in my room today, okay? Eat the breakfast, take the meds, and use the ice pack. What do you like to watch?”

I stare at him for a moment. “Sorry?”

“Movies, what do you like?”

“Horror,” I say with a shrug.

He grins at me then. “You’re a dark horse; you know that, Cassie? On the surface, you’re good, wholesome, golden. But underneath? There are dark currents. I’d love to swim in them one day.”

“You got all that from me liking horror?”

“And from the fact you read depressing Russian literature and tragic tales and love them. And the fact you took part in a hacking project, despite in every other way being a goody-two-shoes. The flashes of temper you have when you’re not trying too hard to be good and kind. It’s not an insult,” he says with a wolfish smile. “It’s a fucking compliment. I like your dark side, Cassie. Maybe one day you’ll show me more of her.”

Then he takes my face in his hand, the side that isn’t bruised, and gives me a swift, hard, panty-melting kiss before turning and putting the TV on.

“What kind of horror? Slasher?”

I shake my head.

He grins again. “Me either. It’s boring.”

“Bit too like real life for you, I bet,” I deadpan, and he shoots me a surprised glance, one brow raised.

I laugh, and he does too, showing those gorgeous dimples. Softness in a hard face, like his eyelashes.

“Ghost stories? Psychological?”

“All of it, except torture porn,” I say.

He flicks through some titles and spools up a Stephen King adaptation.

“The master,” I say.

“The king,” he agrees.

“Nah, you’re the king; he’s the master,” I joke.

I look at him, and he at me, and something passes between us.

“Maybe I’m the master,” he says, and my knees go weak.

I know what he means.

I don’t know what this is. He kissed me, and we’re getting on. I want him. He wants me. We have a strange dynamic, one I’ve never encountered with anyone else, but it works. But we’re not dating. He’s not my master. Or my boyfriend, lover, or any of those things. I’m his captive to all intents and purposes.

I flush and look away, and he lets me have my privacy, busying himself gathering some things and then going into the bathroom. Loud heavy rock blares out, and I smile. His taste in music is awful. He comes out about twenty minutes later, dressed in the clothes he took in with him, and gives me another panty-melting kiss, and then he’s gone. Off to plot his war and his troops like the king he is. Maybe, though, he is the master too? My master. Do I want a master? I don’t know. Not formally. I don’t want to be his slave, and I also don’t want to be his prisoner.

I wouldn’t mind him bossing me about a bit. Caring for me in that domineering way of his. Deep down though, I know what I want, and it scares me.

I want him to love me.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Konstantin

Christ, I want her. It’s a constant drumbeat in my head and my cock. Pure, unadulterated want. It’s like being a fucking diabetic in a candy shop being surrounded by Cassie all day and trying to keep it in my pants. Pure, unadulterated torture.

I should go find someone to fuck and take the edge off, but if they’re not dirty blonde, with red streaks, freckles, and green eyes, I won’t be interested. The whole thing is a fucking nightmare on top of the utter shitshow that my life has become in just a few months.

Everything was planned out. Get rich, or richer. Consolidate my power, move Vasily into action more on the illegal side of things, and … well; I hadn’t thought beyond that. Michael was going to inherit everything, and he’d get married and have kids. While they might not be my blood, they’d be my grandkids, and one day, I’d be an old, wealthy man, surrounded by grandkids and finally, fucking finally, I might be happy.

Or, at least, not dead inside.

Speaking of Michael, why the fuck is he spending sleepovers at the Bianchi house? It seems a bit odd to me that he’s staying there with the whole familia,