King for a Day (The King Trilogy #2)(31)
Author: Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

Why was I even thinking about that? I should be thinking about what a giant fool I’d been right from the start. I shook my head, mentally berating myself. You knew something was not right with King. But this? I’d completely had my blinders on.

Hell, Mia, no one could have seen this coming. No one. Because it’s…fucking impossible.

Still, I couldn’t help thinking if I’d just opened my eyes, I might’ve seen the truth.

Maybe I’d been distracted by his seductive lips or the hypnotic effect of those pale gray eyes outlined by thick black lashes? Perhaps my attention had been hijacked by the godlike perfection of his masculine body and that deep, room-filling voice he used to control my emotions. Maybe I’d missed the truth because he scared the living hell out of me. Yes, his ferocity was a definite distraction. No man should be that lethal and powerful. No man.

And now you know why.

I closed the thick leather-bound book and crushed it against my chest, clenching my eyes shut, holding back the tears of horror that begged to be set free with a scream.

The man known as King, the man who was said to be able to “find anything or anyone for a price,” was so good at hunting because he had spent a lifetime searching for the one thing he needed most: salvation from the hell of his existence.

And, perhaps, revenge.

I sighed. Dear Lord. Despite every terrifying detail I now knew about the man, a part of me wanted him to have peace. No one should be allowed to suffer so much in one lifetime. Not even King.

I dropped my face into my hands. “King,” I said with a sad breath, “if there’s any chance in hell you can hear me, I want you to know that—”

The heavy steel door to King’s chamber burst open.

“They’re here,” I whispered.

And they were early.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

They had used something to knock me out so I never saw their faces. But when I awoke, blindfolded, hands bound in front, and my body crammed into a narrow space—a closet I presumed—I recognized the roar of a plane’s engine.

Not that I had a clue as to how long I’d been out, but after two hours, I knew for sure we weren’t heading to Los Angeles. After what I guessed were five hours, when the plane stopped to refuel, I figured we were outside the U.S., somewhere far, far away where no one would ever find me. No one except King.

Who will kill you himself, anyway, and is a… is a…I could still scarcely believe it. I mean I had touched this man. He had touched me. Intimately. Yes, he had strange abilities and was shrouded in a cloud of mystery, but he was no phantom. The guy had a chauffeur, owned a jet, and wore suits, for God’s sake. And spirits didn’t go around working out of offices. Or murdering people.

Clearly, King does. The man defies every law known to mankind. And, my God, he really wants to kill me. Perhaps the most troubling and unbelievable part of this entire story.

But not such a terrible fate given the alternative. Because when “they” (I heard multiple, muffled voices through the closet door) let me out to use the bathroom, still blindfolded, I heard the vile sounds of Vaughn moaning with pleasure while I relieved myself.

Disgusting, psycho pig. It made me wish I’d opted for peeing in my pants, especially when he offered to wipe me and I felt his hand on my thigh. I kicked at him and screamed that I’d rather die than let him touch me. He’d simply laughed and said that he liked it when they fought; it made it so much more pleasurable for him.

He threw me back into the closet for an endless stretch of time, where I had ample opportunity to pull up my jeans on my own. At one point, my legs and neck cramped so hard from being in the tiny space, my entire body went numb. And each time I saw a sliver of light through the narrow slot at the bottom of the blindfold, I felt my heart choking on fear. It sensed that Vaughn was near, and I could only imagine what he was doing. Perhaps jerking off while watching me suffer?

Sick bastard.

But not once, not even for a second, did I feel King’s presence. It was as if he’d abandoned me all together. Maybe he wanted to prove he’d been right for telling me to run when I had the chance? That was the funny thing about being crammed in a closet on a plane to face a fate worse than death; it gives you time to reflect.

I thought deeply about my mistakes and wondered what I could’ve done differently. However, each alternate path—running away or never having gone searching for Justin when he’d disappeared—would never have worked. I cared too much, just as Vaughn pointed out before he’d taken me.

Being in that closet gave me time to realize that no matter what, I had done what I felt was right. I had to stop blaming myself for being too trusting or always wanting to see the good in people. Even dead kings.

When the plane finally landed, they pulled me from the closet and threw me inside a van, where I had plenty of room to stretch my legs across the cold steel floor. I don’t think we drove longer than an hour, but every passing minute felt like both a blessing and a horrific torture. One more breath, one more second of precious life. One more breath, one step closer to death.

The van finally stopped moving, and that’s when things started to get really hard for me. Panic, the will to fight and survive, outrage, they all began to take hold.

“Where the f**k are you taking me?” I growled as someone, I assumed a-hole Vaughn, pushed me along a paved surface. I didn’t know the hour, but I could see through my blindfold it was nighttime. We could be going anywhere—a cave, a secret 10 Club prison—I didn’t know, but the smell of salty air told me we were near an ocean.

“To my very special place for very special ladies like you,” said Vaughn, confirming he was in fact the person shoving me along.

“Let me guess? A place where no one can hear me scream?” I asked.

Vaughn chuckled and pushed me forward again. He shuffled me down three flights of stairs and then removed my blindfold. I squinted while my eyes adjusted to the bare light bulb dangling overhead. It was a small room with cement floors, black walls, a bed in one corner, and a toilet and sink in the other. Your basic jail cell.

“Actually,” he said, his hazy brown eyes glittering with wicked bliss, “I wouldn’t say ‘no one’ will hear you scream.” He pointed toward a 360-degree camera mounted to the corner of the ceiling inside a small cage. “I’d say the cell is designed so many can hear your screams. They pay good money for it.”

“They? They who?”

“My clientele, Miss Turner. You didn’t think that I would hurt you and not allow others to join in on the fun? I’ve already sold one hundred tickets to your skinning.”