“But how?”
He grabbed my wrist and yanked me up from the bed as if I were no lighter than a feather pillow. “Have you forgotten?” His hard body pressed against mine as he towered over me, his iron grip threatening to crush my bones. He turned my wrist over, shoving his brand in my face. “I own you, Mia. You cannot run from me, but you can be killed.”
“Is-is that why you’re here? T-to kill me?” Because I feared for my life. I truly did. How the hell had he found me?
A sinister smile crept over his gorgeous mouth. “You’re of no use to me dead. But I do plan to punish you.” He released my wrist and forcefully cupped the back of my head. When his lips smashed into mine, his mouth was hot, his kiss rough. My knees buckled. He wrapped his arm around my back and pinned me to him. I wanted to pull away, but the friction of his stubble, the silky heat of his tongue invading my mouth, and the hardness of his male body subdued me. Or was it this strange power he held over me? I didn’t know. I just wanted more. My nipples contracted into sharp little points, and a throbbing ache deep inside urged me to lean deeper into his hips, to seek the hard flesh I knew was there, to find that release of tension he triggered inside me.
What was happening to me? Why couldn’t I stop myself from thinking that if I was his, then he was mine? Mine to use. Mine to take from. Mine to ravage and savor and claw at if it pleased me.
“You want me, King?” I growled. “Then I hope you can fuck like a beast.”
King’s large hands slid down the small of my back and gripped my ass. He ground himself against me and released a deep, throaty groan. “I’m going to break you, Mia. Fucking break you.”
My eyes popped open, and I gasped, finding nothing but an empty, dark hotel room. “Crap.” Not again.
I held my hand over my heart, hoping that it might stop the pounding. But it didn’t. I ran my hand over my hair and felt the sticky sweat covering my skin—forehead, neck, and chest. I couldn’t run from him, could I? He was in my head. My body was saturated with him or his energy or…crap…something. I didn’t know. I realized that the repeated dreams weren’t simply random fears trying to escape my subconscious. They were a glimpse into some twisted part of my soul that felt connected to this man. But that part of me could never see the light of day. Never. Because wanting King was like wanting to have a heroin addiction. It was like wanting to die a slow, painful death.
Still sitting on the bed, I hung my head. “What am I going to do?” I mumbled.
“You are going to get the fuck up from that fucking bed before I tie you up and ship you off in a box to Vaughn.”
I gasped. “King?”
“In the fucking flesh, woman.”
King flipped on the lights, and I leaped from the bed, trying to put any sort of distance I could between us. His face looked different somehow, as if it was an angrier, more lethal version of him. But he wore his crisp, tailored, black suit. He smelled like King’s expensive cologne. That scowl on his face was certainly his. Yet, it wasn’t King. An imposter. Because there was no physical way King could be there with me.
“Who are you?”
King tilted his head to one side. “Who the fuck do you think I am?”
“You’re not King. You can’t be. I left King back in London.”
“Mia, I don’t have time for this bullshit.”
“I’m Mia, now?” I grabbed the phone from the nightstand and raised the hand piece into the air. “Stay away from me.”
“Are you planning to call my mother?” he seethed.
I wasn’t laughing. Then again, neither was he.
“I’m not leaving with you, whoever you are,” I said.
He crossed those familiar, thick arms over his chest, making his broad, square shoulders appear even wider than they were. “I really don’t have time for this.”
He sighed.
I blinked.
He was somehow on me, grabbing my arm.
I screamed. How had he gotten over to me so quickly?
He flipped my wrist and placed his palm over my tattoo. “Shut up.”
I snapped my lips shut and stared at him, wondering how he’d managed to control me like this again.
“We’re leaving.” He tugged me out the door, into the hall, and down the stairs. I wanted to yell at him. I wanted to say that he couldn’t do this to me, but my mind and body were not one.
As we walked past the reception area, the woman at the desk asked if I was all right. But I just kept on walking, King dragging me behind him like an insolent child.
The night air was frigid and cold, causing a sheen of mist to immediately coat my face. When we reached the street corner, King held up my hand to flag a passing taxi. It stopped, and King pushed me inside. I wondered where Arno was.
“Tell the driver we are going to Prestonfield House,” King said. Why didn’t he just tell the man himself? Because King was trying to prove a point while scaring the crap out of me. He wanted to demonstrate his absolute power over me. But he didn’t have to; I knew. Fucking hell, I knew.
“Now!” King barked.
What the driver must think of me, letting some horrible man speak to me that way. I cleared my throat. “Ummm. Prestonfield House, please.”
The driver nodded, but didn’t turn around. I was glad not to have to face him. And it wasn’t as if he could help me.
My body began to tremble violently, and I felt that familiar wave of toxic nausea saturate my innards.
I started to pant through my nose.
King released my wrist, and I immediately felt better. Holy shit. What is going on?
I stole a glance at King, but when I saw how he stared at me, a feral, dark gaze like he wanted to rip my head off, I looked away.
“Why are we going to Prestonfield House?” I asked.
“It’s nah where ya wanted teh go?” The driver looked at me through the rearview mirror.
“Oh. Sorry. I was talking to him.” I gestured toward King.
The driver furrowed his brows and kept driving.
Several minutes of awkward silence passed without a peep from my mysterious captor.
“So?” I asked.
I don’t know what sort of answer I expected from King. After all, he’d just hunted me down in an obscure hotel room, possessed me with some sort of strange mind-control crap yet again, and now…
The taxi pulled up to an impressively large, historic-looking building with neoclassic columns at the entrance. Bright white lights bathed the front of the plastered structure, making it difficult to see. Regardless, the well-dressed Scotsman in a dark kilt who greeted me immediately signaled that this was yet another posh hotel.
“Pay the man,” said King.
“You have got to be kidding,” I hissed, but it wasn’t because King had asked me to pay the cab; it was because he’d made me come to this place. Whatever King had to say or do could’ve been done back at the crappy motel. Or did it offend his delicate senses to torture me in such a dump?
“Thank you very much,” I said and handed the driver a bill.
I slipped out and told the bellhop that I didn’t have any luggage. He gave me a quick look and welcomed me anyway.
“Tell the receptionist you want my usual suite,” said King.
Usual suite? “This is crazy. You’re craz—” King grabbed my wrist. “Do it, Mia. Or I will make you.”
I didn’t want him to do that thing to me again; it was horrible and frightening not to be in charge of your own body.
I didn’t say a word and just went inside. My first impression was that we’d entered a seventeenth-century museum. The long, narrow corridor leading to the lobby had deep purple walls, pillars on each side, and plush, velvety curtains with matching upholstered chairs positioned every ten or so feet.
“Why are we here, King?”
“Just walk,” he ordered.
About halfway down the corridor, he said, “Tell them you work for King Enterprises and that you’re in town on a last minute
buying trip.”
“But I—”
“If you ask me one more question, Miss Turner, it will be your fucking last. I swear it.”
I sucked back the burst of contempt my ego felt from the slap because I had no doubt that King would hurt me. “Fine. Okay.”
I approached reception and glanced up at the clock. It was one in the morning, so I had to ring the bell. A sleepy-eyed, young brunette immediately greeted me.
“Hi. I know it’s late, but I’m here on a last minute buying trip for King Enterprises. Would you happen to have a room?”
She yawned. “Of course, Miss…?”
“Miss Turner.”
She typed away on her computer. “Ah, yes, ma’am. There ye are. How many nights will ye be stayin’?”
I couldn’t believe this. She had me in her system?
“Uhhh…” I looked at King.
“Two. Maybe three,” he growled.
I turned and looked at the lady, but she simply stared, then repeated the question.
“Like he said, two, maybe three,” I said.
She lifted her brows and returned to her screen. “We have Mr. King’s usual suite.”
How could King have a usual anything in Edinburgh?
She made a few more strokes on her keyboard and handed me a key. “Should I call for the—”
“No. No luggage. Thank you,” I said.
She gave me a quick nod. “Enjoy your stay, Miss Turner. If ya be needin’ anything, please give us a ring.”
“Thanks.” I flashed a nervous smile and then followed King to the elevator.
Once we were inside with the door closed, King had me by the lapel of my leather jacket. He lifted me against the wall. “If I lose the Artifact because of you, I swear I’ll kill your brother myself and make you watch.”
I struggled against him, but his grip was as solid as the rest of him.
“Why don’t you just kill me, instead? I know you want to, so get it over with. I sure as hell prefer that over being your lapdog, King.”
He took a breath and released me, mumbling in a foreign language I didn’t recognize. He straightened his black silk tie, and the doors slid open. I didn’t want to go with him. I was certain he wanted to hurt me.
When King noticed I hadn’t exited the elevator, he reached inside and pulled me out by the hand. I stumbled and barely kept from falling. He dragged me down another hallway with a decorum similar to the lobby’s rich, dark colors—deep reds, purples, and chocolate browns. Silk tapestries, lavish antique armchairs, beveled mirrors, and oil paintings of long-gone aristocrats from the days of lace and velvet gave the entire place the feel of having walked back in time.
We entered the suite, and it was no different. King closed the door after me, and I stood in the entry, cautiously watching him walk to the table next to the large bed. He opened a bottle of scotch, poured a tall glass, and held it out for me.
I didn’t move. I couldn’t move.
“Take it, Mia. You’ll need it. Trust me.”
Without removing my eyes from the man, I walked over and took the glass.
“Sit.” He pointed to the plush eggplant-colored couch behind me.
“I don’t want to sit.”
“Sit!” he barked.
I glared at him. “How long are you planning to do this?”
“What? You’re not enjoying the way I treat you?”
I took a sip of the scotch and savored its smoky sweetness. Well, if I was going to die, at least I’d go out with one good memory.
“Not particularly,” I said.
He bobbed his head and then removed his coat, leaving on his starched white shirt and black silk tie. “I should kill you for disobeying me, Mia.” He laid his coat on the bed and loosened his tie, his piercing gray eyes watching me intently. “But I still need you. So I think a punishment is in order.” He tossed the tie onto the bed and unbuttoned the top of his shirt.
My hand began to tremble violently, remembering the dream I’d had when he’d said he wanted to break me.
I swallowed, set my glass down on the small table beside the couch, and sat. My mind suddenly flooded with the images from my dream. I looked down at my feet, my head spinning. What was I going to do? This wasn’t a dream, and I didn’t want him to touch me.
“Mia, what do you suggest?” He sat on the edge of the bed, legs open, hands laced together as he leaned in, elbows perched on his thighs in a stately way.
I didn’t respond.
“Look at me when I speak to you,” he snarled.
I ignored his command, but it took every ounce of willpower I had. “How did you find me?”
“I used the mark on your wrist.”
My head snapped up. Holy shit. We really were connected? But how could a tattoo do that? “You’re a witch, aren’t you?”
He frowned. “I believe the correct term is warlock, but no. Warlocks are fictional.”
“Then what are you? A demon? A creature from another world?”
King laughed into the air, and it was a beautiful laugh. Beautiful and wicked, just like the man. “I think you read too many silly books, Mia.” He stood, walked over to the table, and poured himself a drink, giving me his back. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Miss Turner, but there are only two types of people in this world: living or dead. I’m afraid there isn’t much in between.”
“But you just said you found me using this.” I pointed to my wrist.
He turned and raised his glass to me. “That I did.”
“Then what are you?”
“I am a man who acquires things I find useful: people, rare artifacts, wealth, and,” he paused and took a sip, “seemingly impossible abilities that allow me to get what I want.”
I took that as code for some sort of voodoo. I didn’t believe in such things, but when you run out of obvious, rational answers, your mind starts to make leaps. “You mean you put a spell on me?”
The corner of his seductive mouth curled. “Spells are for children’s fairytales. I acquire power, or more accurately stated, I obtain ways to channel it and use it to my advantage.”
I reached for my glass and took a sip. A really, really big sip. Okay, it was a gulp.
“Don’t look so shocked, Miss Turner. You of all people—a Seer of Light—should understand that there are forces in this world beyond our comprehension. It’s perfectly plausible that someone with a great amount of determination could learn to harness these forces, just as I’ve harnessed you and your special abilities.”
Was that how he saw what he was doing to me? I was like the sun or the wind? Or perhaps he saw me more like a beast of burden in need of a yoke and a master.
“Is that why you want this Artifact?” I asked. “Does it do something special?”
A bit of joy flickered in his ash-colored eyes. “I do, in fact, want the Artifact for this reason.”
“What does it do?”
“This is no concern of yours.”
“It is if you’re using me and my brother to find it.”
“Your only task is to lead me to it, Mia. That’s why you were brought to me. That is why you still live and breathe even though you’ve defied me.”
“What do you mean, ‘brought to you’?”
“You don’t think our meeting was a coincidence, do you?”
“My brother went missing; I came looking for you,” I argued.
“True; however, I am the destined owner of the Artifact. It was fate that brought you to me. You were the crumb it wanted me to follow.”
Although his words sounded like that of a madman, I now fully understood why King thought of me as his property. And it was why he’d felt he had the right to dictate every aspect of my life. It was why he felt he had the right to do that mind-control thing and tattoo my body.
But he didn’t own me. I was not King’s, and I never would be.
I stared down at the black “K” on my wrist, trying to figure out some possible way to end this. It was no longer
just about finding Justin, but about saving myself, too. It was also about saving my family.
“You can feel it, can you not, Miss Turner? The mark on your wrist tingling when I speak the truth.”
I did feel a slight prickly sensation, but I had no idea what it meant. “No, I don’t. I only feel the need to have it removed.”
“The tattoo?”
I nodded.
“Why would you want that?”
I glared at him.
He ran his hand over his perfectly combed, black hair, messing it up. “I got lucky that day, you know.”
“What day?”
“That day in Mexico City. I got lucky. Mack and I were already there, wrapping up a little acquisition. When you didn’t show up for your connecting flight, I had Mack ask around while I made some calls. He happened to hear two passengers talking about a young American woman who’d been pulled out of line.”
I felt my blood pressure drop. If King had arrived just a few minutes later, my life would have been drastically different at this moment. I suddenly realized I’d never thanked King for that night, and part of me still wanted to, even though I knew that wasn’t the reason he was telling me this story. He was trying to explain why he’d marked me. It was all about protecting me—his property—in his eyes.
I sighed. “And then you killed them?”
He grinned. “No. Guzman killed his people. Of course, the suggestion came from me.”
“Was it a suggestion he couldn’t ignore?” If King could control me, then why not others?
He took a sip from his glass. His lips were shiny and wet with scotch. I tried not to look, but a part of me, the dark part, still wanted what I’d felt and enjoyed in that dream. Hard, hot, sinful…
King stared back, keenly aware of how his mouth had captivated my attention. His own lips twitched like they had an itch he wanted to scratch. “Yes, Miss Turner.” King’s voice was quiet and gravelly.
I snapped out of it and went back to looking at his jewel-like eyes. Not sure it helped much. “Huh?”
He smiled, and it was that charming, devilish smile. “I said, ‘yes.’ The suggestion was one that Guzman couldn’t ignore.”