Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Kong
“Please,” she implores, leaning over my lap, her hands close to my belt buckle, a defiant spark in her eyes. “You never let me. I can be quick. You’re leaving in the first-light. Let me have you just this once.”
“Lucky bastard,” Axe mutters from across the banquet room, his voice dripping with envy as he rises, calling out. “They never beg me!”
Her gaze flickers up to mine, desperation etched across her soft features. “Save me from him…” She glances around, her eyes sweeping over the sea of men scattered at various tables in the bustling Guard dining hall. “And from them.”
In this space, the men Built For Armour leave their Meaningful Purpose and authority outside and gather as equals. No superiors. Fist to fist debates if needed. The dynamics of power, desire, and brotherhood come alive here, and never leave.
“You know my answer,” I reply, my voice heavy with concern—not for her, but for what the next month holds.
She leans closer, her breath warm against my skin. “I can suck you so good you’ll burst like a broken dam. I swear it, my lord.”
“I’m no lord,” I counter as my dick thickens as if it can hear her lusty tone, her eager words.
“You’re the lord of my heart,” she whispers, a playful smile dancing on her lips.
“I bet you say that to all the men,” I shoot back, but her salacious promise lingers, tempting me.
Suddenly, a door swings open behind me, and a young girl from the Queen’s Army rushes in, her footsteps frantic and hurried.
The laughter and chatter fade into the background as I rise, my focus narrowing on her small frame as she navigates through the crowd.
“Hurry, girl, what is the matter?” I rumble, sensing the urgency in her demeanour. I recognise her but can’t place her; she is new. I know every girl in The Queen’s Army. Not this one, though. Did Rome approve a new member?
I’ll have to find out.
“I was told to come to you.” She halts before me, her eyes wide with worry as the men around us murmur at the sight of a Trade girl in their midst. “I’m sorry. I was told not to approach Sire with this.”
I don’t waste time asking questions, grabbing my black leather jacket from the chair and gun from the table. “Go. We will talk on the way.” She turns on her heels, and I follow closely behind, urging her to quicken her pace to a slight jog. “What happened?”
I hear Axe call from behind me, “You’re leaving this piece of arse for a—”
“Careful now,” I growl, dismissing his words as I stride out of the room, leaving my uneaten meal and an enticing offer behind. Am I leaving the offer of a blow job to find my little queen? Yes.
Always.
“She was fine,” the girl insists.
She wasn’t.
I pull my jacket on and straighten my belt and holster. A wave of deep, consuming emotion washes over me, tightening my chest. “What is your name, girl?”
“Brook,” she replies, glancing back over her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Kong. Please don’t tell Sire I failed.”
Rome will not handle this well, so I don’t intend to tell him anything. He never manages his sister’s affairs with a level head; he is far too volatile, and I must protect them both. Him from his rage and guilt, and her from… Well, from fucking everything.
“Where are the others?” I stride behind Brook, down the long, dim corridor that carves through the heart of the Queen’s Wing.
Lining the walls, guards pose like statues, eyes not moving.
I am seven-foot of muscle and the king’s Guardian, placing me at the highest position in their rankings.
I come from a lineage of Guardians. My genus was engineered to Defend, Guide, and Die.
I was quite literally born to die for my king, and I will. Or her. One day, I will die for them.
“They are packing the tank, preparing her clothes. She has never left The Estate for more than a day, and everyone is frantic. They don’t know what she needs or what is required. If we miss an item—”
“Has she eaten?” I ask, remaining stoic, predictable. Stable. That is what my little queen needs—someone to rely on.
Brook shakes her head, her regret hanging heavy in the air of the narrow passage. “No.”
“And why not?”
“We were… overwhelmed.”
At the queen’s door, two Guards stand with rifles hugged to their chests. I pass the stoic display and push open the queen’s bedroom door.
I halt when I see her.
A tiny, slim woman at the vanity, staring blankly at her reflection with a pair of scissors poised over the long, honey-coloured strands of her hair.
Ready to cut them.
She’s clad only in a white silk robe that clings loosely to her frame, the tails hanging from her middle, the ends at her knees. All her clothes are too large these days.
Eat, my queen.
Our eyes meet in the mirror, and she whispers my name, “Kong.”
She turns to face me, the scissors still gripped tightly in her hand, her expression startled yet— A sight that steals my breath away, as it has done of recent years.
I nod-bow. “My queen.”
“I did not invite you in.” She straightens, a defensive edge in her voice. “Leave.”
I scan the glamorous room, gaze coasting from the two nervous women by the luggage, across to the dishevelled dressing room, before returning to my little queen.
Tilting my head, I study the lovely long honey ribbons of her hair.
No noticeable cuts, so I deliberately ignore the scissors.
She can put them down herself, make her own choice, and pretend that she isn’t swaying on the edge of a mental breakdown.
“Once you have eaten.” I stride toward the tray on her dining table, lifting the lid to reveal an untouched meal, every berry perfectly in place. “Fruit and cheese, my queen. Your favourite.”
I know I should leave.
But not when she’s like this.
“Eat?” She glances between the scissors and me, uncertainty flickering in her eyes. She wants my attention on the scissors.
“And get some rest,” I insist, my tone firm yet gentle for my little queen.
She raises the scissors, fixing me with a challenging stare. “I will do it.”
I clasp my hands in front of me, staring at her. “What about your campaign? To visit your citizens.”
Unspoken truths hang in the air, heavy with the weight of her reality. If she cuts her hair, the king will think she is unwell and will not allow her to leave The Estate.
She needs to leave.
She was so brave to demand she be allowed to travel The Cradle and visit her people. Rome has enabled his sweet sister’s isolation for too long. He fears the unpredictable desert and reality of a land still very much in repair will break her further.
That is where I come in. I will go as her Guardian. I will shield her from The Cradle’s rough edges and derelict ruins but allow her to stretch her freedom out, flex her loving nature. I will turn a blind eye, let her play, meet the children of The Cradle, encourage her—all from a dutiful distance.
“Kong…” Her voice, melodic yet pained, chips into my thoughts. “I’m feeling little.”
Fuck, she’s raw tonight.
“I know, my queen,” I reply, my heart fucking aching for her. I can’t bury that feeling, but I don’t show it. I am a vessel for her pain. I see it, feel it all, welcome it. I want to change the world for her, change the past.
But she belongs to The Cradle. My queen is marble. Born for marble.
She’s a flawless ideal, embodying the perfection of a pure Xin De gene.
A figurehead used by The Trade. A silent yet loud statement to citizens of The Cradle that the Xin De are worthy of worship.
Fear the King. Worship the Queen. It is a tale of control as old as time.
I see how my little queen is tired of trying to be flawless.
Brook shifts behind me. “Little?”
Her tone pisses me off. “Thank you, Brook. You may leave now.” I look at the other two members of the Queen’s Army. I don’t want them to see her like this. I have to protect her from their judgement.
I nod to the exit and say, “You two as well. We will call on you soon.”
They scurry through the door and close it, leaving me alone with my little queen. I am the only man allowed in this room, save for the king himself. Though I shouldn’t be alone with her, not after…
Still, I reach back, pulling my own hair free from its knot, the long dark strands beating over my shoulders. “Can you cut mine after, little queen? It is getting too long.”
She blinks her thoughtful honey-coloured eyes. My gesture may just be getting through the fire in her mind. Rome doesn’t see it; not like I do. The King, her brother, has too much of his own fire to see hers.
I see only her these days—I’ve become obsessed, and so I keep my distance.
It is best for us both. I watch from afar, but right now I’m close.
So close, I see the blaze in her eyes, her thoughts, sense of self, and reality all going up in flames and a billow of smoke.
I have to ground her, find her, like I promised.
“My queen?” I press, seeing if she is still in there somewhere, or if little Tuscany is too desperate for reassurance and guidance.
She sighs, and a single tear slides down her cheek, a perfect glistening bead, provoking her nictitating membrane—her third eyelid—to swipe across, clearing the salty sorrow.
A perfect Xin De trait.
“It doesn’t need to happen now, my queen,” I say, taking a step closer to her, “we can cut it later. No big gestures before your campaign.”
My hand twitches to touch that tear, to wipe it away. I wonder what her sorrow feels like on my finger—like Hell, I imagine. But if she is in Hell, then I am there, my boots in the fiery pit, my arms holding her away from the licking flames that wish to devour her.
“Shall we do mine instead? If you need to cut something, cut mine.”
“No,” she says. “It’s so beautiful.”
I step closer, my eyes fixed on the scissors. “I think I’ll cut it off.”
She drops the scissors onto the aged-oak vanity, stepping away from them as if they have transformed into a viper, capable of striking out. “No.”