Chapter Twenty-Three
Killian
Aweek passes. I see Lyra two more times. I’ve dropped the pretense of her spending time with me for the sake of interviews; she’s not with me to get answers, she’s with me to get fucked until I’m bored of her.
The only issue is that I’m not tiring of her.
I eagerly anticipate each time I see her.
When I find myself with rare moments of free time, I fight back the temptation of calling her.
I’m not interested in a relationship with her—she’s not the right fit for me.
When the time comes, I’ll accept a suitable trophy wife who’ll care more about social media and vanity than about digging up dirt on me.
Lyra’s not just too low-income, she’s too high-maintenance for a long-term relationship. She’d require too much supervision.
That doesn’t stop me from wanting to fuck her every moment of every day. Marriage material or not, she’s a fantasy come to life.
I sit in my office late at night, gazing over the first 50k of her manuscript. She’s writing faster and faster, pouring her soul into a story about a reporter who tracks down a serial killer. A serial killer who happens to be handsome, famous, and obsessed with the reporter.
I don’t think she realizes just how autobiographical her book is. She’s never asked me how many people I’ve killed or ordered to be killed, and I’ve never offered that information.
Her book is good—very good. I was right in assuming that our time together would serve as excellent inspiration for her skillset. The tension is high, the elements of mystery are perfectly executed, and the plot twists—the ones I’ve seen so far—are unexpected and delightfully thrilling.
I call up an editor at a publishing house who I’ve worked with before. It’s late, but few people would ignore a call from me at any hours of the day or night.
“Killian.” Her voice is surprised and concerned—a fair reaction at a cold-call from me.
“Aisha,” I reply. “I have a manuscript I’d like you to look over and edit.”
Aisha pauses. “You’ve taken up writing?”
I chuckle. “Certainly not. But I have a…” woman I’m blackmailing into two months of sex, “an acquaintance who happened to send me a partial. I think it’s excellent, but I’m slightly biased. I’d appreciate if you could squeeze it into your schedule.”
I hear the shuffling of papers in the background. Aisha is one of the most senior editors at one of the biggest publishing houses in the world—she works with the highest level of acquisitions, so she’d probably refuse my request if it came from anyone else. It’s astoundingly far below her paygrade.
Fortunately, being one of the wealthiest men in the world makes people eager to do me favors.
“I can fit it in this weekend. How long is it?”
“I have the first 50k words,” I say. “The rest is a work in progress.”
“You should send it to me once it’s complete. I don’t bother with partials—”
“I’ll be sending it to you now.” My tone hardens. “If you’d like to see more of it, I’ll send you the rest once it’s through. At the moment, all I’d like is a second pair of experienced eyes.”
Aisha sighs. “Very well. Email it to me, I’ll get it back to you this weekend.”
It’s Thursday. The next time I see Lyra will be on Saturday, and I expect to have another 15k words from her by then.
I should probably just wait and have Aisha look over the entire manuscript, but I’m eager to get Lyra professional edits or feedback.
I’m not sure why I’m so invested in this endeavor of hers—possibly because I want to be proved right—but I am.
“I appreciate it,” I say, and hang up.
My secretary pokes his head through the door. “Mr. King, I have Carter Black waiting for you.”
I wave my hand. “Send him in.”
Carter typically likes to hold meetings in one of the many clubs he owns around the city, but I despise being surrounded by blaring music and the cloying smells of perfume and cologne that fail to mask the stench of sweat.
My secretary exits, and Carter Black strolls inside. He wears a black Armani suit and his angular jaw is covered in stubble. His dark blue eyes are empty and soulless, and he makes no attempt to hide the gun holstered inside his suit jacket.
“Killian King,” he says. “You are a hard man to get a hold of.”
“We have that in common.” I motion to the seats across from my desk. “Please.”
Carter sinks into the chair and folds his ankle across the opposite knee, getting comfortable.
“I heard you used Rhys as an errand boy.”
“Errand boys don’t get paid five figures for their work.”
“True.” Carter pauses. “Don’t do it again.”
“Then don’t offer his services for hire,” I reply.
Carter stares at me for several moments. “It smells like sex in here.”
“Does it?”
“Yes. A faint whiff of Coco Mademoiselle from Chanel, along with the scents of cum and faint remnants of sweat.”
“I never knew you had the nose of a bloodhound.”
“I’m a man of many talents. Have you been nailing that hot journalist here?”
I don’t like the sound of him calling her hot. Has he seen her in person? “Why don’t we dispense with your attempts at small talk and get to the point?”
Carter’s nose wrinkles. “Small-talk?” He appears genuinely perplexed at the notion, as if he’s never heard of it before.
I roll my eyes. “You know. What middle-class people do to fill the silence with the sounds of their voices.”
Carter mimes retching. “That’s why fucking around below your tax bracket is never a good idea.”
He gives me a pointed stare; I ignore it. “Why are you here, Carter?”
On paper, Carter Black is the owner and CEO of Castell Luxury Group—a company he started after his hostile takeover and ousting of John Tudor.
A company I’m a silent partner of. Off paper, Carter Black has his finger in every notable pie in the world, including in mafia circles.
He’s one of the most powerful men alive—alongside me.
The Eyes tried to recruit him a few years ago; he refused on account of not wanting to be bored to death.
“I’m here because Johnny-boy might make himself into a problem.”
I wave a dismissive hand. I helped Carter orchestrate the takeover of John’s old company, Harbor he’s comfortable with people knowing he’s fucked up.
I, on the other hand, much prefer to hide my darkness behind insincere smiles.
“Anything you need from me?”
“Nope. Just wanted to keep you informed.”
“I appreciate it.”
Carter stays exactly where he is, not moving an inch. I arch an eyebrow at him. “Is there something else?”
“As a matter of fact, there is.” He leans forward. “Your little writer has a friend. A very beautiful friend. I’m here to ask if she’s under your protection.”
I think for a moment, mentally sifting through all the information I’ve gathered on Lyra’s life. “Annalise?” I query.
Carter shrugs. “Don’t know her name. Blonde, stunning, looks like she belongs on a lingerie runway rather than jammed in a shitty cubicle. She free game?”
It’s definitely Annalise. “Only person I’m interested in keeping off the market, for now, is Lyra. You can have whoever else you want.”
“Oh?” Carter questions. “And if I said that I wanted your reporter once you were done with her, how would you respond to that?”
It takes all of my composure to keep from tensing. Or launching across the table and beating Carter to a bloody pulp. “I’d say have fun. As soon as I’m done with her, she’s no longer my concern.”
I don’t want to be done with her. I have five more weeks with Lyra, and the time is trickling by far too fast. I don’t see her enough, and every minute I spend with her makes me look forward to the next—even when she’s being bitchy and deliberately trying to piss me off.
Fuck her out of your system, King, and move on.
“Good to know. Maybe the ladies will be up for a threesome.”
I shrug. “Just try not to break them—they’re fairly well protected.” The Empire Journal staff are high-enough profile to be inconvenient to kill or dispose of, though it’s not impossible. Simply undesirable.
“Very well.” Carter stands up, brushing an imaginary piece of lint from his shoulders. “I’d suggest trying to clean up the scents of sex from in here. It’s truly cloying.”