Chapter 13 #2
“Are you sure your father will be there?” he asks, pulling out of my driveway.
“Yes,” I respond. “But you still haven’t told me why Ezra needs to see him.”
“The less you know, the better,” he says, entering the highway and heading into the city. “Plausible deniability.”
I’m nervous to see my father. I haven’t seen him since I agreed to represent Ezra.
After our heated argument and the same fucking narrative of how I’m destroying the Knight name, we haven’t spoken.
It only takes one comment, one hurled insult, resurfacing from that night to bring me back into that moment.
“It should’ve been you.” My father looks at me and only sees her. Beatrice. That’s all he’ll ever see since her death. “I’m being punished for choosing the wrong daughter, for believing that God would somehow make up for taking my youngest.”
I remain indifferent, although I want to scream and shout, the little girl in me begging for my father to see me for who I am.
“I have to find out from people in the courthouse that my own daughter is representing that savage, murderous family!” He removes his glasses, tiredness more present than ever in the corners of his eyes.
“You’d be nothing without the Knight name.
” His grey eyes dart to mine, furious as I clench my fists at my sides.
“Why can’t you admit that you’re secretly proud of my talent? Why is it so hard for you to show me the smallest bit of recognition?” My voice remains calmer than I am.
“Gordon,” my mother interjects, and he raises his hand, silencing her.
“I didn’t pay for your tuition, send you to the best goddamn schools, for you to represent killers and gangsters. Do you have no morals, Isla? Do you know what these people do?”
“I don’t need your permission.”
He stops, knowing I won’t listen.
“I won’t have you set foot in this fucking house again.”
Rolling my eyes, I snatch my purse from the armchair in front of his work desk. “Great. I don’t care. I have my own place.”
I’m about to head out the door when what he says next makes me halt.
“Beatrice would never,” he whispers, and I snap, turning and hurling my bag at him. He dodges it, the contents of it now sprawled over his desk and the floor.
“Fuck you! Beatrice wanted nothing more than to live her life on her own terms!”
His eyes widen. “Don’t you ever speak of her!”
“All you did was suffocate her, tell her she couldn’t chase her dream because it wasn’t fucking worthy in your eyes, and you know what, Father? She detested you for it. She took her own life, knowing you would rather see her miserable than support her like a real father would.”
“Get out of my house!”
“She wanted to be an artist, she wanted to travel the world, and you kept her here, made her follow in your footsteps because you wanted to show her off like a little shiny prize, to offer her to the highest bidder—”
My rageful words are cut short, the sting left behind from his hand on my cheek another accolade in my mission to make him feel what I do.
I smile through it, knowing he’s hurting just like me. “You’re the one who killed her.” I lean forward, pressing the tip of my nail onto his chest. “She died because you couldn’t love her the way she was.”
The car comes to a stop in front of the restaurant, and I take in a shaky breath, preparing to face my father again.
I chose this place on purpose, knowing he frequently visits because it was B’s favourite.
She’d come here anytime she needed to smile, and when we reach the rooftop, it’s evident why.
The view of the top of the city, the sun taking its rightful place in the iridescent sky, glittering above the Thames.
I spot him seated in his favourite spot, waiting for me, lost in his thoughts, which are undoubtedly of his favourite daughter as he stares absently at the view. Malik stays behind, out of sight, and as I approach my father, my breath is caught in my lungs.
He spots me entering his vision but doesn’t stand or say a word, just motions for me to take a seat. Why am I affected by his power still, after all these years, after all the cases I have won?
“So?”
I scoff. “I don’t even deserve a greeting anymore?”
He crosses his arms over the slight belly he’s gained over the years and waits for me to speak.
A beat passes, and when I don’t say anything, he sighs, removing his glasses and placing them on the wooden table.
“What kind of trouble have you gotten the Knight name into?”
The elevator dings, and I watch his eyes blow wide. “This space is open privately.” His voice is stern, and I don’t have to look to know Ezra is standing behind me.
“Judge Knight, you know nothing stays private in my city.”
I stand, and the look my father gives me is one of disdain. I’ve lost count of how many of these I have under my belt now.
“Thank you, Miss Knight. I’ll take it from here.”
I don’t look back as I head to the kitchen where the chef, Michele, is preparing my father’s meal. The same one he orders every single time without fail. My back thuds against the wall as I let out a guttural groan.
“He’s still the same as always,” Michele says with a smile on his lips. He slides a blueberry muffin over the counter, and I take it, tearing off the wrapping to bite into it.
“No, he’s worse,” I say with a mouthful.
“Well.” He sighs, pausing his movements to look at me. The dark curls fall over his forehead, the kindness in his eyes still there, regardless of spending his years in a high-stress environment. “If it’s any consolation, Isla, I think you’ve done great for yourself.”
I want to smile at his kind words, but I take another bite of my muffin.
“Remember when he almost had a stroke that I was back here, learning how to make his favourite panna cotta?” I laugh, and small muffin bits fly out of my mouth. “He didn’t want to hear my reasoning at all. He was just furious I had stepped into the kitchen, because ‘Knight girls didn’t do this.’”
He gives me a half smile, not knowing if he should be amused or feel sorry for me.
“Yeah, it wasn’t his brightest moment.”
“I still have the mark on my arm from the burn of the saucepan.” I extend my arm to show him when a large, inked hand clasps around my wrist. He turns me around to face him, and I stop chewing the food I have in my mouth.
“Gordon did this?” Malik’s deep voice is like a warning, his eyes dark and clouded with something I can’t place.
I remove my wrist from his hold, the intimate action too much in front of Michele, especially after I just ended things with Adrian.
No, no, what the hell am I thinking?
Especially since he’s my client.
But Malik isn’t the type to care, and it’s evident in the way he reaches for my arm again, cautioning me not to pull out of his hold once more. Michele is visibly uncomfortable, so he returns to working on the meal.
“Can I have a word with you?” I ask, and Malik nods.
I lead him further into the back of the restaurant.
At night, this place also doubles as a club, tailored specifically for the wealthy.
I open the frosted glass doors, which lead into an oval space.
Dark quilted leather adorns the walls, with gold accents on all the booth seats, and a pole with a platform in the middle of the room.
I stop in the middle, just before the platform, and his hand loosens around mine.
“You can’t do that around others.” I try to keep my voice even as the glass door shuts behind us, the room now silent. If it weren’t for the beating of my heart, I could probably hear his.
“Do what?” His fingers dance up my arm and over my shoulder, shifting my hair behind me. An action that should be reserved for lovers, for someone who at least has a heart, but I don’t know if Malik does.
“You know exactly what.”
“No, I don’t,” he whispers, the spicy notes of his cologne mixed with the remnants of cigarette smoke on his breath, swirling around me, obscuring my thoughts. “Tell me, Isla, what am I doing?”
“We can’t,” I breathe as he presses himself against my back. “Last night was just—”
“Don’t say what I think you’re about to say. Stop lying to yourself, Little Nycto.”
I press my hands to my sides, hoping that if I stay still, the urge to touch him will vanish, but as his hand slithers around me and closes on my neck, I roll my eyes back at the pure exhilaration coursing through me.
“I want you, and you want me,” he murmurs against my ear. “Why does it have to be more complicated than that?”
Does it have to be?
What if it isn’t, and I’m just making something out of nothing?
I can’t believe the thoughts I am having right now. Of course, it’s a big deal. He is my client!
But everything else feels so right, so desirable and wrong, all at the same time. It’s dangerous, it’s sexy, and addictive.
“Was it not enough having your fingers inside me?”
His deep laugh sends a shiver through me, and I struggle to stifle my moan when his other hand cups my pussy over my jeans.
“You have this pull over me that no one else has had since I was a boy,” he whispers, pulling me back into him. A breath escapes from my lips in a rush as his cock presses against my back. “And I want to find out why.”
“I won’t be just another notch on your belt, Malik.”
Spinning me around, he maintains his hold on my neck, the darkness of the room emphasising his height and the deranged look in his eyes.
“Is that what you’re afraid of, Isla?” I remain silent as he tightens his fingers around my neck and his gaze roams south to my mouth. “Because that’s not what you should be worried about.”
“What should I be worried about?”
“The fact that you don’t know how obsessive and possessive I can be over my commodities. Especially ones with the mouth, the ink, and an attitude I’d love to break. Slowly. Roughly. Thoroughly, until you’re weeping from all your holes, pleading for more.”
His crude words solidify every dirty thought I’ve had about Malik and bring me another five steps closer to sleeping with him.
I remain still as he leans in, his lips brushing mine. I swipe my mouth with my tongue like an addict just holding out for a hit of his taste. “I’m not something you can own.”
“I think you want to be.” His smirk disappears, something manic replacing the fleeting amusement in his tone. “Stick out your tongue.”
“Wh—”
“Now.”
Hesitantly, I open my mouth and push my tongue out. He tilts my head backward, craning my neck as he stands over me.
“You put up an imaginary wall to make yourself feel better about wanting me.” He opens his mouth, and I squirm as his tongue dangles over mine, a string of his saliva dropping onto my tongue. I can just close my mouth, turn, and push him away.
So why don’t I?
It’s the universe’s sick, twisted joke that I crave it. I want what I can’t have. It’s always been this way, and it’s no different when it comes to Malik. If anything, it’s fucking worse.
I reach out to palm his cock beneath his jeans and close my mouth, making sure he’s watching as I swallow.
Even in the dim light, I can see the muscles in his jaw tick. “Be careful, Little Nycto, I have an addictive personality.”
“Then maybe we’re perfect for each other,” I whisper, fully encapsulated in my delusion. “I, too, become addicted to things that make me feel good.” My fingers strangle his cock over his trousers, and he groans into it.
The glass doors click open, and I break away from his hold, fiddling with my hair. Ezra’s eyes land on me, then on Malik as he clears his throat.
“I hope I’m interrupting.”
Malik adjusts himself before turning to face Ezra. “Yes, you most definitely are.”
“I need to speak with you.”
Malik looks at me with a glare that I can only decipher as “I’ll be back to finish what you started” before he leaves, and the doors are closed, leaving me a hot and bothered mess.