23. Rip #2
“That’s awesome. My parents would never get a matching tattoo with me,” he scoffs. King gazes at the stark, tattooed letters on my arms, his eyes wide with wonder, before a realization suddenly strikes him. “But… I thought you were adopted at twelve?”
“I was.”
His nose scrunches. Put the pieces together, Prince. “Then how do you have a matching tattoo with your bio parents?”
I guess I’ll have to piece it together for him myself.
“I got my first tattoo at eight years old.”
My mind flashes back to my mother pinning me down while my father tattooed small, unprofessional letters on my ankle, my frantic kicks and screams not enough to make them stop.
To think, once my ankle was done, and the puncturing stopped, I totally felt like the coolest kid in class for being the only one with a tattoo.
King’s brows furrow. “That’s insane.”
“It was the incident that got me officially taken away from them.” I pause, eyes hitting the bedding. “And the last time I ever saw them.”
Why am I sharing this with him? I won’t even talk to Thomas about the shit surrounding my biological parents, yet the words flow out to Kingsley like shit I can’t hold in.
His chin lifts, almost as if he doesn’t believe me. “They never came looking for you? Tried to win custody again?”
“Not once,” I say bitterly, my fists so tight my knuckles turn white. “They said we were ride or dies. Clearly they chose die.”
“I say fuck them,” he spits, his face etched in something between disgust and pure anger. “I’m sure you were better off without them as parents.”
Seeing his anger ignites something dangerous inside me. “Yeah, fuck them.”
Kingsley’s staring hard, likely thinking about my folks, but when he looks at me, his expression softens a bit, like he’s been busted.
I quirk a smile. “King Beaumont—Mr. Emotionless—getting angry for little ole me?”
He rubs the back of his neck, but his words are firm. “Anyone who could toss you away isn’t right in the head.”
Will he have that same thought when he finds out I’ve been lying to him?
I push the thought away. The guilt can chip away at me when I’m alone. Not when I have a prince in my arms.
“Still sore?” I ask cheekily.
“Considering it’s only been a couple of hours, yes.”
Huh. It has only been two hours. Ask my dick, and it would have said it’s been days since it was buried in Kingsley’s tight hole.
I rub his thigh dangerously close to his groin. “Can I see?”
He puckers his lips. “Why? So you can stick your dick back in me?”
“That would be nice,” I coo. “Unless you’re too sore, of course. I know my monster cock was a lot for you to handle.”
Kingsley’s eyes roar with fire. He pushes off of me, climbs onto all fours, and sticks his plump ass in my face.
“Don’t talk all that talk and not live up to it, darling,” he challenges.
“Trust me, King. By the end of this, you’ll scream so loud the whole resort will know my name,” I growl.
“What the hell was that?”
I’m barely through the door before Thomas is hitting me with questions. I move past him, but he follows me to my bedroom.
“Rip Redgrave,” he scolds in the same way Mum does when I act selfishly.
“Bloody hell, Tommy,” I groan. “It’s seven in the morning. Can’t we talk about this at… I don’t know… noon?”
Thomas’ lip curls. “You left me with Shawn at the art gala.”
I bend down, back toward Thomas, as I rummage through my suitcase. “That I did.”
“Maybe if you left me with one of the Beaumont sisters, I wouldn’t be so pissed. But you left me with Shawn. The same guy with an attitude problem who doesn’t like us,” he complains loudly in my ear. “All so you can run off with Kingsley and do fuck knows what.”
“Did you survive?”
His furrowed brow falters. “What?”
“Did you survive?” I repeat.
“Obviously.” Thomas’ hands slap at his side. He’s so angry, he might burst.
“Then you’ll get over it. That could have been your opportunity to learn more from Shawn, but I guess you didn’t take it.” I rise to my feet and pat him on the head. “Did you feed Ryland?”
I make my way to the storage closet, and Thomas is right at my heels. “I did, and I also spent an hour complaining to him about how much of a prick you are.”
I stop in my tracks. If he has already checked on Ryland, then there is no need for me to listen to two whiny babies tonight.
“I’ll have you know, Thomas,” I speak mockingly, “that I gathered more intel while I was with Kingsley.”
My brother isn’t convinced. “Really?”
Yes, and I feel terrible about it.
I toss him my phone, and he catches it. He works his way into my camera roll without me having to tell him where to look. It’s that brother intuition. While he sifts, I gather the rest of my items for my shower. I’m about to walk into the bathroom when Thomas comes in.
His gaze is locked onto my phone, his jaw set firmly, and a visible tremor runs through his hands. A chill runs down my spine.
I can’t hide the impatient but genuine concern in my tone. “Tommy, what’s wrong?”
Instead of responding, he continues as if I’ll understand purely from the ghostly look in his eyes.
It isn’t often I see this shell-shocked look in my brother’s eyes. I can only recall a few times, like when he took his first kill and when he found out our aunt was dead. That means this is bad, and I need to know why before I lose it.
My fingers dig into his shoulders as I shake him. “Thomas, answer me! What is wrong?”
With a shaky hand, he turns the phone around. It’s the picture of King with Sylvie draped over him. The one I didn’t need to take, but did anyway.
“Who’s that girl?” he whispers.
My eyes dart between him and the photo. “Sylvie. Kingsley’s dead fiancée. Why?”
The blood drains from Thomas’ face, and the rise and fall of his chest quickens. He’s bloody terrified. Hell, I’m terrified.
“Do… do you remember last year when Mother took me on that mission?” he asks. “The one I was trying to get out of?”
I think back. There was a certain job Thomas had been eager to give to someone else a year ago. It was an assassination.
Despite growing up in the Requiem since ten years old, Thomas has never enjoyed killing. To live like we do, you have to be able to take, which is why he’s been forced to take out about five bodies. That’s way less than any of us, but enough to keep him qualified.
But I’m still lost. “Yes, what about it?”
“They didn’t tell me her name because Mum thought it might make it easier for me to take out a nameless person.” He swallows hard.
My throat dries. I can tell where he’s going with this.
“And I always blank after I do it. The victim’s face becomes a blur in my mind—I think it’s my body’s way of coping. It’s happened every time.”
Please, no. “Get to the point, Tommy.”
“Don’t you get it? Looking at this picture is what gave that blurry image a face again. This was the woman I shot and killed on her wedding day.” He points aggressively at the phone, his breaths erratic.
Blood pools in my ears as I shake my head. I don’t fucking believe him.
“Rip.” Thomas grips my shoulders, forcing my eyes to meet his. “I killed Kingsley’s fiancée. I murdered Sylvie Crenshaw.”