Chapter Eleven
Ishrink back into my seat when Locke opens the door for me.
“This isn’t a restaurant,” I say, panic in my voice. “The texts I got were about a reservation at a steakhouse.”
Locke nods. “Yes, Mr. King assumed your failure to respond meant you would prefer a more private setting, so he arranged a chef to cook for you in his home.”
“I’m not going to his apartment. It isn’t safe.”
Locke arches a challenging eyebrow. “If you’d like to cause a fuss, I’ll inform Mr. King. I’m sure he’ll be willing to come down and retrieve you personally, but I don’t believe he’d be happy about it.”
No—fucking—choice. I either get out or I get punished.
My bitterness grows. I’m trapped in every way; when I don’t listen to Killian, he resorts to extremes. When I displease him, he hurts me. There is literally no winning for me.
Fury tightens my gut. I’ve been helpless many times in my life, but I thought those days were over.
A brief image flashes through my thoughts. Shallow breaths, raggedy coughs, quiet cries in the night that tore my soul apart, because I couldn’t help her…
I shake my head to rid myself of the memory and get out of the car, heels clicking angrily along the pavement as I storm up to the apartment building. An elderly doorman smiles kindly at me, though his smile wavers at the sight of Locke behind me.
“Mr. King said to send her right up,” Locke says.
The doorman nods. “Of course.”
The elevator ride is mere seconds long despite Killian residing on the twenty-ninth floor, the penthouse. He lives a life of pomp and glamour, and literally has the pleasure of looking down on normal people.
I never wanted to be unable to afford medicine or groceries, and so I became a billionaire.
His words from Saturday float across my mind as the elevator lets out directly into Killian’s apartment.
The entryway wall has a Picasso on it—an original Picasso.
As much as I despise Killian, I can’t help but grudgingly admire him.
He’s a self-made man through and through, and his accomplishments are stunning.
“Lyra. I’m so glad you could join me.” Killian appears at the mouth of a hallway. He’s wearing a dark suit with a black tie, expertly tailored to fit him like a glove. His hair is well-styled, his cufflinks are pristine—everything about him is polished to a shine and perfectly calculated.
“I can’t return the sentiment, Mr. King. Know that I am here unwillingly and I’d like to leave.”
“Noted,” he says absently. His eyes run down the length of my dress, glimmering with appreciation and desire. I really do look like a human sacrifice sent here purely to please him.
I hate it. I hate him. I hate the sum total of my life right now.
“Please, come with me.” He offers me his arm. My instinct is to ignore it, but I really can’t take another punishment. I have to play ball and try to escape this unscathed.
I take his arm. The bastard smiles as he leads me deeper into his apartment—a cave, really. A cave of my demise. I already know that tonight won’t end well for me, and if I want to spare myself pain, I’ll have to play ball with whatever Killian wants.
If my ass wasn’t bruised, I’d choose pain. I’ve recently discovered I have a high tolerance for it. But my tolerance isn’t that high.
We step into a dining room built to impress and intimidate. The table is a long slab of black wood, wide enough to make conversations difficult. Low-backed chairs in charcoal velvet line it, their brass feet catching the light like teeth.
The walls are paneled in dark walnut, satin-smooth, broken by tall niches of glass.
Inside the alcoves are sculptures—a bronze spine arcing toward the ceiling, a shard of quartz trapped in a cage of gold.
A single painting dominates the far wall, abstract and violent, thick strokes of crimson dragged through ash-gray.
Above, a chandelier hangs like a frozen downpour—tiers of cut crystal suspended on blackened steel.
The long, polished wooden table is set for two at the head.
China plates and glasses are artfully placed beside beautiful silverware and glassware.
Everything about the space screams opulence, and as much as it sickens me, it also intrigues me.
It doesn’t scream new money and obscene wealth, but rather old money—understated yet blatantly present wealth.
Killian King has taste. That surprises me, since his personality is a black hole of distastefulness.
He pulls my chair out for me as if he’s a gentleman. The seat has a velvet cushion, but even so, I can’t withhold a wince as I sink into it. Killian watches me with a slight smirk of pleasure. I want to snap at him to go fuck himself, but I bite my tongue.
Play ball, Lyra. Go along with it, eat quickly, and get the fuck out of here.
If only it were so easy.
As soon as Killian takes a seat at the head of the table, a group of servants file in.
Two men and one woman, all holding platters with appetizers or drinks.
I’m wide-eyed and stunned into silence as a creamy soup is ladled into my soup bowl, my salad plate is filled, and wine is poured into my wineglass.
I’ve eaten at high end restaurants before, but nothing like this.
I feel kind of like I’m in an episode of Downton Abbey.
As soon as the servants leave, a man in a chef uniform—topped off with the ridiculous hat—steps in.
“There will be four courses tonight,” he says pleasantly, staring at Killian.
“Each will have their own wine pairing. For your first course, a fresh tossed Greek salad and a seasonal cream of corn soup with spiced sourdough croutons, paired with a lovely Sauvignon Blanc. The second course will be grilled salmon with a lemon-rosemary reduction and asparagus on the side paired with a glass of Albarino. Afterwards will be your main, filet mignon with a Cabernet Sauvignon, and finally, your dessert will be crème br?lée with a sweet Muscato.” The chef casts a brief, almost dismissive glance at me. “Any allergies?”
I shake my head mutely.
“Very good. Mr. King?”
I realize he’s waiting for Killian’s approval on the menu before proceeding. Killian nods, then turns to stare at me. I fix my gaze on the soup in front of me.
“Lovely. I hope you enjoy.” The chef turns and exits, leaving me alone with the beast in the room.
“How was the rest of your weekend?” Killian questions mildly, picking up his spoon and swirling it through the soup.
“Fine,” I say. Then, for good measure, I force out through gritted teeth, “yours?”
“Nowhere near as interesting as my Saturday was.” Killian rakes a gaze over me. “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you how beautiful you look.”
I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that I want to stab my spoon through your eye. Rather than voice my thoughts, I let out a tense, “Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome. I do hope you’re not in too much pain.”
Fucking. Prick. “I’m fine, thank you.”
Killian’s lips rise at the edges. “Are you? I didn’t go easy on you. I think you got the message I was aiming to deliver, however; brattiness doesn’t suit you. I will deal with it accordingly.”
I swallow, any semblance of an appetite I might’ve had disappearing. “I understand.”
“Good. Inflicting extreme pain does nothing for me, unless it’s to destroy my enemies. I would hate for you to become my enemy, Lyra.”
“You yourself informed me that I’m too weak to be your enemy,” I remind him, picking up my spoon in a death grip.
He nods thoughtfully, eating a spoonful of soup. “I suppose that’s true. A nuisance, then. Please, for your own sake, don’t be a nuisance.”
I feel my cheeks heat as I think back to the email exchange with his ex-assistant. Could he know about it already? Did she forward the email exchange to him? Could I be here so he punishes me… kills me?
“I’ll do my best to avoid that.” I watch his expression for any reaction, but he gives little away.
I think if he knew, this evening would’ve transpired very differently. I can’t be certain since I don’t know Killian well, but I believe I’d already be screaming in pain and crying if he thought I’d made a move against him.
“I’m so glad to hear it. And, please, call me Killian. Mr. King is so formal, don’t you think?”
“I think formalities are perfectly appropriate, considering our positions.”
Killian pauses with his spoon halfway to his lips. He gazes at me for several beats. “Are they? I don’t think Mr. King is what I’d like to hear you screaming as you fall apart… but if that’s your preference, then that’s your prerogative.”
My blush spreads down my neck and all the way to my ears. He’s talking about sex. Having sex with me.
“I have not and will not consent to any sexual activities between us. I have no desire to sleep with you. My only desire is for you to lose interest in me as quickly as possible and move onto your next victim.”
Killian smiles, and the gesture is terrifying because it’s genuine. “Okay.”
Okay. He leaves it at that—no insistence or explanation. It makes me even more uneasy than I would’ve been if he’d told me he planned on bending me over the table, holding me there, and fucking me while I begged him not to.
My thighs clench at the image my mind conjures, and something terrifying stirs inside me.
It’s not arousal. It can’t be. I’ve recently learned that my brain is fucked up, but it can’t be that fucked up. I won’t allow it.
The rest of the first course is taken in silence. Midway through the second, though, Killian speaks again. “I’ve had a chance to read through all of your work. From high school to college and beyond.”
My heart stutters. My fork freezes halfway to my mouth. I glance at him, unsure whether I should be flattered or deeply, deeply concerned.
I’m inclined to assume it’s the latter, given everything I know about Killian.
“You’re good,” he allows. “I can see why you won a Pulitzer. But you’re nowhere near as good as you think you are.”