14. Crossing the Wrong Charming
Chapter 14
Crossing the Wrong Charming
CHARMING
H alf my body rises, urging me to do something, but Cinder can handle herself. I won’t make the same mistake as this idiot and underestimate her.
Cinder slams a bottle on the counter, the sound like the bang of a gavel. Her expression could freeze hell itself. She regards him coolly, one pierced brow arched. “We're fresh out of sour. How about a nice tall glass of fuck off instead?”
“Oooooh,” the crew taunts Hair Cut, in case he didn't realize he’s getting his ass handed to him. His buddy pushes up his glasses and laughs nervously, watching Cinder with interest.
She slides the drinks across the bar to Hair Cut’s friends, her expression stony. “Here you go, boys. Enjoy your night.”
Aka, fuck off. Now.
As Cinder turns to walk away, Hair Cut’s hand darts out quick as a snake to snag her wrist. Cinder yelps in surprise when he yanks her forward, his other arm sweeping across the bar to send glasses and bottles crashing to the floor.
In a heartbeat, he has her bent backward over the bar, his massive body pinning her in place. One meaty hand finds her throat, squeezing just hard enough to make her gasp for air.
Even his buddies take a step back in shocked disbelief. The one in glasses nearly trips over a bar stool.
“I bet a little slut like you loves being dominated,” Hair Cut growls, his face inches from hers.
Cinder scrabbles at his wrist, her nails leaving bloody furrows in his skin. But Hair Cut just laughs, his fingers pinching her cheeks, forcing her lips to pucker, preparing her for his disgusting mouth.
A visceral, white-hot rage explodes inside me at the sight of his hands on her. I’m across the room in a flash, my fingers clamped around his wrist in a vise grip. He yelps as I wrench his arm behind his back, bending him over the bar until his cheek smacks the sticky surface.
“I believe my fiancée said fuck off,” I say, smiling through my fangs. “Or did you get a bit of your brains trimmed out with your last overpriced haircut?”
Murmurs ripple around me.
“Holy shit, it's the Prince of Midnight.”
“I knew it was him!”
“Fuck, dude. He’s gonna rip Alan’s throat out.”
Hair Cut whimpers, trying to wriggle out of my hold. Glasses Guy’s fingers twitch nervously. His cronies look on in slack-jawed terror, knowing full well who—and what—I am.
It’s not surprising people recognize me. Not only am I a royal, but I was required to spend two years of university in the Common World—a diplomatic exchange student system to keep good relations between the lands. Oxford is where I started developing the reputation of a careless party boy who was always down to bang the gong.
But my devil-may-care persona has all but evaporated, as cold fury pulsates in me with barely restrained violence.
“S-sorry, man,” Hair Cut stutters. “I didn't know she was your girl.”
Goldie is now poised next to Cinder, holding the soda tap like a gun, pointing it at Hair Cut despite the fact I've subdued him. Snow is on the other side of Cinder, icy eyes shooting hate and promising violence as she grips a full bottle of vodka by the neck.
I lean in close, my voice a dangerous purr. “Let me make something clear, friend . It’s never okay to treat any person like an object for your impulsive tiny-balled pleasure, whether they're someone’s girl or not. Do we understand each other?”
Hair Cut blanches, his throat bobbing as he nods frantically while he absorbs the blunter points of consent.
Cinder scoffs, crossing her arms. “I'm not anyone's girl, asshole.” Despite the venom in her tone, I can't help the thrill that zips through me at the thought.
My girl. If only.
“You owe her an apology,” I add.
I release the meathead with a shove, sending him sprawling into his bros. They catch him as they stumble back, nearly tripping over each other in their haste to put distance between us.
“Apologize.” My voice is deadly calm. “Now.”
Hair Cut swallows hard, his eyes flicking to Cinder. “S-sorry. Won't happen again.”
Cinder gives him the look I have dubbed the purple death . “Whatever. Just get the fuck out of my bar.”
They don't need to be told twice. The group practically falls over themselves in their scramble to vacate, leaving a wake of nervous titters behind them.
“Excuse me a moment, ladies, I think I’ll see them out. Make sure they don’t get lost.” I say smoothly to Cinder and her friends who have now crowded behind her.
The room is a blur as I leave so fast the bouncer doesn’t even see me pass by. I speed up until I’m behind the slow, bumbling group of men.
Hands in my pockets, I stalk them as they turn down a quiet street.
“Dude, we can’t take you anywhere. Why you always gotta start shit?” one of the men asks Hair Cut.
Before he can answer, I do it for him. “Must be compulsive.”
They all freeze and turn to meet my gaze.
“Hello again, gents. If I may have a word with that one.” I point to Cinder’s offender.
Hair Cut’s face fills with blood, fueled by embarrassment and rage. The scent of it washes over me. While part of me wants to sink my fangs into his veiny, pulsating neck because I’m always thirsty, I wouldn’t lower myself to drink from such a disgusting source. I have taste.
“Fuck off, man—” he starts, but I stop him. My pupils open up, and I reach out with my power. I grip him in it and he freezes.
In seconds, Hair Cut is a drooling mess, completely at my whim.
“Now, it may seem like I’m here for you, Alan,” I say, rubbing my chin. “But I’m really here for him.” I point to Hair Cut’s clumsy friend with the glasses.
The three other men turn toward my true target while Alan remains slack-jawed and frozen.
“See, you made a mistake. There’s no way this group of bros would let you in their group, wearing that gouzasui .” I point at the mid-range time piece wrapped around his wrist.
Glasses Guy narrows his eyes at me, his loose, slouchy posture suddenly straightening.
“Tell me Alan, how much did he pay you to fuck with the bartender?” I ask without taking my eyes off the real threat.
“Fifty bucks,” Alan says in an almost robotic voice.
My disgust forces me to double-take at the haircut. “You probably don’t get up in the morning for less than. . .” I roll my fingers expectantly.
“A two-million-dollar deal,” he finishes my prompt.
My lip curls up in a sneer. “So you did it for the sport of it, did you?” I’ll deal with this son of a bitch, but not yet.
I turn my attention back to Glasses Guy, who's now watching me with a wary, calculating gaze. “So, who sent you? My father? Or maybe some other disgruntled court member who doesn’t want a beater for their princess?”
A flicker of surprise crosses his face before he schools his features into a mask of indifference. “I don't know what you're talking about.”
I chuckle darkly. “Don't play dumb. It doesn't suit you. I saw the way you were watching her, the way your hand kept twitching towards your jacket. You're here to kill her, aren't you?” I swipe my thumb across my lower lip. “What was the plan? A little reconnaissance? Wait until after she got off her shift at the bar then strike? Or was big meaty and clumsy over here a distraction so you could slip poison in her water glass behind the bar?”
His jaw clenches, and I know I've hit the mark.
“Ah, but you didn’t count on me being there, did you?”
In a blur of motion, he lunges at me, fangs bared. He's fast, skilled, a trained assassin. But I'm faster.
I hear gasps of fear as the rest of the men scram, leaving Alan behind.
We clash in a flurry of blows, his strength nearly matching mine. But he doesn't know pain like I do. I took that pain and turned it into discipline, into muscle—into hours, days, months, years of sweat and movement.
Glasses throws a precise punch, but I easily duck and grab his arm. With a quick twist, I pin him against the wall, my hand around his throat. “You picked the wrong girl to mess with,” I growl. “And the wrong Charming to cross.”
None of this was necessary—like toying with a plaything before crushing it under my boot. But it was my way. I wanted him to know I could best him on my own.
But I had to finish this like a Charming.
I unleash my power, flooding his mind with a command. “You will drink your own blood until there is nothing left.”
The assassin’s eyes widen in horror as he raises his hand to his mouth, fangs sinking deep into his wrist. A muffled scream rips from his throat as he begins to drink.
It’s the worst agony a vampire can endure.
I would know.
And I’ve doomed him to suffer that torment until he meets his end.
I leave him to his fate, turning back to Hair Cut.
“It’s time to confess your sins. Alan, was it? Have you assaulted others before? Ladies or otherwise?”
With a dumb nod of his head, he confirms what I guessed.
“Despite our chat, I don’t feel you’ve learned your lesson.”
I sink my power in deeper.
The King is known to wield the power of thrall. The only vampire able to control the will of others.
What the world doesn’t know is it’s a family trait. And I absolutely fucking hate it. But right now, the ability is to my benefit.
Images flash in my mind, broadcast from his tiny pea brain. Women crying, struggling, or simply unconscious under his slobbering, meaty body.
Anger slices through me like a razor blade, sharpening me into a tool that can correct his supremely shitty behavior.
Cinder’s face, that split second of fear that breaks her mask causes a storm to explode, detonating a bomb I didn’t know was inside me.
I was going to thrall him into marching to the nearest police station, confess his every sin, and make him wildly proclaim to other inmates he truly enjoys being bottom bitch, but now. . .
Now I know too much. I know the girls’ faces. I feel their pain. The need to protect Cinder from this monster overwhelms me. I catch the strands of thought floating around. He planned to return. He planned to catch her unawares in the back alleyway where she works and finish what he started.
That won’t be happening.
Not ever.
I release him enough from the thrall that he is more present in his mind, but unable to move.
I bare my fangs, letting him know what’s about to come.
I return to Cinder, concern tightening my face as I take in the angry red marks on her throat. “Are you alright?” My knuckle brushes the still wet smudge of blood on my jacket. Not that anyone would spot it against my black ensemble.
Cinder waves me off, but I catch the slight tremble in her fingers. “I'm fine. I had it handled.”
I nod, knowing better than to push.
Unlike me, Cinder possesses pride.
“I know you did. But I couldn't just sit by and watch that asshole put his hands on you.”
Something flickers in those violet depths, gone too quickly for me to decipher. Gratitude?
Nah, couldn’t be.
And I very much doubt she’d feel gratitude if she found out the state I left those two guys in. Though no one will find them after what I did.
Loose cannon.
Irresponsible.
I’ve been called all of these, but the public at large is ignorant of the deep river of violence that flows deep inside me. The one that doesn’t abide predators preying on the weak, whether they be fuck boys in bars or my father with his people.
Unfortunately, I also realize it may be the very trait that makes me most like my father.
Maybe the Mice are right to fear me. If they knew I had the power of thrall, they’d cut all contact immediately.
Cinder busies herself wiping down the bar. The angry slash of her mouth softens just a touch.
“You're impossible,” she mutters, but there's no real heat behind it. As she turns away to tend to another customer, I swear I catch the barest hint of a smile playing at the corner of her lips. It's gone in a flash, replaced by her usual scowl, but it's enough to send a rush of heat straight to my chest.
One day, I'll coax a real smile out of her. For now, I'm content to sit back and watch my dark empress rule her domain.
Though for the first time, the idea of dissolving our little arrangement sends shoots of pain and anxiety through me. She’s perfect because of what she is, but now I’m starting to believe she’s perfect because of who she is.
She's a luxury I can't afford, a dream I have to let die before it even has a chance to take root.
If she learns who I truly am, she'll realize I'm just a shadow of the man I pretend to be. The confidence, the charm, the devil-may-care attitude—it's all a carefully crafted illusion, designed to hide the scars, the violence, the ugliness that’s at my core.
Scars inflicted by a father who saw me as nothing more than an unsatisfactory heir, riddled with weakness. And no matter how much I want to believe in the possibility of us, a part of me knows that in the end, I'll only drag her down. It’s all I know how to do.
No matter what I do, I will always carry a piece of my father inside me. A dark, twisted part that threatens to taint everything I touch. The darkness of my father's legacy seeps into every fiber of my being, staining me with the same cruelty and violence that runs in his blood.
I have no intention of subjecting Cinder to that.
When the time comes, I'll let her go. I'll watch her walk away and tell myself it's for the best.
So why do my chest tighten and my hands clench every time I think of letting her go?