Everything about him is intense. Dominant. Overwhelming.
The aura he emits drapes around me like a cloak, bringing a fever to my skin and making me acutely aware of how small I feel in this moment.
“I asked you a question.” His voice is icy, making me flinch out of the trance I’m in. I try to sort through my thoughts. Oh, yes, my name.
“Lilliana,” I answer, proud of how strong my voice comes across as I look over his frame again, breaking the forceful gaze he seems to have over me, even without me being able to see his eyes.
His shadowed head nods at my answer, but still his face stays hidden. My stomach turns, heart pounds, and every nerve ending I have is singed. He doesn’t question whether I’m telling the truth. There is no hesitation. Meaning one thing: he knows who I am!
Yet I have no idea who he is. That straight away makes us uneven and puts us firmly in his playing field.
“Your father owes us a lot of money… Lilliana.” His voice, although menacing, is smooth, sultry.
He says my name as if he’s rolled every letter around his mouth, tasting it before letting it fall from his lips, making my breath catch.
Jack’s wheezing regains my attention. I see he's holding his side and trying to stand. “Jack?”
He has always refused to allow me to call him Dad. Ever since I was little, he would only allow his name. Maybe it was his way of escaping the truth, of hiding from the fact that he had a responsibility. Being Jack meant he was able to keep me at arm’s length. So, it didn’t matter if he left me standing at the school gates, forgotten again, if he never attended a school function or parents evening, nor cheered me on at sports day. It didn’t matter if he didn’t check my school reports or even noticed whether I went to school.
When I was sick, he never took me to the doctors, rubbed my back or read me a bedtime story. He didn’t fix my scraped knees or wipe away any tears that streaked my face. Because that’s what dads did, and he was—well, he was just Jack. I’m not sure if I could call him Dad now. Some screwed up part of me used to think he was protecting me so his debt collectors couldn’t use me against him, but Jack isn’t that thoughtful or selfless. Instead, he left that responsibility to my brother, Hayden, who had done all these things and more. It was always us against the world.
Jack looks at me before turning his head away and keeping his gaze on the ground, to make sure he avoids eye contact while he continues trying to stand.
His beaten and broken body falls, and I run to catch him before he hits the floor. I wrap my arm around his waist and help him move to a chair resting against the wall, holding onto him when he lowers himself into it. I place my fingers on his wrist, and on impulse I take his pulse, which is a little high. But considering the circumstances, that’s good.
All his injuries look superficial, maybe needing a few stitches. Apart from his arm, which is broken. Grabbing the first aid box from the cupboard next to us, I start cleaning his cuts, wiping the blood away. I left it here after all the times he’d fallen. Most daughters would be cringing, sobbing as they watched blood trickle from their father’s open wounds, but I have seen this hundreds, thousands of times. Jack has a habit of borrowing more than he can afford and blowing it all on cards, thinking every hand is going to get him the big one. Chasing that dream that he will someday win. But those hands never come, and he always has to pay. Most of the time, he ends up paying with broken bones and bruises. Sometimes I pay.
I gently dress his arm into a sling so as not to hurt him. I’ve noticed how he hasn’t once looked in my direction while I’ve been attending to his injuries, and I wish that didn’t hurt, that I could block him out just as easily. Instead, his gaze darts around the room, landing on anything but me.
“Sorry,” Jack says under his breath, so muffled I can barely make it out.
There’s movement behind me, and I turn just in time to see the man hidden in the shadows emerge from the darkness. I soak in every one of his features, from his effortlessly styled raven hair to the almond-shaped eyes that are so dark they match his midnight black lashes. Sun-kissed skin makes him look exotic, and his chiselled cheeks are defined, leading down to a strong, clean-shaven jaw that looks like it’s been carved by the gods. His sensual lips are pulled into a sneer.
Recognition pulses through me, and I stand straighter, pulling in a hasty breath. I close my eyes, not wanting to believe what I’m seeing. Opening them, I blink harshly, but he’s still standing there. I stumble back. Oh god, no... Please, no.
It has been seven years since I've seen him, London's own Hades, ruler of the underground, key holder and heir to his father’s kingdom, which is full of violence and organised crime.
Malachi Kingston - The Dark Prince.
I try to hide my gasp, still not believing he’s standing in front of me after all this time. Malachi.
I take in a deep breath as my heart pounds and try in vain to lock down my reactions. As my eyes rake over him, half of me wants to grab him and ask him, “Why?” The other wants to see his body on the floor, bloody and bruised.
The more I stare at him, the more I find old feelings coming back. A flashback of the last time I saw him hits me, and ice fills my veins, making my own lips curl.
“You said he owes you money? How much? Can we set up a payment plan?” Who am I fooling? We’re already tight on money, nothing to spare. I sold my car after the last mess Jack was in, gave him every spare penny. But I had to try.
The large guy turns, and that's when I see the tattoo of angel wings on his neck. He snorts at my request, shaking his head as I narrow my eyes at him, taking in the strong jawline, the angles of his face and copper eyes.
Declan. Malachi’s cousin.
I should have known he would be here. He, Malachi and Hayden were inseparable when they were younger. Looks like he gained his wings as the compound enforcer, as the leader of the Angels of Death, who do all of Gage’s dirty work, collecting the debts, using their fists and breaking bones, causing blood to spill. They aren’t above torturing or even murder. Hence the name Angels of Death; no one wants them knocking on their door. The Angels are also the compound’s protection.
The compound where Gage runs London, his empire.
London doesn’t have the mob. Instead, it has something far worse: the Kingstons.
Declan’s lips twitch, growing into a grin that shows off his teeth, when he sees the recollection in my eyes. As if the rest of the world is in on a joke I don’t know about.
“Jack has already used up all of his lifelines,” Malachi says, taking a step closer, so I can see him more clearly. To everyone else in the room, he’s coming across cool, calm and collected. But I can still read him, see the tightness around his eyes, the muscles in his jaw popping beneath the skin. Anger vibrates from him, bouncing off the walls. I take a step back to instinctually guard Jack, which seems to piss him off more, those black eyes of his following my every move. Disapproving. Angry.
“He’s pissed off a lot of people,” Malachi continues while adjusting a cufflink on his wrist.
I shake my head, turning to Jack, cursing. He may be a shitty parent, but he’s the only one I have. Mum walked out on me before I could walk. Jack didn't have a clue how to raise a daughter. I spent most of my life in run-down bars, eating peanuts for dinner whilst watching him gamble our rent and food money away on a bet he was so certain to win, only to leave empty-handed.