He pushes off the counter, and every step he takes closer to me, he steals one hundred breaths. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” I answer, searching his eyes. I see the fire in his. The way they hood with every stride.
I go to step back when one of his arms reaches out and wraps around my back, pulling me into his chest. His chest that I’m getting well acquainted with. “We can’t do that again.”
“What?” I ask, swimming in the pool of his eyes, but well aware that an anchor is strapped around my ankles, and if I don’t swim hard enough, I’ll sink to the bottom of the ocean.
“We. Can’t. Do. That. Again.”
His words power through me like a frenzied preacher at Sunday service. I rear my head back, yearning for some distance. “Okay, but why?”
He releases me, just as someone patters down the stairs. I don’t look at who it is. I don’t care. I want to know why we can’t do that again. There’s obviously a reason. If there wasn’t, King isn’t the type of man to tiptoe around anyone’s feelings. He’d flat out say he didn’t want me.
“King, what the fuck, man? Why are you not ready?” Killian scolds him.
King releases me and steps back, before I get an answer, and slowly disappears up the small stairwell.
“Little Bird,” Killian interferes, and I snap my attention to him. “It’s for the best. Trust me.”
I scoff. “I remember one day not long ago, you told me not to trust you.”
Killian’s carefree smile falls. “I know, but on this, you can.”
The drive to the “party” is long. All of us are piled into a black souped-up Rolls Royce SUV. Wheels, windows, even the grill at the front is black. King is driving, I’m in the passenger seat—not sure why—and Kyrin, Kill, and Keaton are in the back. I’ve tried asking about this party, but none of them have much to say about it. We drive for another fifteen minutes, swerving between cars on the highway and drifting against the ruthless humidity of the South. The sun has set, leaving a burnt orange residue smudged through the sky. We finally pull into a small, gated community. The fence line is hardwired, with the peaks of each curve reaching for the sky. King turns the music down and lowers his window. He leans over, and I watch as he reaches for a small pin box and punches in a long sequence of numbers.
Weird, I think to myself, but otherwise, ignore it. He shifts back into his seat just as the wired gates squeak as they open, allowing us to enter.
“What is this place?” I ask. An air of familiarity brushes over my fickle flesh, but before I grasp onto it, maybe squeeze it a little to see if any recognition drips out, it’s gone.
“Just stay close to us,” King announces, his eyes flying to the rearview mirror.
“What? Why? I thought this was a party?” I watch as we drive down a dark street, with homes as large as the White House. Large, white old plantation homes with manicured lawns pass one by one. Each house has a streetlight hanging near the front, claws of metal grasping onto the bulbs. They look medieval, wrong, in this type of exclusive setting.
King drives us up a driveaway at the very end of the street. It’s long, and has manicured hedges that line it all the way to the front of the house where a fountain is awaiting the center of it. Four monstrous-sized pillars hold up the structure of the home at the front, all glistening white with clean windowsills and a heavy front entrance door that makes you want to run away, rather than knock on it.
“Dove,” King interferes my gawking.
“Yeah?” I look right at him, searching his eyes.
“You don’t take anything from anyone that is not us four. Do you understand?” I do, yet I don’t. But I understand. I mean, it’s a party.
“I know not to take drinks from strangers, King.”
“That’s not my point, Dove,” he throws my tone back in my face. “It’s not your drink you should be worried about.” Then his eyes savagely drop down my body, landing straight between my thighs.
“Okay!” I snap. “I get your point.” I sigh, reaching for my door handle as the rest of them start to climb out. The warm air whisks through my red strands, flicking them all over my face.
“Come on,” Killian murmurs, nudging his head.
I start following behind him, searching around the house for other clues on what this party could be about when I realize that Kill, Keaton, and Kyrin are all walking in front of me and King is walking directly behind me. I feel like a caged wild creature, either desperate to break free or terrified to be unleashed. Either way, some weird, twisted part of me knew that even though these men have done things to me. Horrible, at times questionable things, in this very moment, I feel like their protected prey. They can feast on me, but if anyone else tried, they’d be torn apart.
I don’t know how that makes me feel. Scared? Yes. Confused? Definitely. But do I feel empowered? I’m not sure. I should feel that way, but I don’t.
We reach the front door, and Kill pushes it open, exposing a vast, pristine white foyer. A glass chandelier hangs from the ceiling, and I instantly smell sweet lavender mixed with ash.
“Where are we going, and why are there no people here?” I turn to watch as King shuts the front door with his back, his eyes on me. “Let me guess. You guys brought me here to kill me.”
“Quite the contrary, Little Bird.” King smirks, waving me to continue walking. I follow his silent instructions and follow the three merry men as we all move through the house and pass the sitting room. It has two dark leather chairs that face a large U-shaped sofa. The chairs twist and turn high at the back, inviting yet cold.
“Stop looking, Little Bird. You might end up in trouble,” King whispers from behind me, his hand on my ass. I suck in a breath at his connection.
Killian opens a glass door, and we step through, out onto a large patio that dips into a field. I hear people chatting when I find around a dozen standing around a large fire pit. This is more like a bonfire, as the flames assault the night. It’s as though everyone stops as we enter, all eyes on us. I drift around to each of them. Some wearing suits, some wearing casual clothes, and that’s when I realize they’re all men.
“Welcome, Kiznitch. So nice of you to—” A woman’s voice is cut when her eyes land on mine. Her hair is long and black, dropping to her butt, and her eyes are slit in perfect almonds, but shaped with black liner. So black I can barely make out her eyeshadow. She’s tall and lean, with a golden tan and sharp collarbones, and it’s not until she starts speaking again that I notice what she’s wearing. A lace red gown that’s completely see-through, with her cleavage pouring out of her dress. “What is this?” she asks, her words faltering as a smile about as fake as her hair plasters over her face. I can’t decide how to peg her. What to categorize her as.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Killian’s tone is playful, and I just know he’s going to hit her with a smart-ass comment. “I wasn’t aware that it was invite only, Mother.”
His mom? No fucking way is this woman his mother. She looks to be in her mid-thirties, if that, and I know all about Botox and all the type of shit you can get filled into your face, but there’s no way this woman has anything to do with that. Furthermore, why the hell am I here?