Page 28 of Ruthless King (Mount Trilogy 1)
My body in exchange for my pride. That’s the deal I’ve struck.
I hate Lachlan Mount.
Even his name sends bolts of heat through me, spawned from wrath unlike anything I’ve ever experienced.
I hate how he makes me feel.
I hate that my body responds to him.
As the fireplace spins again and Scar returns with the black hood, the voice in my head whispers one more truth.
I hate that I want him to touch me again.
Mount
I don’t need to picture the rage on her face when she reads the bullshit legal document I had prepared for our meeting. It’s evident on the monitor on my desk as she crushes it in her clenched fists.
Keira Kilgore was an easy mark. Full of righteous indignation and a fire I’ll enjoy having beneath me.
It amuses me that she thought she could make demands. Grown men with brass balls the size of boulders wouldn’t dare. That’s why she’s a fascination. An oddity.
That’s all she is.
Entertainment. A piece of property to amuse me for a short time.
I want her willing. I refuse to let it be any other way.
Even defiant and angry, she responded to me like an instrument to a savant. I’ll tame that fire. Bend her to my will.
My dick hardens for what seems like the dozenth time tonight as I picture her submitting to my every command.
That ass.
Those tits.
That tight little cunt.
Property of no man? Bullshit.
Keira Kilgore is mine.
Keira
Scar doesn’t speak as he slips the hood over my head and picks me up again. Up, down, around and around.
Is it a spiral staircase?
I feel the cool breeze of outside air for only a moment before he settles me in the backseat of the car. Immediately, my hands go to the hood, but his thick fingers grab them and squeeze. It’s a clear indication that I’m not to remove it.
“I have to leave it on for the ride home? Are you joking?”
The only response he gives is a grunt.
My fingers itch to rip the hood off, but if keeping it on gets me home faster, then I’ll leave the damn thing alone.
He backs out of the garage, and the muted street noises barely breach the interior of the luxury car. Again, I lose track of which way we turn and instead stay silent, ready for this nightmare of an evening to be over. When the car finally stops again, I sit on my hands, expecting him to take the hood off, but he doesn’t.
“Someone is going to see and think you’re—”
