Page 20 of Ruthless King (Mount Trilogy 1)
“You best let me go and start getting ready. You need to knock him dead, Ke-ke. Fuck with his head instead of letting him fuck with yours.”
I think of my stop earlier today. “I’ll do my best.” Another thought slams into my brain, and I choke out a few more words. “If . . . if anything happens to me, will you tell my parents and my sisters—”
Magnolia cuts me off. “You’re not going to die tonight, baby. I swear. Give that man what he doesn’t even know he wants—which is everything that’s you—and you’ll be just fine. Now, get going. Put that armor on and go slay yourself a dragon of a man.”
I hang up the phone and stare at the array of couture spread out on the bed. I should feel like a princess getting dressed for a ball, not a prisoner on the way to her execution. But no princess ever faced off with Mount. At least
, that I know of.
I pick up the note.
There’s no signature. No instructions or orders to wear the clothes provided. Nothing beyond the simple piece of information stating what time I’ll be collected. The word itself stokes the fire in my veins.
This man is so completely used to getting what he wants, he would never expect anything less than full compliance with his orders, explicit or implied.
Screw him.
Everything in me implores me to rebel. Then there’s the tiny sliver that screams, Throw a few things in a bag and run to the airport and get on a plane to Madagascar.
I close my eyes and think of the pictures I’ve received over the last week. My sisters. My parents. Magnolia. My employees.
The image of a woman dancing on shattered glass. The nightmares that would become reality if I don’t comply. Running would be the ultimate act of selfishness, and I’m better than that.
Mount can take his pound of flesh, but that’s all he’s ever going to get from me.
Keira
I watch from between the slats of my blinds as a black car pulls up in front of my apartment building at nine o’clock exactly. I’m torn between wishing he was late, and knowing I don’t need any more time to contemplate what the outcome of tonight might be.
Do I go out? Wait for the driver to come up? It’s not like I have experience with this type of situation. No protocol from Emily Post applies here.
I already know they can get into my apartment, so why make it easy for him? I wait inside like a girl whose date just honked the horn, urging her to come out so he doesn’t have to come to the door. That happened only once to me, and my father wouldn’t let me set foot outside the house. No, instead he went outside to scare the hell out of the boy and school him in proper manners. Needless to say, I didn’t get asked out a lot after that.
The clock on my microwave ticks over to 9:01, and still the door to the car hasn’t opened. In fact, it doesn’t open until 9:03 and an expressionless man in a well-fitting suit unfolds himself from the front seat.
He doesn’t lock what has to be an exorbitantly expensive car, especially in my questionable neighborhood. For a moment, I assume he’s an idiot, and then it occurs to me that I’m the idiot. If Mount is everything people say he is, then no one in their right mind would dare steal his car.
I wait another minute until there’s a knock on the door to my apartment. I tighten the belt on my lightweight black London Fog trench coat, a bargain I snagged at Costco for under forty bucks. It’s probably a mockery of all the expensive couture Mount sent me, but I don’t give a damn.
With a steadying breath, I flip the locks and open the door.
The man gives me a quick survey from head to toe, and then jerks his head to the side. He says nothing at all, just turns and stalks down the hallway to the stairs.
I squeeze my eyes shut and step one stiletto-clad foot into the hallway, knowing that when I return, if I return, I will not be the same woman I am right now. This experience will change me irrevocably, and I already hate Mount for that.
Although my sense of safety in my apartment is nonexistent, I take my time locking both dead bolts before following the silent man to the stairs. He walks down them slowly, as though he knows I’m not used to wearing heels this tall. The harsh fluorescent light on the ceiling highlights the jagged scar on the left side of his face. It’s old, clearly, but it didn’t heal well.
Did Mount do that to him?
When we reach the ground floor, he opens the front door and once again jerks his head, as if he wants me to go first.
Responding to his silent command, I pick my way down the cracked sidewalk in the skyscraper heels as Scar walks silently behind me. I don’t need to hear his footsteps to know he’s there. I can feel him.
When I reach the curb, I freeze as some statistic runs through my head about how unlikely you are to survive an abduction once the kidnapper gets you in the car.
The thought of running bursts into my mind again, this time lit up in flashing neon lights.
But every reason that stopped me from packing that bag for the airport follows, along with the more practical reason. There’s no way I’ll get far in these heels if I try to run.
