Page 40 of Wicked Vile King
Laurier stops moving as I beeline for him, carefully watching me from his throne.
Can he see it on me, the desperation?
I keep my gaze vacant and expressionless as they all watch, him and his friends included.
"Pet," he says when I reach the table. He goes still again as his smile freezes on his face, "did you dream of me?"
His other friend, the one with dirty blond hair, snorts and takes a bite of his biscuit.
I don't reply, and he doesn't say anything when I slip between him and the table, hiking my legs over his thighs. It's a tight fit, very tight, between him and the edge of the table. My ass skims the table, and my front brushes against his chest. Like crickets in the night, the room abruptly goes deathly quiet as Saint's gaze narrows on me.
He's suspicious. He should be.
Yet, he still smiles when he says, "Good morning to you too, pretty girl."
I look down at him from my position on his lap, my legs splayed on either side of his thighs. Can he feel my heart beating like a runaway rabbit against my ribs? It betrays my expression and tells all of my lies.
It says that I'm not here to play nice.
Or give in.
Or be his damn pet.
Saint watches me as I slip one arm over his shoulder, and he's a statue beneath me. I don't even think the creep is breathing any faster than before, like he turned everything off at the press of a button. My other hand slips into the pocket of my sweater and finds the screw, palming it. My heart beats even faster, and he has to hear it now. Everyone in the room probably does as it echoes in the hollow of me, the beat so quick and loud that it sounds like a steady roar between my ears.
I meet his blue-eyed gaze and don't blink. If I blink, I'll hesitate, and if I hesitate, I'll give in to the craving for his comfort, and if I give into the craving, I think I might lose myself and everything I hold dear.
Do it, Willow.
Do it, Willow!
DO. IT!!!!
"I will never be your pet," I tell him before I slam my hand down on the table right beside his hand, as hard as I can.
Scalding, white heat explodes behind my eyes as pain detonates in my palm. The screw slips between the bones and digs deep, and my spine arches like it's trying to bend me in two before I freeze, my back bent, my breasts thrust toward the ceiling.
When I look down from the arched ribs of criss-crossed wood overhead, the lumber faded and turning to silver with time, I find him already staring at me.
He'sstillbreathing at that slow, even pace I'm learning to associate with him, though he must feel the blood pouring from my hand onto the tabletop right beside his fingers. Time seems to stand on end, and his gaze narrows even further the moment before I scream bloody murder.
"You stabbed me!" I yell, jerking off of him and staggering with the pain.
His friend with the soulless, black eyes laughs loudly, but Saint just looks at me as guards swarm the table. It's crazy, I think, but I swear I see something in his gaze I haven't seen before. Respect, maybe.
I make the mistake of looking down, assessing the damage in my hand, and I don't know which is worse. Looking in the face of a psychopath or at the twisted, bloody thing splitting my palm open.
Oh god. I'm going to be sick.
The world wobbles like a spin top as it loses speed, and I think I might wobble along with it.
"Weapon on the premises!" a guard shouts, bringing me back to the present. "Weapon on the premises!"
A moment later, Saint is jerked to the floor, his tray left half-eaten on the table. He doesn't say a word as his friend—Gabriel, I think—howls with laughter across the table from him. His other friend, the blond one, is apparently unfazed by spilt blood this early in the morning. His gaze ping-pongs between me and his friend before he reaches for the biscuit on his tray and takes another slow bite.
Saint cocks a solitary eyebrow at me just before he is shoved off his seat to kiss the floor.
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