Fierce King by Ivy Mason

Fifteen

My foot connectedwith the door, slamming it back on its hinges and giving in like a hooker under her mark. I stumbled inside, agony ricocheting through my body. My head was pounding, my stomach pulsing. Blood was on my hands, tangled in my hair, and all over my clothes.

This trip had been an especially close one, and everything in my body hurt like hell.

My dad stood just inside the door looking on disapprovingly at the broken door, before his gaze moved back to me.

"You're late."

His disappointed tone never failed to burn through me, though I hated that I still sought his approval. My eyes glanced to the clock behind him.

Two minutes.

I was exactly two minutes late.

Pointing out the fact would fall on deaf ears. Late was late in my father's book, no matter by how much.

My stomach rolled and I pushed him back, running towards the kitchen. My stomach lurched, the remains of a halfway cooked rat lurching up my throat and spewing into the sink. The smell made me lurch again, everything spewing from my mouth until there was nothing left.

When I was done, I clutched the edge of the sink, heaving.

Staring at the mixture of chrome and chunks of food, it felt like I was staring into an abyss of nothingness. There was no end to the misery filling my life and I just wanted it to be over.

My father sighed loudly. "I’ll be in the helicopter."

I didn't move but waited until he was out the back door, a groan of pain escaping my throat in a low howl. Clamping down on the pain, I slowly inched my shirt up, revealing the bloody hole in my side, right above my hip.

The bastard had shot me and it didn’t look good.

I had enough experience to know that he hadn't hit anything vital, but it hurt like a son of a bitch.

Ignoring the remnants of my throw up, I turned on the water, washing the blood from my hands. Red tinged the chrome and I closed my eyes, gritting my teeth against the screaming pain as I washed the wound with soap. Hissing, I slipped my fingers into it, digging around for the bullet.

After agonizing minutes of searching, my fingers grasped on the deformed metal. I pulled it out, then I tossed it in the sink, hanging my head as I washed my hands again.

God, I was exhausted.

Not just tired, but exhausted.

Maybe I would take a vacation and never come back.

Maybe I would put my gun to my head and actually pull the trigger.

Shaking my head at the thought, I turned off the water and straightened my back, inhaling a deep breath before I steeled my gaze. If I took too long, my father would come back for me, and I wouldn’t enjoy what would happen next.

I grabbed a bottle of pills that we imported from Mexico and dry swallowed a heavy dose of pain killers, then made my way towards the door.

Stepping out the back door, the sun's light was just beginning to touch the sky. It was a brief moment of beauty, tinged with horror as the red from the sun bled into the colors, reminding me of the way my father’s guard had bled out at my feet.

I calmly walked towards the helicopter, my eyes latching onto my father, who wasn't even looking at me, but tapping on his phone impatiently like I was making him late for something.

I swallowed down my pain the whole way home, ignoring the bumping of the helicopter through the air. As soon as we landed, I unbuckled myself and slid to the ground, my legs like jelly, and stumbled towards the waiting car, barely conscious.

"You meeting with the Scotts today, right?" My father, still looking fresh from his shower and what was likely a great morning breakfast, jumped to the ground, easily catching up to me.

I nodded wearily, not answering, and his cold voice made my head snap up.

“Use your words, Coulter. I'm not a fucking mind reader."

I met his gaze. "Yes, sir."

I was twenty-seven for fucks sake and yet he still treated me like a child.

He nodded. “’That's more like it."

He stepped towards the car where our driver waited by the open door. “Brett, take me straight to the office."

My feet stilled. Whenever he said the office, he meant his downtown one, not the one at the house.

"You're not going home?"

"I have work to do, son,” he said, his attention back on his phone.

I didn't move, couldn't speak. I just stared at him with all the loathing I could muster.

I wasn't going anywhere near that place, not looking like this, like death warmed over. With blood everywhere, my side and face shredded, my stomach still throbbing with pain.

I needed some goddamn sleep.

Brett cleared his throat and the mask over my face snapped into place just in time as my dad finally looked up from his phone, snarling. "Well? Get in or let Brett shut the door."

I shook my head, taking a step backwards and Brett stood in between me and my dad, who'd already gone back to his phone, closing the car door.

When he turned, Brett’s face was perfectly schooled into a polite smile but the edges of his eyes were tight with worry. "James will be here in five minutes." When I gave him a surprised look, he explained. "I knew Mr. King had a meeting scheduled this morning, and I made other arrangements in case you didn't want to go with him to the office."

The unspoken words were there like a knife to my gut.

My father had scheduled a meeting, not knowing what time I would return, what condition I would be in... if I would return at all.

“Thank you." My voice came out a croak and he gave me an understanding nod before he moved around the car.

I turned around, not watching them leave but instead, started walking in the direction James would come. I'd just walked about forty miles in the desert, I could handle going another mile.

True to his word, I'd only walked about three minutes when James pulled up. I threw myself into the car, face planting in the seat and mumbling instructions to James before closing my eyes, trying not to throw up again on the back seat.

I didn't sleep the whole twenty minutes it took to arrive at my house. My feet moved of their own accord, going automatically not to my own room, or even to see Bourbon, although I knew he would be waiting for me anxiously.

Instead, I walked around the house and past the pool, the strong smell of chlorine hitting my nose.

The pool guy currently fucking my mother stared at me as I walked past, and I resisted the temptation to shove him into the water.

Instead, I went to where my heart took me.

To her door.

* * *

When I opened it,she rushed from the bathroom, her hair wet, her eyes wide as she took me in.

"Oh, God, Coulter." Her hand went to her mouth and her gaze traveled from my face down to my side, where my shirt was clinging to my wound. She rushed forward. "What happened?"

I shook my head, pulling the knife from my pocket and throwing it on the bed, not explaining.

I had no words.

Then I shoved the first aid kit I’d grabbed from under the kitchen sink into her arms. “Gauze.”

Nodding, she didn't demand more, but her fingers went to the bottom of my shirt. She yanked it over my head, then, after examining my stomach, started pulling me towards the bathroom.

"That's a bullet wound." She spoke the words with confidence but with a slight question to them, a need for confirmation.

I nodded. "I already got the bullet out."

"Thank fuck," she whispered, steadying me at the edge of the counter. I tilted but caught myself. When she was confident that I could hold myself up, she swiveled to turn on the shower.

“No shower.” I shook my head, wincing at the pain, and indicated my bullet hole. “I can’t get this wet.”

“You need to clean off the rest of your wounds. I’ll be careful.”

After nodding my confirmation, she bent over, unlacing my boots. I lifted my legs weakly as she pulled off my shoes and socks, then she straightened, her hands going to my belt buckle.

She moved clinically, but I still felt heat billowing inside me as her hands moved over my hips, tugging down my pants and underwear.

She smelled soft and feminine. Of someone I could hold on to, even when the world around me tilted on its axis.

The sight of her worried face made something inside me loosen.

Even after everything I'd done to her, she still cared.

God, I was a monster, forcing her to stay here just because she looked like someone I once loved.

And she was taking care of me, even though I'd left her doorway open, there were no guards watching, and there was a huge ass knife on her bed.

I was so weak from the blood loss, and just so goddamn exhausted, she could try to kill me and I'd probably let her.

She washed me off, being gentle with the scrapes on my face and the rest of my body, careful not to get my wound wet.

As she helped me, I dragged her into the shower with me, needing her close.

I didn't care that she was dressed, or that she inhaled a breath in surprise.

I just couldn't deal with the distance between us right now.

I needed her right here. Right by my side, not standing outside the shower.

I needed her warmth, her soothing touch.

I needed my lips on hers, kissing her, showing her that she wasn't just a Lily-lookalike anymore, but that she was becoming one of the most important people on my world.

I could've gone anywhere.

To Bourbon, or Knight, or Dante's. They all would've helped me, made sure my wound was taken care of, gotten me food or sleep. They’d done it plenty of times before.

I could've gone to Lucy's, make her suck me off, take off the edge.

I could've gone to Paris or Fiji, for fucks sake.

But I'd come here. To her.

I gripped her chin, barely keeping my eyes open, forcing her to look up to me.

She froze at the look in my eyes, her hand squeezing the soaped up loofah.

My words were barely intelligible but I managed to croak them out. "I see you."

She just stared at me, eyes wide, with her lips parted in surprise. Then her teeth came down on her lower lip, chewing on it like she always did when she was trying not to reveal her emotions.

Then I closed my eyes, grappling at the shower wall to try and stop myself from falling before the darkness overtook me.