King of Sloth (Kings of Sin #4) by Ana Huang

Whatever they saw in my expression made them scramble out of the way as I climbed onto the table and yanked the guy off her.

I towered over him by several inches, but even if I hadn’t, the fury churning in my gut would’ve given me an unfair advantage.

He made a noise of dissatisfaction. “What—”

“You have three seconds to leave,” I said, my voice deadly calm. “Three.”

I didn’t make it to two before he gulped and disappeared into the depths of the club. Fucking coward.

Part of me was disappointed I didn’t get the chance to slam my fist into his nose, but there were more pressing matters at hand.

I faced Sloane again. She hadn’t noticed her dance partner’s absence or my arrival; she was too busy taking shots with one of the clubbers on the ground and, consequently, giving everyone an eyeful of her cleavage.

I grabbed the double shot of tequila before it reached her lips and tossed it to the side.

“Hey! I was—” Her protest cut off in a yelp when I swept her off her feet and tossed her over my shoulder. I didn’t trust her to walk straight in those heels after God knew how many drinks.

“Let me go, you Neanderthal!” She pounded on my back as I carried her off the table and out the door.

The club sat on several hundred feet of prime oceanfront real estate, and it didn’t take long before the sound of the waves overpowered the music leaking into the night air.

“Be careful what you ask for.” I dropped Sloane on a thick patch of white sand. I was tempted to dunk her in the ocean to sober her up, but even I wasn’t stupid or assholish enough to do that.

Yet.

“You asshole.” She pushed herself to her feet with surprising grace given her inebriation. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“What the hell do I think I’m doing? I think I’m making sure you don’t wake up to photos of your bare ass splashed all over the fucking internet!”

Her glare skewered me to the spot.

As always, Sloane was glorious in her wrath. On any other night, I would’ve sat back and watched that cool mask of hers explode in the most spectacular way, but she wasn’t the only one seething tonight.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “I’m not you. People don’t care what I do in my free time.”

“That’s not true.” I care. The thought rose, unbidden, before I banished it. “You’re a Kensington and a high-profile publicist, and the cameras are always watching. You’re the one who taught me that.”

“I’m a Kensington in name only.” A tiny flicker of vulnerability crossed Sloane’s face and stabbed at my chest before her expression iced again. “You’re always telling me to ‘loosen up.’ Now that I am, you have a problem with it?”

“I have a problem with some random guy groping you in public,” I snapped.

“Why?”

Because the thought of anyone else touching you fucking kills me.

“Because.” Irrational anger blanketed my words with heat. “It’s not you.”

“Stop acting like you know me.” Her voice rose to the level of a shout. “We are not friends. We are not dating. You are simply a client, and you are the one who forced me to come here. You have no right to act like my boyfriend or handler.”

“I’m trying to help!”

“I don’t need your help!”

Every piece of vitriol dragged us closer until we stood inches apart, our chests heaving and our bodies shaking from the force of our convictions. Animosity blazed between us, fanned by years of pent-up frustration and a spark of something far more dangerous. I didn’t know why I cared so much because she was right. I had no claim on her beyond work, and I was always telling her to loosen up.

But not like this. Not when it came from a place of pain rather than freedom.

“You’re right. I don’t know you,” I said. “But I know Sloane, and Sloane would never put herself in a situation like the one you were in. Sloane would’ve kicked that guy’s ass, and she would’ve pulled you out the same way I did.”

Part of my intervention had been selfish, but another part had stemmed from true concern. Who knew what photos and videos people grabbed before I got her down?

Perhaps I was overstepping, but screw it. It was better to be safe than sorry. Sloane’s professional reputation meant everything to her, and she would never forgive herself if one drunken night jeopardized what it’d taken her years to build.

“Well, maybe Sloane doesn’t always want to be Sloane.” Her heels wobbled in the soft sand, and she let out a curse before yanking her shoes off. “Also, I hate when people talk about themselves in the third person.”

My phone vibrated with an incoming call, but I ignored it. “Stop deflecting. What happened this afternoon? Why did you leave?”

I’d bet my entire inheritance the mysterious email was directly related to her desire to drink herself into oblivion.

My phone vibrated again. I ended the call without looking at it. Sloane swallowed. She was more fragile beneath the moonlight, her hair a gilded silver instead of ice-blond, her eyes shining with a wary truth that only the depths of night could lay bare.

More than anything, I wanted that truth and, by extension, the trust that came with it.