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

My anger collapsed like a house of cards caught in a sudden gust of wind.

I was so used to butting heads with Xavier that it was hard to turn off the default mode in our relationship, but now that I was no longer steaming over the blog post, I noticed the shadows in his eyes and the seemingly unconscious clench and unclench of his fists. It was a different Xavier from the one pictured on Perry’s blog, and it made a weird little pinch slide in between my ribs.

“No news is good news,” I said, my voice gentling. “You’ll get a chance to talk to your father.”

“Maybe.” Xavier’s mouth tilted up for a second before sobering again. “We used to be close, you know, when I was younger. I was his only child, his heir. I was supposed to continue his legacy, and he spent all his free time preparing me for the task. Office visits, tutors, enrollment at the best international schools where I could network with the people I would do business with one day.” Emotions flitted across his face in a rare display of vulnerability.

I kept my eyes on his, afraid to breathe yet unable to look away, and worried the smallest movement on my part would spook him into silence. Xavier never talked about his relationship with his father, and the glimpse into their past both fascinated and saddened me.

“But it wasn’t all business,” he said. “We had normal father-son days. He took me to fútbol games—or soccer, as you know it. We had family dinners and vacations abroad. It was nice. Then…”

I suppressed an involuntary flinch.

I knew what happened next. Everyone did.

“My mom died,” Xavier said, his handsome face devoid of emotion. “And everything changed.”

A heavy ache slipped past my defenses and burrowed deep inside my heart.

He’d been eleven when his mom died. The fire that took Patricia Castillo’s life made international news given her marriage to Colombia’s richest man, the sheer destruction left in the fire’s wake, and a viral image of a preteen Xavier being carried out by firefighters.

That image anchored every article and TV segment about the fire. The authorities ruled out arson, but details about how the blaze started remained murky.

“Do you miss her?” Xavier asked quietly. “Your mom.”

My mom had died in a freak horseback riding accident when I was fourteen. My parents’ marriage had been a socially expedient but loveless one, and unlike Xavier’s father, who never stopped grieving his wife’s death, mine had remarried less than two years after burying his first wife.

A new, different kind of ache blossomed. “All the time.”

My admission bled between us, forming a strange, tenuous bond that sent tingles over every inch of my body.

Xavier’s shoulders relaxed, as if my words had somehow lifted a weight off them.

We were different in so many ways, but sometimes, all people needed was one point of commonality. One infinitesimal thing that made them feel less alone.

I swallowed past the hitch in my throat.

We were the only people in the main cabin. Our private flight attendants were in the kitchen, preparing lunch, but the distant clink of plates and silverware soon faded beneath the thuds of my heartbeat.

Xavier and I stared at each other, both recognizing the lazy swirl of tension in the air, but neither acknowledging it.

I wanted to look away. I should look away, but his gaze held mine captive, its tumultuous depths sparking with an emotion I couldn’t identify.

I swallowed again, and something else flared in those hot, dark eyes before they made a slow descent over my face, tracing the slope of my nose, the curve of my mouth, and the point of my chin before gliding down my neck. They settled at the base of my throat, where my pulse fluttered with wild abandon.

The same pesky butterflies that’d snuck into my stomach during our dance lessons broke free again. Only this time, I couldn’t blame it on the alcohol.

I was stone-cold sober, and I—

“Mr. Castillo, Ms. Kensington, would you like something to drink before we serve lunch?” Our attendant’s smooth voice tossed a bucket of ice water over the moment.

The tension fizzled with an inaudible pop as Xavier and I yanked our gazes apart.

“Water.” His smile looked forced. “Thank you, Petra.” “Same.” I cleared my throat of its hoarseness. “Thank you.”

We ate our lunch in silence. However, even though we didn’t discuss our pasts again, a sense of connection lingered.

Xavier and I weren’t the first or last people to miss a parent. But the way we responded to our losses, and the masks we presented to the world…perhaps we were more similar than we realized.





CHAPTER 12





Xavier





Thanks to the time difference, we arrived in Bogotá before noon.

My father’s driver was already waiting when we landed, and he whisked us through the city’s winding roads and densely packed neighborhoods with enviable skill.

I was born in Colombia but educated abroad my entire life. I spent more time in the halls of boarding schools than I did at home, and I’d only visited my birthplace twice since my father was diagnosed with cancer last year.

The first had been after the diagnosis. The second had been right before my Miami birthday trip, when he’d summoned and berated me for failing to “uphold the family legacy” while he was dying.