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

“Hey, Willow. That’s great to hear, but—” The cab shuddered to a halt at a stop sign, then ambled along at the speed of a groggy snail. How the hell did I get the only slow taxi driver in Manhattan? “I’m in the middle of a personal emergency, so I can’t talk right now.”

A long pause greeted my answer. “To clarify, you’re refusing the meeting?”

“I’m postponing the meeting due to the aforementioned emergency.” I covered the phone with my hand and leaned forward. “Get me there in ten minutes, and I’ll tip you a hundred bucks.”

The cab lurched forward with sudden speed.

Sloane always complained about how much cash I carried around, but it was damn handy in times like this.

I returned to my call. “Please give Mr. Markovic my apologies. I’m happy to talk any other time except now. As for the walkthrough, please email me his availability, and I’ll put something on the schedule.”

I hung up before she could protest. I was too on edge to argue or engage in professional small talk.

I might’ve just shot myself in the foot by insulting Vuk so soon after he’d signed on as my partner, but the only thing I cared about right now was making sure Sloane was okay.

The cab pulled up in front of her building. I shoved the fare plus an extra hundred bucks at the driver and hurtled out of the car. It was my first time visiting her apartment—we’d always stayed at my place or a hotel—but two hundred dollars, a picture of me and Sloane on my phone, and a call up to her apartment with no answer persuaded the concierge to let me past.

She wasn’t answering her phone. Why wasn’t she answering her phone?

Images of Sloane unconscious on her bedroom floor or drowning in her tub or…fuck, I didn’t know, gushing blood after she’d accidentally sliced a crucial artery open in the kitchen filled my mind.

Sometimes, I really hated my imagination.

The elevator stopped on her floor. I sprinted into the hall and blew past a row of apartments until I reached hers.

“Sloane!” I pounded on the door. “It’s Xavier. Are you in there?”

Obviously, she couldn’t answer if she was unconscious. I should’ve asked the concierge to accompany me so they could open the door in that very scenario.

I knocked again while my mind raced through my options. I could stay and wait another minute for her to answer. I could race downstairs and grab the concierge. I could call the concierge and ask him to come up, but my chances of convincing him to leave his post were higher face-to-face.

Every second counted, and—

Was that a sound coming from behind the door?

I froze, willing my heartbeat to slow so I could listen more carefully. That was definitely a rustle, followed by the click of a lock sliding free.

Then the door opened, and there she was. Blond hair, blue eyes, alabaster skin unmarred by blood or bruises.

Relief punched through my panic, but it nosedived a second later when I noticed the haunted look in her eyes and the lines of tension bracketing her mouth.

“Hey.” I reached for her but stopped halfway, afraid she might shatter beneath my touch. Sloane was always so strong, but in that moment, she looked brittle. Fragile. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” She stepped aside so I could enter, avoiding my gaze the entire time.

“Sloane.” It was a question, plea, and command wrapped into one.

She disliked sharing her problems, but if she kept them bottled up all the time, they’d eventually explode.

Whatever she heard in her name made her chin wobble, but when she finally answered, her voice was devoid of emotion. “The Fish died.”

“The…” The Fish. Her pet goldfish. My stomach twisted. “Oh, fuck. I’m so sorry, Luna.” She hated platitudes, but I meant it.

When Hershey had died, I’d been inconsolable. It was one of the reasons I hadn’t gotten another pet. I didn’t want to go through the pain of losing one again.

“It’s fine.” Sloane turned her head, and I followed her gaze to a sheet of paper on the coffee table.

A closer look revealed a neatly typed list of instructions for taking care of The Fish.



Feed him one sinking pellet once a day every day except on Sundays.

Do NOT feed him more than the allotted amount or he will overeat.

On Sundays, feed him frozen brine shrimp for enrichment.

The water must maintain a temperature of 73 degrees Fahrenheit at all times.





The rest of the list was obscured by another paper, but she’d obviously put a lot of thought into it.

“He was just a goldfish.” Sloane picked up the instructions, ripped them in half, and tossed them in a nearby wastebasket. “He wasn’t even really mine. He couldn’t leave his tank or make noise or do anything other pets do. He’s not the smartest or cutest, and he probably doesn’t…” Her chin wobbled again. “I mean, he probably didn’t know or care who I was as long as I fed him.”

“You had him for years,” I said gently. “It’s normal to feel grief over a pet passing.”

“For other people. Not for me.” She took in my jacket and pants. I usually didn’t dress so formally, but the restaurant had a strict dress code. Realization wiped some of the stoicism off her face. “We had dinner reservations, didn’t we? I’m sorry. I was going to do some work before I left, but I saw him when I got home, and I had to figure out what to do with his body. Then I had to clean out the aquarium because there’s no use keeping it there when he’s dead, and when I was in the kitchen, I saw all these bags of unused fish food that I obviously don’t need anymore, so I—”