King of Pride (Kings of Sin #2) by Ana Huang

We’d had sex multiple times over the past twenty-four hours, yet it was the small moments that felt the most achingly intimate.

A hand-drawn heart.

A simple thank you.

An intangible, pervasive sense that this was where we were meant to be.

“Let’s watch a movie,” Isabella said, breaking the tension. “It’s not really Christmas without a holiday movie marathon.”

“You choose.” I dropped a soft kiss on her forehead and stood, trying to ease the returning pressure in my lungs. “I’ll make popcorn. But no movies with royalty.” After the relentless news coverage of Queen Bridget and Prince Rhys of Eldorra’s fairytale love story the past few years, I was all royaled out.

“But that’s almost all of them!” Isabella protested. “Don’t give me that look…ugh, fine. I hope you don’t have anything against bakers, or we’re really out of luck.”

A smile tugged on my lips as I entered the kitchen and started the popcorn maker. It was easier to breathe when I wasn’t around her. It should’ve been a relief, but the rush of oxygen was almost disconcerting.

I’d just poured the popcorn into a bowl when my phone rang.

Unknown number.

I would’ve brushed it off as a telemarketer, but I’d paid an exorbitant sum to effectively block cold calls, and no one had my personal cell number except for a select few friends, family, and business associates.

“Hello?”

“Merry Christmas, Young.”

My spine stiffened with surprise at Christian Harper’s smooth, distinctive drawl. I didn’t bother asking how he got ahold of my number. He had a knack for ferreting out private information, which was why Dante used his services so much.

“Merry Christmas,” I said, coolly polite. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Just wanted to see if you had a chance to open my gift yet. I believe a messenger hand delivered it yesterday.”

My mind flashed to the skinny, dark-haired messenger and the small box he’d handed me. I meant to open it yesterday, but Isabella had arrived right after.

I hadn’t thought much about it since similar gifts poured in every year, but now, a trickle of unease slithered down my spine.

“What is it?”

“Open it and find out,” he said in an eerie mirror of what I’d told Isabella earlier.

I remained silent. The day I opened an unsolicited package from Christian Harper was the day I walked through Times Square naked of my own free will.

Christian sighed, managing to infuse the sound with equal parts boredom and amusement. “It’s a present from a mutual friend. A little chip with everything you need to secure your position as one of the youngest CEOs in the Fortune 500 come late January. You’re welcome.”

The implication hit like a crate of bricks.

“Blackmail,” I said flatly.

I was going to murder Dante. He was the only mutual friend who would do something like this. He had good intentions, but his methods were questionable at best.

“Insurance,” Christian corrected. “Dante said you would be too morally pure to use it, but it never hurts to have leverage in your back pocket. I don’t care either way, but don’t say I never gave you anything. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to my girlfriend. Enjoy the holidays.”

He hung up before I could answer.

“Everything okay?” Isabella asked when I returned to the living room with our snacks. “That took a long time.”

“Yes.” I settled next to her and banished Christian’s call to the back of my mind. It didn’t matter that he’d sent the equivalent of an information nuclear bomb; I was never going to use it. “Everything’s fine.”





CHAPTER 25


Isabella



“If you type any faster, you’ll sprain your wrist,” Sloane said without looking up from her computer. “Slow down.”

“I can’t slow down. I have less than a month to finish this book, and I only have”—I checked my word count—“forty two thousand, six hundred and four words, several hundred of which are placeholders.”

It was the week after New Year’s. People were back from the holidays, and the Upper West Side café where Sloane and I had set up camp buzzed with activity. She had a client meeting nearby in an hour, and I needed somewhere noisy where I could focus.

Normally, I used Vivian’s office as my writing space while she did admin work, but it was an offsite day for her. So here I was, my butt planted on a wooden stool, my heart racing, and my hands jittery from four cups of espresso as I attempted to wrangle my manuscript into shape.

The holidays had been a dream. I ate, slept, and floated through the city with Kai by my side and not a care in the world. But now that they were over and Manhattan had resumed its snarling, frenetic energy, the sheer impossibility of my task loomed before me like Mount Everest.

Forty thousand words in three weeks. God, why hadn’t I been more disciplined about my writing before?

Because you were distracted.

Because you always run from the hard stuff.

Because it’s easy to keep pushing the hard stuff to tomorrow until there are no tomorrows left.

Panic and self-loathing formed a tight knot in my throat.

Across from me, Sloane tapped away, her face a mask of cool efficiency. We were roughly the same age, and she owned her own super successful business. So did Vivian. How come they had their shit together and I didn’t? What was their secret?