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

CHAPTER 27


Isabella



When Kai said his family owned property in Turks and Caicos, I’d pictured a breezy beach mansion with wicker furniture and nice gardens. I hadn’t pictured an entire freaking island.

Dubbed Jade Cay for the color of its surrounding waters, the island spanned over four hundred acres of lush vegetation, pristine beaches, and exotic wildlife. The Balinese-style main residence occupied the highest point on the island, offering spectacular three-hundred-sixty-degree views of the Caribbean and all the amenities of a five-star luxury resort. Eight bedrooms, three wraparound terraces, two infinity pools, a private chef who made the most delicious lobster I’d ever tasted.

I could live and die here happy.

Kai and I flew in yesterday afternoon. We spent the night getting settled, but today, we were off and running. The morning had been a blur of writing (me), calls (him), and brainstorming (both of us). Kai was right; toiling over my manuscript in tropical paradise was much better than toiling over it in the wintry hell of post-Christmas New York.

We were currently taking a lunch break on the uppermost terrace, and I’d never felt more relaxed, even with my deadline looming on the horizon like a thundercloud. Here, surrounded by the ocean and sunshine, I could almost forget the Star photos and getting fired.

Sometime between the main course and dessert, Kai excused himself to use the restroom and returned with a slim black folder in hand.

“Put that away,” I said, nudging his foot with mine beneath the table. “No work during meals, remember?”

“It’s not work in the traditional sense. It’s a present.” His eyes came alive with laughter when I perked up like a dog hearing the word walk.

“A present? For me?”

“You’ve said you were having issues with writer’s block, so I did some research and put together a list of ways to overcome the block.” He handed me the folder. “I confirmed with several neuroscientists that these methods are scientifically sound.”

I nearly choked on my freshly squeezed grapefruit juice. “You consulted with a team of neuroscientists about my writer’s block?”

He shrugged. “I donate a significant sum to various scientific organizations every year. As such, they’re happy to indulge some of my more personal requests.”

I opened the folder and scanned the suggestions. Most of it was advice I already knew from trawling the web. Meditating, setting aside a block of time every day for creative play, using the Pomodoro technique, so on and so forth. There were a few I hadn’t seen before, but it wouldn’t matter if Kai had handed me a packet of introductory yoga class flyers.

He’d taken the time to research solutions and consult neuroscientists, for Christ’s sake. My previous boyfriends thought they were doing me a favor when they picked up pizza on their way to my house.

The last time someone did something so thoughtful without expecting anything in return was when a certain billionaire showed me his family’s secret room and offered it as a writing space.

My throat constricted with emotion. I dipped my head and blinked back an embarrassing sting. The last thing I wanted was to start bawling over my crab and rice. I’d already cried once in front of Kai this week; twice would be overkill.

I flipped the pages noisily while I wrangled my runaway emotions. The pressure in my throat eased as I stopped on the second to last item.

“Engage in frequent and rigorous sexual activity when feeling stuck,” I read aloud. “Orgasms stimulate creativity, among other things.” I slanted a suspicious look at Kai, who returned it with an innocent one of his own. “Huh. I wonder who came up with that one.”

His grin spread as slow and molten as warm honey. “No need to wonder. It’s scientifically proven, my love.”

My love.

Around us, the world fell eerily quiet. No birds chirped. No waves crashed against the distant shores. Even the wind came to a standstill.

Kai had called me love many times before, but he’d never called me his.

One word. Two letters.

Sometimes, they made all the difference.

Kai’s smile slipped into a line of realization. Tension crept between us, twining around my torso and settling in my chest like a concrete weight.

It wasn’t unpleasant, but it was the type of silence so drenched in meaning that it drowned out any admissions lurking beneath the surface. We weren’t ready for those conversations.

I changed the subject before the pause stretched into must-acknowledge territory.

“Well, let’s see how your other suggestions fare before we test the orgasm theory,” I said lightly. “What about you? How are negotiations with Mishra going?”

DigiStream was one of the many fires Kai had to put out due to the National Star photos. I thought it was hypocritical of them to care so much about who he spent his free time with when their CEO got hospitalized for a drug overdose, but what did I know? I was just a bartender. Ex-bartender, if I didn’t find a new job soon.

Kai shifted, and just like that, the world came roaring back. The bird and ocean sounds returned, and the wind blew strands of hair across my face. Tension melted like pools of ice beneath the sun.

“They removed Whidby as CEO two days ago,” he said. “Mishra officially replaced him and is closing ranks, which means I’m basically back to square one. It’s chaos over there.”