King of Masters by Brynn Ford

CHAPTER 19

Stella

I’M ONLY WEARING the dress because I’m forced to, but I can’t deny the effect it has on me. I turn sideways to see my profile in the full-length mirror, obsessed with the way the dress clings to my curves and accentuates my best parts. The black satin is soft against my skin, hugging my body with a precise fit.

Our engagement party is tonight. Murphy had my measurements taken a week ago, and in his severe kindness as my captor, he allowed me to choose from a selection of gowns. I saw this black dress and chose it without a second glance, only because I want him to know I’m not celebrating our engagement—I’m mourning it.

My make-up is done with dark eyeliner and smoky shadow sweeps across my lids. My hair is curled in soft waves, pinned back on one side so that it all rests over the front of one shoulder. My red lipstick matches the bright streak in my hair.

I’m actually excited about the way I look, but I know my excitement is only present as my mind’s way of compensating for the horror of being held captive and required to celebrate my impending forced marriage.

So, thank God for this dress that makes me feel like a queen, because I need to feel something resembling power or control in my hopeless situation.

The black silk gown is open at the back, bare down to the curve of my ass, except for the thin straps which crisscross over my back and hold it in place. The V in the front dips between my breasts, but everything is held firmly in place by the spaghetti straps over my shoulders.

I feel strong in this dress, and it’s a relief to feel that way. I’ve felt powerless since we landed in Ireland earlier last week. Correction, I have been powerless since we landed in Ireland.

There’s a knock on the bedroom door and I cross the room, tugging it open a crack, and peeking out to see who’s there. My view of him is obscured by the half-shut door, but the view I have makes me momentarily speechless, nonetheless.

Murphy stands there, dressed like a star in a black tuxedo, white button-down, and simple black necktie. My eyes scan him, admiring the way he looks, almost forgetting the fact that he’s not the man I thought he was, almost forgetting that he’s my captor, not just my soon-to-be-husband.

Fucking hell.

My heart still isn’t in sync with my mind as it grows wings that flutter inside my chest.

“Are you ready?” he asks.

“Emotionally or physically?”

A tight smile pulls at his lips. “Physically.”

“Yes,” I reply, lifting an eyebrow, trying to remain impassive.

“And emotionally?”

“No.”

“How can I help with that?”

I jerk my head away from the cracked door, taken aback by the question.

Does he really care about helping me or is it just that he wants to get me to his party quicker?

“I don’t think you can.”

“Tell me what you need to help you through this, and I’ll do it for you.”

I grip the side of the door, yanking it open wide. “What I need is for you to let me go back to my life.”

His eyes pop wide as they scan me quickly. He rubs a hand over his perfectly trimmed beard. The way his eyes flash with heat makes my stomach flip.

“Stella, you look incredible.”

I fight the urge to smile at his compliment. “I know I do. I don’t need you to tell me that.”

“I’m telling you anyway.”

He moves toward me, but I don’t back away. I hold my ground as he presses into my personal space, edging across the invisible boundary and coming in close. He moves until he’s as close as he can be without hugging me, and I’m finding it hard to breathe.

He smells like peppermint candy and the musk of a man. My eyes want to flutter shut and inhale him deeply, but I don’t dare. I don’t dare let him know the physical effect he still has on me.

It’s still so fucking strong.

Moments pass as we stare at each other this way. Each breath draws us nearer, tugs us closer, like we’re being lassoed together by a cord of heat. My lips part in hope that words will escape my mouth and break the tension that coils us together, because his heat is too much for me to bear.

My body wants his, my heart wants his, my mind hates what he’s done to me, and my soul screams incoherently.

Just as I sway toward him, just as I lose control of myself, he takes a step back. “Shall we?”

I blink. “I guess I have no choice.”

His expression is somber. “You chose me.”

“I didn’t choose this life. I didn’t choose to marry you.”

“You would have. If I’d proposed before you knew about my life, you’d have said yes.”

He’s not wrong.

“That may be true, but—”

“That’s all I need to know.” He smiles, though his eyes remain serious. “I’m still the same man you would’ve said yes to.” He turns sideways and holds out his arm. “Come on. We don’t want to keep our guests waiting.”

“What if I refuse to go?”

Why am I asking instead of just refusing?

He shrugs. “Then I go alone to my own engagement party.” His throat bobs as he swallows.

I feel a wave of unearned guilt wash over me. He deserves to be alone at his engagement party. I didn’t have a choice in our engagement. I have to become his wife to spare Cora’s life, and I’ll do it for her a million times over. He’s a monster for doing this, and it’s not fair that I should have a guilty conscience over the fate he was born to have. If he really cared about me then he wouldn’t have pulled me into his life. Instead, he’s forcing me to live the nightmare alongside him.

Yet, as he stands there, arm held out, waiting patiently for me to take it, I can’t deny the pull of his aching heart to mine.

I sigh. “Well, that would be pathetic, Murphy.” I brush my hands down my front to smooth my dress one last time and step forward to link my arm with his.

I see his smug smile from the corner of my eye and choose to ignore it.

Fuck me and my bleeding heart.

We step out into the hallway, and I nearly jump out of my skin when I catch movement from beside us. Another woman stands there waiting. My eyes take her in with a quick scanning glance. She looks a little younger than me, and she’s wearing a gold dress, her straight, strawberry-blonde hair hanging down her back. Her head is bowed slightly, and she only glances up at me from beneath her eyelashes.

Fiona.

The talent slave.

I know it must be her before Murphy confirms it.

“Stella, this is Fiona.”

My hand comes up to cover my mouth as the reality of who she is ripples through my gut in a nauseating wave. I hadn’t forgotten that he told me about her, I’d simply been so preoccupied with my own sordid fate that her fate had slipped to the back of my mind. This is the first time I’m meeting her.

“Fiona, this is my fiancée, Stella. She and I are equals in your ownership.”

I jerk, pulling my arm from his, and take a step back from him. Murphy doesn’t react, he continues to direct Fiona.

“You obey her the same way you obey me. Her authority overrides the rest of the family. The only one you obey before her is me. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” she mutters.

I take another step back.

I’m shocked into silence. I feel like something just snapped inside me, like something has broken beyond repair.

I feel…I don’t have words for what I feel.

“Stella?” Murphy says, and I look at him.

I have no words.

I have no emotions.

I feel protectively numb.

“Stella,” he says again, and my eyes follow movement as he holds out his arm, “our guests are waiting.”

I clench my fists at my sides, my body moving slowly toward him against my will. I’m so stunned with reality that I think it’s broken me. I know I’m moving. I know I’m taking his arm. I know we’re walking together down the hallway. I know that I’m walking beside my soon-to-be husband while our slave trails behind us.

Our slave.

Our slave.

Our slave.

I need to save her…I need to save myself.

But how?If I manage to escape, will anyone listen to me? Will anyone help me?

I’m only barely aware as we arrive at the party. I only half-register the sounds of appreciative welcome as guests cheer and clap at our arrival. My stomach feels hollow and empty.

“I need a drink,” I mutter softly.

“Then let’s get you a drink. It’s our night, sweetheart, you can have as much as you want.”

I lean away from him, though he still holds my arm, turning my head to look at him squarely. “I hope you meant that,” my eyes scan him with hateful longing, “because I don’t think I can do this sober.”