King of Masters by Brynn Ford
CHAPTER 2
Murphy
I OPEN THE door and push Fiona inside her new bedroom—the room adjoined to mine. This is a traditional living arrangement for the O’Shea Heads of House and their talent slaves. Our rooms are connected so I’ll have access to her at all times, though I’m not entirely certain yet that it’s warranted. I understand the purpose of her, and I’m well acquainted with the various manners in which the other Heads of House use their slaves, but I have no particular urge to indulge with her.
I direct Bailey back down the hall after a quick scruff behind her ears, then step inside the room and close the door behind me. Fiona practically runs across the room to get away from me, pressing her back into the far corner, her palms hitting the walls on either side of her hips as she trembles, regarding me with fear in her eyes.
I casually saunter to the armchair angled toward her bed and plop down on the seat, crossing my ankle over my knee. I glance around the room, looking at the recently redecorated space. I had it redone in her favorite color—light green—with shades of cream and ivory.
Boyd and Bridget had decorated the room darkly when they brought Esmerelda home. I recall it changing once when I was a teenager from shades of gray and black to a dark navy, but it always felt like a void to me—not that I spent much time in their talent slave’s living space.
The green is nice, a soft shade of mint that feels crisp, clean, and bright. It’s quite a luxurious space for a slave. She should be grateful to have an attentive master who thinks of her comfort. She could’ve ended up belonging to a monster, like any of the clients to which we sell. Women everywhere are at risk—and frankly, Fiona’s lucky I chose her to be my talent.
I catch sight of the blood on my slacks and follow the line of it, seeing how it soaks through my waistcoat. It’s gruesome and it’s probably upsetting to Fiona. I unbutton the waistcoat and take it off, dropping it onto the floor before leaning back in my seat again.
At least my button-up beneath was protected from the splatter, though it’s no real matter to me. My clothes, the chair, the carpet, it can all be covered in gore and it doesn’t matter. We can replace all of it. We have hired help to clean it. There’s no problem that can’t be solved if you throw enough money at it. And because I now control the family fortune, I can throw our money wherever the fuck I want to, though I’m not a frivolous man—I intend to run our business shrewdly and with good sense.
“You did well, Fiona. Exactly as you were told. As promised, you’ll be given some time to rest.”
“You’re…you’re all monsters.”
“We’re not monsters. There are monsters in this world, yes, but you won’t find them here.”
Her face twists and contorts in confusion. She doesn’t understand. These girls, these slaves…they never fucking understand.
I push to my feet and stalk across the room, watching the way she leans into the corner, as if she could melt through the wall.
“The real monsters…? They’re out there. Living where you were before I brought you here. They were in your goddamn living room, Fiona. Your father, your brother…They hurt you, I know they did. And you would’ve crossed paths with more monsters out there in the real world. But you have talent.” I grip her cheeks with both hands to hold her eyes to mine. “You have a beautiful voice, and we want to hear it. So, I chose you. I chose you to have a better life as our talent slave. You were born to be a sacrificial lamb, to be thrown to the wolves, but I saved you from that fate. I brought you here to give you purpose. You’ll sing for us, perform for the four families, and we’ll revere your talent. You’ll be safe here, protected as one of our own.”
“You…you killed her.”
“Yes, we killed her, but she loyally served the family with her talent for decades. She grew to love her masters and in time, you will, too.”
She shakes her head against my palms. “No.”
I lean forward and plant my lips on hers, kissing her softly, kindly, but I feel nothing from it.
I feel nothing.
I’m meant to own her, use her, make her mine. I thought she was beautiful when I chose her all those years ago, and she is beautiful—creamy fair skin, long strawberry-blonde hair, slender, but not without curves. Beautiful, but she’s weak. Her body slumps down the wall at the slightest brush of my lips over hers and a whimper escapes her. I pull back immediately.
Her lips part with a gasp, looking up at me as if she wants something more. I could give her something more…I should give her something more. I should strip her, fuck her, leave her raw and wanting so she knows her place. It’s what I was instructed to do. Now that I’m here with her, alone in what will be her bedroom for years to come, I feel a black hole pulse inside my bleeding heart that was never there before.
It’s a hollow spot, a twinge of emptiness.
Push through it and fuck her.
Maybe I’ll grow to like her once I have a taste.
I step back. “Take off your clothes.”
She gasps again, surprise marring her features. I expect a fight—I want a fight—but that’s not what I get. With quaking fingers, she begins to remove her clothing. I suppose the ritual murder in the foyer was enough to break her and somehow, I’m annoyed by that. I should be the one to break her, and it shouldn’t be this easy.
Is this how it’s going to be? Have I adopted a puppy when I really wanted a wildcat?
I want her to feel like I do—annoyed, frustrated, agitated. She should fill any emptiness I feel, but I think I already know that she won’t.
It takes time.
I’ll grow to like her.
I grab her hands and toss them away from the button on her jeans, taking control and doing it for her. She stands still as I pull down the zipper and yank her jeans and underwear down her legs. I don’t even bother to look at her as I push them down to her ankles and nudge her shin, telling her without words to step out.
She complies, and I hate it.
I hate the way she gives in so easily.
She should be fighting me, yelling at me, trying to make me stop. She should give me something, anything resembling passion or hate.
Just fuck her.
Show her where she stands and maybe it’ll piss her off enough to give you something more next time.
I reach around to grab a fistful of her hair and spin her, shoving her toward the four-post bed. I force her to bend, slamming her down face-first with her ass exposed to me.
She finally shows some emotion as I unbuckle my belt with one hand, holding her down with the other.
“Don’t,” she cries quietly. “Please…don’t do this…”
My heart punches an extra beat as I watch the tears roll down her cheek. My belt buckle is undone, my zipper is down, and her ass is bared to me. I’m the fucking king here, and I can do whatever the fuck I want.
So why isn’t my cock hard?
Not a single fucking twitch.
I slip my hands inside my boxer briefs and wrap my fist around my cock, trying to work it into something resembling a hard-on, but I still fail to get it up. I reach my hand between her clenched thighs and run my finger across her slit. She jolts, but she doesn’t move.
Dry as a bone.
This isn’t working.
I pull my hand out of my pants and buckle up, then I take a step back. “Get some rest, Fiona. I want to hear you sing tomorrow. I’ll have someone bring you dinner. Don’t try anything stupid.”
I march across the room to the adjoining door that connects our rooms and check the handle to ensure the lock is engaged from the other side. Then I head for the door leading into the hallway and rush out of the room without giving her another glance.
I lock her door and head back to my room. I peel off my bloody clothes and toss them into the hamper before stepping inside my walk-in shower. I flip the faucet handle and step beneath the cold spray. It slowly warms, and I finally huff out an agitated breath.
“Fuck it all.”
I’m put off by how easy it was to strip her and bend her over. I expected a fight. I was prepared fora fight. I needed a strong talent slave, someone who would challenge me.
I understand a challenge.
I can connect with a challenge.
I wanted a connection because I think I might lose myself to loneliness in the responsibility of this role. I lost myself for a while in my twenties when the reality of what I was destined to become hit me for the first time. I forgot who I was. I forgot where my loyalties lie. I became lazy. I drank too much. I turned into a right fucking wanker and created problems just to have something to solve, just to have something to do.
But Fiona poses no challenge, thus no connection, and I’m pissed.
This isn’t what I expected and it’s not what I wanted. I wanted a fucking fighter, but all I got was a weak little girl. Christ, she may as well be one of Vigo Vittori’s broken dolls. The Vittori Head of House likes his playthings submissive and broken inside. I wanted a fighter, like what Nikolai Mikhailov has with his talent slave, Anya. She fought him for years before breaking, but he keeps things interesting by bringing in partners for her to dance with. Maybe I should reach out to him for advice…
I finish scrubbing the blood from my forearms.
A partner.
Perhaps if I had a partner of my own, it would make Fiona more interesting. Boyd and Bridget loved Esmerelda, and she served them both well—not that I want to think about my parents and their plaything. But my parents have always been affectionate and have loyally loved each other for decades—they’ve always seemed happy with their lot in life. Bridget was always there to soothe Boyd’s troubled mind while he ruled the business. Yet, here I am, running the business alone.
I could turn Fiona into a companion—it’s what I’m meant to do for another five years until I turn forty and will be required to take a wife and start a family.
How can I find companionship with someone so feeble, so weak, so submissive?
I can’t see that with her. I don’t think she’ll ever be anything more than a slave to me.
And I want so much more than that.
Bridget finds me first as I enter the living room hours later. Her brown eyes land on mine as she rises from the sofa where she sat beside Boyd. The chatter stops as she crosses the room to me and tugs me into an unwanted embrace—unwanted, but appreciated.
She envelopes me in warmth and love and it seeps inside my cold bones. After a moment’s hesitation, I return the hug, giving her a quick squeeze before nudging her away.
She looks up at me. “Is she settling in? Behaving?”
“Of course. I know my way around a slave.”
I glance around the room, a party interrupted by my presence. I’m sure I’ll adjust to the attention my authority brings in time. I wish I could tell them all to behave as they normally would in my presence, but I don’t dare. I don’t dare set a precedent for comfort in my presence or else my power diminishes in their eyes.
I know how my father ran the show for his decades as the Head of House, and I intend to follow his lead. He’s yet to lead me astray, and I want to command the same tone of authority that came before us.
Cordelia lifts her glass of wine, setting it on the mantle above the fireplace, and takes a step forward. “Did you chain her to the bed as I suggested?”
Delia is the oldest O’Shea of my generation—six years my senior—though she could never become the leader of the O’Shea family because she’s a woman. We don’t allow women to lead.
“No, Cordelia, I didn’t.” I cock my head to the side. “Didn’t I ask you to keep your opinions to yourself unless they’re requested?”
“You did,” her eyebrows lift and the corners of her lips curl into a smile, “though I was hoping you’d taken my advice, anyway. The room will be destroyed by morning if you left her with her arms and legs untied and free to roam.”
I step past my mother, down into the sunken living room. I stride past the couch where Tally sits on Cormac’s lap beside my younger brother, Declan. “She won’t destroy the room.” I move to the bar cart beside the fireplace and pour myself a glass. “I doubt she’ll do much of anything. She’s already broken.”
“Well, that’s no fun,” Cormac says. I watch as he wiggles his fingers into his fiancée’s side, making Tally squeal with laughter. She smacks his shoulder and they smile at each other.
A twinge of jealousy pricks in my chest.
My eyes narrow on him. “She’s not here for fun. She’s here to be our talent slave. She doesn’t have to be anything more than that.”
“She’s here for you.” Boyd tilts his glass, taking a sip of his whiskey on the rocks. “She’s here to serve you while you work. I’ve told you before that being the Head of House is stressful business. She’s here for you to work out your frustrations and tension on.”
Bridget slowly returns to him, lowering to sit on the arm of the cushioned chair where he’s perched with one ankle crossed over his knee. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look so relaxed. The weight of the world has been lifted from his shoulders and has instead, settled over mine.
“I’ll use her as necessary.”
“If she gets out of line, feel free to send her to me. I’ll be happy to straighten her out,” Cordelia reminds me.
She would be happy to play with slaves all day if we let her. She wears a beautiful mask, but her core is as ugly as any one of us—even more so, truthfully. She has a quiet bloodlust rushing through her veins.
O’Shea blood, through and through.
“I’ll send her to you as a last resort,” I tell her. “I’m afraid you’d rip out her vocal cords just to spite her, and then I’d be left with no talent.”
“Too right,” Declan snorts.
I smile at my youngest brother over my glass before I take a sip.
“When will she sing for us?” Bridget asks.
“When I’m ready for her to sing. Has Esmerelda been taken care of?”
Her throat bobs as she swallows. “Yes. Buried in the family cemetery.” Boyd reaches over and rubs his hand over the small of her back. She looks down at him from her spot on the arm of the chair. “I do wish we could have kept her…”
“I know, my love,” Boyd comforts. “But family tradition prevents it.”
Family tradition.
He smiles at her lovingly, with the same tenderness he’s always had for her. He’s loved my mother differently than he’s loved anyone else—loved her better, more fiercely…even more so than his own children.
Heads of House aren’t allowed to marry until they turn forty. They’re required to sink themselves and their identities into the business and are only allowed to marry with the approval of the board. Bridget was one of three women selected by the board when he was forty—the women were presented to my father as file folders, and Bridget was the woman he chose. I suppose she read the best on paper, and in time, they grew to love each other deeply.
I want what they have.
I almost want to gift them Fiona. They would find much greater joy in having a puppy than I will. I’m already frustrated by the responsibility of her, and she’s been here less than a day.
I sigh. I’ve made my appearance, reassured the family that our new talent slave is tucked away, settled, and locked in. But I’m tired and annoyed, and I don’t wish to spend another moment entertaining their questions and feeling their watching eyes.
I set my half-drunk glass on the bar cart and head in the direction I came. “I’m knackered. No one disturb me unless a fucking factory is on fire.”
“Murphy.” Bridget grabs my arm as I stalk past her and I halt.
There are only two people in this room who can control me so effectively with the mere pulse of their shifting emotions, and she’s one of them…the other is Declan.
“I’m proud of you,” she whispers, leaning her head against the side of my arm.
I reach over with my other hand, placing it on the back of her head to give her a quick squeeze. When I release her, I look down and grant her the small token of appreciation she deserves. “Thank you, Mam.”
She smiles, and that makes me glad—at least I’ve made her proud.
“Cormac was thinking of taking Tally to New York in a couple of weeks.” Her voice is soft as chatter picks up around us. “She’s always wanted to see the Christmas tree at Rockefeller and do a little holiday shopping. You should go with them. Take a few days and spend some time with your brothers. Christmas will be busy with sales and preparing for the quarterly meeting at the Mikhailovs’ in January. Your dad and I will make sure Fiona gets fed.”
I sigh. “I really don’t have time—”
“You make time for what’s important, my love. Always remember that. Your life won’t be your own anymore. Your relationship with Cormac and Declan will change. Go. Be brothers on holiday one last time. Do it for me?”
I won’t agree to such a thing now. This transition has been smooth chaos, but chaos nonetheless, and I don’t think a holiday is such a good idea.
“We’ll see.”
“Please, Murphy.”
I hate when she looks at me like that. I’m soft for her just as Boyd is, just as my brothers are. She’s the only unconditional love I’ve ever known.
“I’ll consider it,” I promise.
She grins at me, and I squeeze her hand before walking away.
Someday I hope to have a wife that my children revere as much as we revere my mother. Because I’ll be cold and hard and my affection will be fickle with them, just like my father was with us. Because the family business will run me just as much as I run it.
Fuck it all.
Maybe a last holiday wouldn’t be such a bad thing.
That settles it.
I’m going to New York with my brothers before I lose myself completely.