Page 38 of Lethal King

Grabbing a plate from a bottom drawer, I place the mushed slice down and try to mend it back into shape.

“If you’re having money problems, you come to Tytus and me,” I say.

“I’m just joking, dear. It’s only been a few months since we met, and you two have already taken care of me plenty. Now, it’s my turn to return the favor. And I’ll do that the only way I know how. With food.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The cake crumbles against my touch, and a pretty little melody suddenly appears in my earpiece. It’s Tytus’ ringtone.

Giving up on the cake, I use my hands to hang up on him. It’s better not to answer any calls while I’m here, just in case someone is listening.

“I have to go,” I say, gently clicking the fridge door shut. “Take care of yourself and Kaja. I’ll see you both soon.”

Licking the frosting from my fingers, I go to pet the hungry kitten. But she slinks from my touch.

My heart drops an inch. But there’s no more time to waste. I’ve felt worse pain. Picking up my useless organ, I figuratively stuff it in my backpack, right between Babcia’s cabbage rolls and Rian Kilpatrick’s tracking-device-covered crown.

I can’t help but laugh to myself as I give Babcia’s sweaty forehead one last kiss, then bound out the back door.

There’s no way the lion thought I wouldn’t be able to spot and demobilize every last one of his beacons. It only took the trip up here to scramble the lot of them. And that was while I was trying to win over that stubborn kitten.

Hell, the only reason I even bothered to destroy the pathetic little devices was so he wouldn’t be able to track my movements to Babcia’s place.

Who knows what a monster like him would do to a little old lady like her. The Irish have no respect. No common decency. No regard for a person’s age. It was clear enough on the faces of those poor girls he’d herded like cattle in the corner of his lawn. Half of them looked like they were still children. Fuck. If I’d known how young they were beforehand, I might have called off our pig’s blood finale. But by the time I saw those fresh virgin faces, it was too late.

That blood was meant for the greedy women who were trying to steal my plaything away from me. Not for little girls who had no other option but to be there.

My lips twitch into a sneer as a very personal rage flickers up inside of me.

I fucking hate men who use little girls like pawns. Those barbarians are going to pay.

And it all starts with their supposed king.

Rian Kilpatrick.

He’ll find the IP address I left for him in my hologram disc. And he’ll come precisely where I want him to come.

In my pussy.

The flash of heat that accompanies that unexpected thought is nearly enough to stop me in my tracks. An intense pressure in my core follows closely behind.

My toes curl, and my fingers clench into fists.

Stupid fucking hormones.

Furious at myself, I whip out my switchblade and slice a very fine line against the back of my ring finger. It’s no bigger than a papercut, and it immediately starts to bleed like one.

I suck up the blood and then spit it onto the gravel.

Slowly, the unwelcomed arousal seems to leak from the nearly invisible wound. So does my anger. It’s an old Polish tradition that supposedly rids oneself of corrupted blood.

It’s one of the few things I remember about my mother. She used to do it. Sometimes, I’ll do it when I’m overwhelmed.

Stop getting stuck in the past, Rozalia.

Pulling down my sleeve, I let my black turtleneck soak up the rest of the blood. Then I look over my shoulder.

Babcia’s cottage is long gone.