Page 22 of Fated to the Wicked King

Almost startled by his brusqueness, I blinked again to focus. With a quick shift in my seat, I moved a pawn forward to support the center. My strategy was to build slowly, not strike too soon.

There was a subtle change in his posture as he leaned forward just a fraction, his interest sharpening as he seemed to contemplate the board.

I would have been congratulating myself on my foreseen victory, but what the king just revealed was overwhelming.

He had been here alone.

All this time.

I gave a brisk shake of my head to clear it.

Focus on the game, not him.

Admittedly, outside of my laboratory work, this chess game was the most stimulation my one-track brain had received in months. I couldn’t afford to be distracted. And I wasn’t about to let him win simply because he was the king.

A low groan from across the table distracted me from strategizing my next move.

My gaze flicked up to meet those intense blue eyes.

The king’s eyebrows were furrowed, his jaw set.

He appeared to be…heaving. His left fist was propped against the edge of the table. But his other hand was out of my view, beneath the table, clearly moving… in such a way that⁠—

I sucked a sudden breath in.

I instantly, instinctively knew what he was doing.

The Wicked King was touching himself across from me.

He was getting off on this.

I let out a shaky breath, struggling to decide whether to indicate that I had noticed or pretend not to have seen.

I should hate this.

I hate this, I tried telling myself.

Except I couldn’t help the quickening of my heartbeat. The intensity in the king’s expression, the haze on his face, the lust in his eyes—it called out to all the aching places in my own body. A shock of warmth flushed through me, along with a surge of triumph, an irrational spark of hope.

It had been eight whole months. Could it be that he still wanted me?

While I was reeling with this thought, with what he was doing, the king was still remarkably focused on the game.

He answered my latest move by developing another knight, placing it where it added pressure to my advancing pieces. The move was clean, controlled, an unspoken challenge clearly behind it.

I took a whisper of a moment too long, and those heavy-lidded eyes flicked up to meet mine. “It’s your move.”

His words were a deep, low rumble, the rasp of his need undisguised. It rolled through me, sending delicious chills up my spine, settling in my lower belly. I was starting to breathe heavily myself.

“I think I need to leave—” I pushed up off the chair, but he cut me off.

“It’s—” he snapped, “your move.” Those searing eyes bore through me, his gaze intent as he watched me slowly sit back down, as if he himself was willing it.

I cast the board a glance, trying to remember my strategy despite my pounding heartbeat.

With shaky fingers, I moved my central pawn forward, breaking open the position and forcing the game into something more active, more dangerous, my eyes flicking up just in time to catch the way his expression sharpened in response.

He took the bait, capturing that pawn with one of his own, the piece sliding forward with quiet certainty. The gleam in his eyes, the slight lift of his lips were pure pleasure, but I wasn’t sure what he was deriving it from. His other hand was still hidden, still in motion, his heavy breathing growing more labored.