Own Me (The Wolf Hotel, #5)

Henry’s chuckle morphs into a groan. “This fucking kid is going to be a royal pain in my ass.”

“Probably.” She’s already firmly entrenched in the penthouse, even though she doesn’t officially move in until she’s finished school in a month. Her room—the farthest one from ours—is being remodeled to her specifications while we’re away. The security staff of Wolf Tower is all but wrapped around her pinkie finger, and Raj stocks the freezer with her favorite ready-to-bake chocolate chip cookie brand. We’re waffling between two private schools for her to start in the fall—including one with an exceptional drama program—and will visit both with her when we’re back from our honeymoon, right after we help Gayle and Howard move into their retirement home.

“Are you sure you want more?” I tease. I stopped taking the pill before the wedding, at Henry’s request—but I was happy to dump the packages. Considering how many times we’ve had sex on this trip, I don’t see how I won’t return to New York pregnant, reproductive organs willing.

Strong hands seize my hips and flip me over onto my back. The scraps of my bikini fall to the deck floor, leaving me naked beneath the sunshade. Heat surges through my body with the promise of what’s to come as Henry shucks his shorts and stands before me in all his masculine glory.

Around us is a brilliant azure sky and endless water, but I only have eyes for this man, every inch of him part of this dream I never want to wake from.

Henry strokes himself, his smile wicked. “Right now, Mrs. Wolf? I’m sure I want to make my wife scream.”





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Learn more about Merrick in the Empire Nightclub series. Continue for a sneak peek.





SNEAK PEEK: SWEET MERCY (EMPIRE NIGHTCLUB, #1)





From internationally bestselling author K.A. Tucker comes the dark and sexy Empire Nightclub series.





Chapter One - Mercy



“Mercy Wheeler!”

My body, already rigid, stiffens at the sound of my name on the guard’s tongue. I’ve been waiting in Fulcort Penitentiary’s visitor lounge for over two hours now, long enough to leave me doubting whether I’d ever be let in.

Shutting my textbook, I collect my purse and rush for the counter with my stomach in my throat, afraid that any dallying could lose me my visit with my father.

The guard staff changed over at some point, because the thin older gentleman with the kind smile who took down my information earlier has been replaced by a burly oaf with beady little eyes and an unfriendly face. His name tag reads Parker. “Who you here to see?” he demands in a gruff tone.

“My dad.” I clear the wobble from my voice. “Duncan Wheeler. It should say that on the log?” It comes out as a question, though I can see my father’s name written in block letters next to the tip of this guy’s pen.

“I like to double-check, is all.” He smirks, then recites a long string of numbers and letters. My father’s inmate ID number. “This is your first visit here?”

“Yeah.” My father only began his sentence two weeks ago, and it took time to get me approved on his visitor list, which is bullshit. I’m the only person on his visitor list.

Parker the guard takes a long, lingering scan of my plain, baggy T-shirt. That, along with my loosest pair of jeans, is what I carefully chose to comply with the prison’s visitor dress code policy. No tank tops, no shorts, no miniskirts. Nothing tight. Nothing to “provoke” the men serving time behind these bars.

His eyes stall on my chest for far too long.

I fight the urge to fidget under the lecherous gaze. He’s at least twenty years older than me and unappealing, to say the least. Just imagining what kinds of thoughts are churning in his dirty mind makes my skin crawl. Then again, everything in this place—the barbed wire fences, the heavily armed guards, the long and narrow hallways, the constant buzzing as door locks are released, the fact that I’m about to sit in a room with murderers, rapists, and God only knows who else—makes my skin crawl.

“What’s your old man in for?” Parker finally asks.

I hesitate. “Murder.” Are prison guards even supposed to be asking these types of questions?

“Yeah?” His gaze drops to my chest again, and he’s not trying to be discreet about it. “And who’d your daddy kill, sweetheart?”

I’m not your goddamn sweetheart. My anger flares, at the invasion of my privacy, at the term he so casually tosses out, at the lustful stare. “Some asshole who wouldn’t take no for an answer from me.” A mechanic named Fleet who worked at the same auto repair shop where my dad worked, a slimy guy who smelled of motor oil and weed and apparently jerked off to cut-and-paste photos of my face atop porn mag bodies. Who cornered me one night with the full intention of experiencing the real thing.

My father didn’t mean to kill him and yet here he is, serving twenty-two years because of a freak accident. Because the prosecutor was convinced otherwise and decided to make an example of him. Because we hired the world’s most ineffective lawyer. It’s the first thing I dwell on when my eyelids crack every day and the heaviest thing on my shoulders when I drift off at night.

I’m exhausted by guilt and anger, and it doesn’t seem like it’s going to let up any time soon.

Pervy Parker smirks. “Lock your things up in number seventeen and then head to security screening.” He slaps a key onto the counter with his meaty paw. “Phone, car keys, coins, belt. Don’t forget so much as a coin, unless you wanna get strip-searched.” His mouth curves into a salacious smile. “And you won’t get to say no to that if you ever wanna see your daddy again.”

My face twists with horror before I can smother it. They wouldn’t actually strip-search me for forgetting to take out a penny from my pocket, would they?

The prick laughs. “Welcome to Fulcort Penitentiary.”





Who is she here to see? I wonder, watching the shriveled old lady fidget with her knuckles, her hair styled in tight gray curls, her wrinkled features touched with smears of pink and blue makeup. A husband? A son?

I’ve kept my eyes forward and down since I passed through the airport-level security screening process and was led me to this long, narrow visitation room. I’ve set my jaw and ignored the hair-raising feel of lingering looks and the stifling tension that courses through the air. My father warned me against attracting attention, that having inmates knowing he has “such a beautiful daughter” would only make his life harder in here. While I rolled my eyes as he said that, I also decided to heed his warning the best way I can, so as not to ruin his life further.