Savior (The Kingwood Duet #2)
S.L. Scott
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SAVIOR
Everything is not as it seems.
Alexander IV has succeeded to the throne of the billion-dollar Kingwood Empire, but the people he thought he could trust aren't allies.
They're enemies.
Everyone he cares about is at risk.
Decisions—SACRIFICES—must be made.
What will he do to protect the people he loves? Will Sara Jane live or die?
Find out NOW in this EPIC conclusion to the bestselling The Kingwood Duet. Savage, book 1 in the series, should be read first and is LIVE on Amazon.
SAVAGE: DOWNLOAD HERE
Prologue
My chest aches, and my throat is dry. My sunglasses hide my eyes from the mourners that stare. Even in my grief I can’t find privacy. I purposely keep my head lowered and my emotions in check.
The world is suddenly intrigued by me. Everyone thinks they know me. They think they know who I am. I’m a headline, a fascination, someone they feel bad for then forget about as they go about their lives.
They don’t know me.
They know Alexander Roman Kingwood IV from exposés or gossip columns. Financial magazines and sections of the newspaper speak of my new wealth—a billionaire at age twenty-three. It’s all very salacious. That’s what’s important to them.
Not to me.
They want to know all the dirty details of my father’s death, my mother’s murder, my best friend’s murder, and my . . . my Firefly . . .
I take a slow and deep breath, not wanting to look at the flowers covering the casket, not wanting to accept that this is my life, a life I have to live without the people I care about.
All these fucking strangers—the photographers hiding in the bushes, the reporters standing by the limos and hearse—don’t care about me or how I’m feeling. They don’t want to know the truth.
I don’t feel anything at all.
Nothing.
We stand around this hole in the ground as if it matters. It doesn’t. The dead don’t care how we mourn. This is a show for everyone else.
This is not how I mourn. I won’t give them what they want. I won’t feed the paparazzi beast by shedding a tear. I won’t mourn for them or in public.
Cruise’s hand is on my shoulder as I watch the casket being lowered into the ground. It was the best money could buy. I owed nothing less.
Shock has set in, my mind disconnected to what’s happening right in front of me. I hear the sobs. I see the tears, but I’m numb.
This can’t be happening.
This can’t be how it ends.
1
Alexander Kingwood IV
“Help me. Someone help me.”
Chaos erupts and nurses surround me, everyone shouting.
“Grab a gurney.”
“Prep a room.”
“Straight to surgery.”
“Can you carry her a few more feet?”
“Dr. Curtis. Dr. Curtis.”
A gurney appears, and I set my Firefly on top of it gently. Blood fills the fibers and soaks the white sheet, like a horrid painting with swaths of red streaking the once pristine surface. Fuck. “Save her. You’ve got to save her,” I beg. “Please.”
I stay next to her, running along while holding her hand as we rush down the corridor. She gasps for air and I lurch forward. “Stay with me, Sara Jane.” Her eyes open, but they’re not the ones I know, the ones filled with hope, the ocean-blue eyes that stole my heart years ago. The vacancy is spreading, so I lean down when a set of double doors opens and whisper, “I will always love you. Don’t leave me, Firefly.”
Our hands are ripped apart and an orderly blocks my path. “Sir. They’re taking her to surgery. You can’t go back there. I’m sorry. There’s a waiting room up front.”
As she’s pushed into the bowels of the hospital, I drop to my knees. The feel of her fingers in mine still tingling, reminding me I’m alive. The loss of those fingers reminding me of all I could still lose. My head falls forward and that’s when I finally realize what I’ve done, what I’ve caused.
We’re not invincible.
Actions have consequences.
My Firefly—my innocent, beautiful Firefly—suffering the consequences of my actions.
If she dies, I die.
A nurse rubs my back. “Sir, come with me.”
I stand on shaky legs, the nurse helping me up, patting my shoulder as if my whole life isn’t teetering between the desire to live or die. My heart is in their hands. I pray to hear her heartbeat once again, to touch her hand, to hold her in my arms. I’ve begged whatever god exists that he bring her back to me.
I just got her back only to have her ripped away again.
What cruel world is this?
Am I that horrible that everyone I love is taken from me?
Is there a way to trade my life for hers, my sins for hers, to die in her place instead? What kind of deal can I strike? What bargain can I negotiate?
Tell me.
Fucking tell me and I’ll do it. Anything.
For her, I’ll do anything.
“Sir?”
My gaze flicks to the nurse. Her hand rests on my back, the other on my arm, guiding me. I didn’t know I was walking, much less breathing enough to be capable of asking, “What?”
“We need you to fill out some forms.”
Shrugging from the nurse’s touch, I follow her to the desk. Forms. Their standard procedure aggravates me. Don’t they see what’s happening to me? I’m alive, standing here, flesh and bone, but dying inside. How can I be that good at hiding my emotions, my shock that no one seems to comprehend the agony I feel?
In the distance, just outside the glass doors, Cruise is parked. A security guard swings his arm and points. The car moves forward and a clipboard is set in front of me.
The nurse says, “Please fill out as much as you can. Her name, date of birth, address, next of kin, and blood type if you know it. What is your relationship to the patient and do you know if she has insurance?”
“I’m sure she has insurance through her parents. It doesn’t matter though. I will pay whatever it takes to save her.”
“Let’s get the information and go from there. You can go to the waiting area to fill it out.” It must be my expression that worries her because she asks, “Are you okay? Were you hurt?”
I don’t understand until her eyes lower, and I look down to discover I’m covered in blood—Sara Jane’s. “No.” I answer both questions with the same answer.
“Do you want us to check you out just in case?”
“No. Someone shot her. I showed up . . .” I squeeze my eyes closed as thoughts of my unforgivable failure sets in. “Too late.”
“The police will take your statement.”
My heart begins to race. The police? Fuck.