Up in Smoke (King #8)

I want to bite off the scab and catch the fresh blood on my tongue before it spills down her chin.

“I might as well die when and how I say so. There’s no other way out as I see it. If there was I’d take it. But at least this will be my choice. Not yours! Not my father’s. Not his!” Her eyes dart to the corpse on the floor. She lowers her voice and straightens her shoulders. There’s a determination in her words that makes me think I’m losing this battle.

And I don’t lose.

“That’s where you’re mistaken. Is this how you want to go? Is this WHEN you want to go? Pulling that trigger is going to make you meet the dirt, that’s for sure, but you’re lying to yourself if you think doing it this way is dying on your own terms. It’s a coward’s way out,” I remind her.

“Then I’m a coward,” she says, closing her eyes again and taking a deep breath.

Shit.

Something inside me clicks. I don’t want to see this girl blow her fucking head off. I don’t want to see the fire in her eyes die.

What a fucking waste. I think to myself.

I can’t take any joy in getting my revenge on Frank if his daughter is the one who pulls the trigger.

Frankie’s lips are moving silently. She’s counting to herself.

Fuck.

One.

Two.

I’m on her just as she squeezes the trigger. The gun goes off, the bullet missing her and grazing my shoulder. I’ve got the gun, and I’ve got her back to the floor, her wrists pinned above her head.

Her gaze is its own kind of bullet, shooting hatred straight through me.

“Face your fucking end like a man,” I say, tearing the gun from her hands and tucking it in the waistband of my jeans. I’m fucking fuming because some chick I don’t know and should want dead wanted to kill herself. My confusion is just as fucking infuriating as the girl fighting against me.

“I should have just killed you!” she grinds out, trying to free her hands from my grip.

In a really fucked up way I’m beginning to admire this girl. She’s got balls bigger than a lot of men I’ve dealt with in this business. Her unwavering rebellion stirs something deep inside of me. Something unfamiliar. I write it off as irritation because god-fucking-damn-it does she irritate me.

She’s kicking and punching.

I hold her still. I lean down close. “Yeah you should have killed me, hellion. It would have been the smart thing to do. But I’ll admit, it’s kind of fucking cute how you think you can take me out that easily. Try something like this again, and I’ll make you wish that bullet would’ve hit the fucking mark.” I produce my blade and run the sharp tip across her collarbone, slicing into the first few layers of skin to show her how serious I am.

She winces but then corrects herself and stares up at me unflinchingly as if she can’t feel the pinch of pain or the scratching of the blade followed by the droplets of blood running down her chest, staining her bra.

“There she is,” I say.

My cock twitches.

I lift the blade and hold it down between her legs, pressing the flat side up against her pussy through her panties. “I’ll cut you up from the inside out. Your death won’t be a pretty one. I hold the control here. Not you. You’d be wise not to fucking test me.”

Her eyes widen, her breaths are short, quick.

“Why?” she asks, her eyes wide and determined. “Why are you doing this? Any of this?”

I chuckle because I can’t help myself. She’s trying my patience and testing my restraint. “Because I took you, hellion. You’re all mine. Only I get to say whether you live or die.”

“You’re a monster.” she whispers on a shaky exhale.

You have no fucking idea.

I withdraw the blade and tuck it away. I brush a lock of dark hair from her eyes, tucking it behind her ear, my fingers lingering on the delicate curve of her bruised and sliced neck.

“You’re right,” I whisper. “I am a monster.” Roughly, I grab her chin, forcing her to look me in the eye.

“I’m your monster.”





Chapter Sixteen





I wake up from a dreamless sleep and even though I hurt all over I’m grateful to be alive.

I don’t know what I was thinking by trying to kill myself. Actually, I do know. I felt scared and desperate and backed into a corner. That’s not who I am. I won’t make the mistake again. I’m going to write it off as a moment of weakness and concentrate on escaping.

I look around and realize I’m no longer in the cell. I’m in a bed. A big one. It’s soft and the sheets and blankets are simple but smell clean.

I’m also completely naked.

Fuck.

I sit up slowly, pulling the blankets with me to cover myself. The pain doesn’t hit me like a hammer although I’m still very sore.

Smoke appears in the doorway, naked from the waist up. His chest is broad and so are his shoulders. His abs flex from underneath the colorful tattoos that cover almost every inch of his skin. He walks past me, crossing the room, He opens a door in the far corner. He disappears inside, and I hear water running. He comes back out and rips the sheets from my body.

I’m naked, and his gaze is trailing over my body. I can feel his stare on me. His eyes grow darker.

“No!” I shout, pushing him away as he grabs me by the waist. I turn over on my knees and try to scramble from his grasp.

“You want a bath or not?” he asks.

I still and turn toward him, covering my chest. I search his face for any trace that this might be a joke, but I don’t find one.

I nod because there’s nothing in the world that sounds better to my aching muscles than a bath. He lifts me again into his strong arms as if I weigh nothing, and I breathe through my nose deeply and try to calm the urge to push off his chest and run.

Smoke is much larger than me, but I don’t realize how much until I’m cradled in his arms. He’s massive. Taller than me by a foot and outweighing me by at least a hundred pounds.

He carries me over to the bathroom while I try and keep myself covered the best I can with my hands over my chest and my legs crossed at my thighs. He sets me on my feet beside the tub but I’m weaker than I thought. My legs shakier. I stumble.

Smoke catches me. His arm around my waist. He dips his hand into the water to check the temperature.

“I’m surprised you even check. Imagine what joy you could get out of tossing me into scalding hot water.”

“Don’t fucking tempt me, hellion.”

I look around at the white tile and high window. “Where are we?” I ask. The last thing I remember is the prison cell.

“We’re still at the same place,” he says. “This is the warden’s house. Or at least, it used to be. I figure I can keep a better eye on you here.”

The small bathroom doesn’t look anything like the abandoned prison. There’s no graffiti or peeling paint. Everything in it is at least twenty years old, but it doesn’t appear to be abandoned at all. The white tile lining the bottom half of the walls and covering the floor is clean and the claw foot tub, although rusted at the drain, is otherwise intact.