Page 13 of King

Sloan shot him a glare but didn’t bother answering. Instead, he pulled out his phone, thumbs flying across the screen as he typed a quick message to Becky. Sliding the phone back into his pocket, he pushed open the door and stepped out into the night.

Jared’s humor faded as he matched Sloan’s pace, tension thick between them. “What kind of trouble are we walking into?”

“The kind that bleeds into every corner of our world,” Sloan said quietly.

CHAPTER 7

Amara sat quietly next to Joey’s bed, her hand resting gently against his, feeling the warmth of his skin as if it were the only anchor keeping her from drifting into panic. The steady hum of male voices filled the room behind her, low and cautious, but she tuned them out. Her thoughts remained tangled between worry for Joey and the storm of her own circumstances. The last time they’d spoken, Joey had been full of excitement, talking endlessly about the Warriors, especially King. He had trusted these men without question. But could she?

Her eyes flicked from Joey to the imposing figure a few feet away. King was tall, built like a fortress, with black hair that hung past his shoulders in thick waves. It framed his strong, chiseled, handsome face. Her gaze drifted lower, taking in the scuffed, well-worn boots up his powerful legs encased in faded blue jeans that clung to his muscular frame and rode low on his hips. Every inch of him spoke of raw strength and dominance, a man who had likely seen more battles than any one person should.

She swallowed, her heart pounding as she sensed his eyes fixed on her. The weight of his stare was heavy and unwavering as if he could read her every thought. Her breath caught, but she refused to look up. Instead, she turned her focus back to Joey, feeling exposed under King’s watchful eyes.

“You care about him.” King’s deep, gravelly voice finally broke the silence between them as he came closer. It wasn’t a question.

“He’s my family,” Amara said softly, looking up at him, her voice steady but guarded.

King’s posture didn’t change, but something flickered in his expression, something she couldn’t name but felt deep in her bones. He looked away from her to Slade. “How is he doing, doc?”

“He’s responding to the transfusion, which is a good sign,” Slade said, his voice steady. His eyes flicked down to where Joey’s legs lay motionless beneath the thin, off-white hospital blanket. “The orthopedic specialist reviewed his x-rays. He’s going to need surgery on his right leg once he’s stable enough to handle it.”

King clenched his fists, a low curse slipping past his lips as his gaze darkened. He turned toward Amara, his expression a mixture of frustration and something sharper, something personal. “Do you know who did this?”

The question hit like a hammer. Amara flinched inwardly, her eyes locked on Joey’s face, pale and fragile against the stark white pillow. She felt King’s anger like a physical force radiating off him as he waited for an answer. But beneath the fury was something else, a concern, raw and unfiltered. It lingered in the tight lines of his mouth and how his eyes softened ever so slightly when he looked at Joey. It made her heart twistpainfully, a surge of unexpected hope clawing its way to the surface.

“I don’t know,” she said quietly, her voice almost a whisper. “But I will. Whoever did this—” her tone hardened, ice seeping into her words. “They will regret laying a finger on him.”

King nodded slowly, his jaw flexing as he absorbed her answer. He crouched slightly, bringing himself closer to her eye level. “If you want to protect him, you must be straight with us.” His voice was low, almost gentle, but its weight carried a warning. “Secrets aren’t going to help Joey or you. We can help you, but you must be honest with us.”

Amara lifted her chin, meeting his eyes for the first time since the conversation began. “Joey means a lot to you, doesn’t he?”

King’s gaze didn’t waver. “Yes.”

Amara’s eyes stayed fixed on King as he spoke, and the sincerity in his tone wrapped around her like a lifeline. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, relief flooded her system, weakening her limbs as if the world's weight on her shoulders had momentarily lifted. This man, this fierce and commanding presence, might actually be someone she could trust to help them.

“Are you ready to talk?” King’s voice was steady but probing. His golden eyes held hers with an intensity that demanded the truth.

She inhaled sharply and shifted her gaze over his shoulder to the doorway where two men had entered. One was older, with a calm authority that radiated from his strong posture. His golden eyes, like King’s, swept the room until they landed on her. His sharp, assessing gaze made her heart skip. She felt exposed, as ifhe could see every secret she was trying to hide. Embarrassed by his scrutiny, she quickly looked back at King.

“Who is that?” she whispered, her head tilting slightly in the man’s direction.

King glanced back, and a small, knowing smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “That’s Sloan Murphy,” he said, a note of respect lacing his words. “He’s more or less the boss of the VC Warriors.”

Amara’s brow furrowed as recognition sparked in her mind. “Joey talked about him a little,” she murmured. Her eyes softened as she looked down at her nephew, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead with a trembling hand. Her voice dropped to a near whisper, heavy with dread. “My brother is dead, isn’t he?”

The question hung in the air between them, fragile and sharp. She already knew the answer, had felt it in her bones since the moment she’d laid eyes on Joey’s broken body, but hearing it would solidify the weight of her loss.

King’s eyes darkened with quiet sympathy. He exhaled a long breath and gave a slight, solemn nod. “I’m sorry.”

Nodding, her lips trembled as she pressed them together, willing herself not to break apart. The grief surged again, bitter and raw, threatening to pull her under. Even though she had expected the answer, hearing it out loud stripped away the thin layers of control she had left. Her emotions clawed at the surface, and she felt the grip on them slipping faster than she could reel them back in.

Without a word, Amara stood abruptly, her chair scraping the floor as she moved. Her heart raced as if trying to beat its wayout of her chest. She skirted around King, keeping her head low, her eyes fixed on the door. She needed space, anywhere but here, to gather herself before her sorrow spilled out in front of these people she barely knew. Losing control wasn’t an option, not in a room full of strangers.

She pushed into the hallway, her pace quick and determined, almost colliding with a nurse in blue scrubs. “Sorry,” she murmured, her voice unsteady, barely a whisper. She turned sharply in the opposite direction, her legs carrying her further from Joey’s room, from the heaviness of reality pressing against her chest. Every step felt harder than the last, but she pushed forward, determined to find anywhere she could breathe.

At the end of the hallway, a small waiting room came into view. Her heart leaped with desperate hope. If it were empty, she might have a moment to fall apart in peace. She slowed her pace, peering inside through the partially open door. The fluorescent lights cast a harsh glow over rows of sterile chairs, but the room was blissfully quiet and devoid of people.

Relief flooded her as she stepped inside the area. The silence wrapped around her, a fragile cocoon. Her breath hitched once, twice, before the tears finally came. She sank into a chair by the window, pressing her trembling hands to her face as the storm of grief raged through her.

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