Page 4 of Crown of Blood

A heavy thud shakes the wall again, followed by the distinct sound of something—or someone—hitting the floor.

"Please, I'll fix it. Give me one more chance—"

The sharp metallic click cuts through the wall like a blade. My whole body freezes, recognizing that sound from countless crime shows—a silenced gun being fired.

Another thud follows, heavier this time. The floor beneath my feet vibrates with the impact of what can only be a body hitting the ground.

My hands fly to my mouth, trapping the scream that threatens to escape. The scratchy sheets pool at my feet as I stumble backward, away from the wall, away from the violence vibrating through it.

Silence descends. The kind that rings in your ears and makes your breath sound too loud.

"Clean this up." The measured voice again, calm as if ordering room service. "I want no trace."

Footsteps move across the floor next door. My legs give out and I slide down against the far wall, as far from the shared wall as possible in this tiny room. The sound of drawers opening and closing filters through, followed by running water.

They're... cleaning.

My legs tremble as I slide off the bed.

I should call someone—security, the police, anyone. But my phone’s still in the pocket of my soaked uniform, and the hotel room phone might as well be a mile away. I can’t move. Not when I’m frozen here in nothing but my underwear and a threadbare tank top, too scared to breathe, let alone run.

More shuffling sounds next door. Something heavy being dragged. Keys jingling.

I hold my breath as footsteps move past my door. The elevator dings down the hall. Then silence.

My hands shake as I count to sixty, then count again. When I finally force myself to move, it's on trembling legs that barely hold my weight. I creep to the door and press my eye to the peephole.

The second my eyes lock on the corridor outside, the door explodes inward, ripping a scream from my throat that dies the instant I see him.

Tall. Dark. Beautiful in a way that makes my blood run cold.

Like I'm staring at a cobra, knowing it's the last thing I'll ever see.

"Let me in, little rabbit. We heard you breathing. And in my world, people who listen at doors end up with their ears cut off and their bodies buried in places no one visits."

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

His voice matches the one through the wall. Measured. Careful. But there's something else there now—a hint of amusement that makes my skin crawl.

I stumble backward, but his eyes lock onto mine.

They're black as pitch, unblinking, drinking in every tremor that runs through my body. My bare feet scrape against the carpet as I try to retreat, but there's nowhere to go. The window's too high, the bathroom's a dead end, and he fills the only doorway.

“You heard things you shouldn’t have,” he growls deeply, head tilting like he’scurious, not angry. “Now I have to decide if you’re a problem… or something I want to keep.”

I try to speak. Try to lie.I didn’t hear anything. I swear. I was asleep. I’m no one.

But no sound comes. Just silence.

He steps in closer and his scent hits me harder. It's like smoke, leather and something so expensive only a man oozing with this much power can wear it.

His body blocks the door, the hallway, the world, so all I can see is him.

Everything about him says money and murder.

He’s tall. So fucking tall. And broader than any man has the right to be, all carved muscle beneath a half-unbuttoned white dress shirt. His sleeves are rolled up to his forearms, revealing tattoos that snake over thick, veined muscle—black ink patterns that look more like warnings than art.

I'm shaking as I look over his ink, watching it disappear beneath the fabric of his shirt. I can’t help but imagine how they curl over his biceps and shoulders, linking with the ones that swirl their way across the strong line of his neck, all the way up to his chin.

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