Page 16 of Brutal Reign
And that’s why Hope King needs to die.
Tonight.
Before she fucks with my head any more than she already has. I’ll do what needs to be done and never look back. Because even if she’s not a threat now, she could be one in the future.
Her apartment is small, clean, and deliberately anonymous. The main room combines the kitchen and living area in a space no bigger than my walk-in closet. There are no personal photos. No mementos of her past life, not that I expected there to be.
There’s a TV tray and a chair on one end and a thrifted couch in the other corner, with a stack of romance novels on the floor beside it. They’re old paperbacks, the kind with shirtless men with long, flowing hair on the covers.
One book lies open on the arm of the sofa, and I can’t help but peek. I pick it up, pages open to a scene that makes me smirk. The hero has the heroine pinned against a wall, promising to show her pleasure she’s never imagined. My cock springs to life as I picture Hope curled up here, cheeks flushed as she reads about a proper lady being ravished by a savage brute much like myself.
She might be living like a nun, but her imagination is clearly active.
When I step into her bedroom, the fresh, clean, citrusy smell of Hope fills the space, and my dick, which had just settled, springs right back to life.
I go through her dresser drawers, her nightstand, and her closet which only contains a few casual items, and one black dress that looks like it came from a thrift store.
Her personal items are few. I find a small sewing kit with mismatched thread spools, a pair of old earbuds, a candle. No jewelry except for a cheap digital watch on the nightstand. No photos, no mementos, no collections of anything.
I look under her bed and under the mattress—all the usual places people hide shit—but I don’t find anything that suggests she’s using her family name to rebuild the Black Company.
It's the room of someone who owns exactly what she needs to survive and nothing more.
I move on to search the two paltry kitchen cupboards. Nothing. Next, I check under the sink, then under the couch, and even the medicine cabinet in her bathroom.
Killing her would be easier if I found something incriminating, but after an hour of desperate searching, I’ve found no evidence she’s planning anything beyond surviving another day.
That fucks with my head more than it should. Maybe it’s because I recognize something in her. She grew up alone, much like me. No family. No support.
I know that emptiness. I’ve been carrying it since I was fifteen and lost everything that mattered. The difference is I filled mine with violence and power. Hope didn’t. She deserves better than the hand she was dealt. Better than what I’m here to do.
Just as I sit down heavily on her bed, forearms resting on my knees, I hear the rattle of a lock turning.
Fuck.
Hope’s not supposed to be home yet, but it’s her melodic voice that floats in from the other room. Metal clinks into a bowl and shoes hit the floor, followed by that soft sigh of someone finally safe in their sanctuary.
Except she’s not safe. Not even close.
My hand moves automatically to the Glock tucked against my spine, fingers wrapping around the grip as I pull it free. The weight feels wrong. It’s too heavy in my hand, like the metal itself is resisting what I need to do when she walks through that door. One bullet to the head, then I disappear.
That was always the plan, even if it makes bile rise in my throat.
I brace myself for what comes next, but then I hear her voice again, carrying from the main room. She’s talking on the phone. Shit. I can’t take the chance of someone hearing me kill her.
I dart to the closet, sliding between coats and sweaters as her bedroom door opens. She’s only a few feet away from me now, still talking on the phone. I watch her through the narrow slats, my hand resting on the grip of my pistol, praying she doesn’t open the closet door.
“Seriously, I couldn’t believe it. Darren finally showed up at the pub tonight after being MIA for an entire week. Didn’t say where he’d been, but he’s got his leg in a cast and he looks worse for wear. He hobbled in and gave me the night off, along with a raise and better shifts. No weird comments, no smirking, no staring. He was a perfect fucking gentleman.”
Satisfaction rolls through me despite everything.
Good. Hope’s asshole boss got the message loud and clear.
“I’m not kidding,” she says to whoever’s on the other end—Chloe, probably. “Trust me, I’m as shocked as you are.”
I lean my head back against the wall, closing my eyes at the sheer absurdity. I’m trying to keep her safe from every other man, even while I’m here to kill her.
She pauses, then says, “I don’t know. He looked like he got pummeled in a fight or something. Maybe someone finally kicked his ass over those gambling debts. Either way, he got some sense knocked into him because he’s never that decent. Oh, one minute, Chlo.”
