Page 92 of Emperor of Corruption
Could this trip possibly get any worse?
Yes,I realize momentarily, when Killian strides into the bathroom. His brows furrow as he looks from me, to the toilet, to the still running shower.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
I clear my throat, grimacing, and flush the toilet. “I think I caught a bug.”
Concern flashes through his eyes. It’d be endearing if he hadn’t lost his mind over nothing last night. He strides up to me and squats down, pressing the back of his hand to my forehead.
“You’re not feverish,” he says with a frown. “Are you usually queasy after travel?”
“I used to be when I was a kid.”
He tilts his head to the side. “How are you feeling now?”
I take a beat to consider that.
Surprisingly… “Fine. I think my stomach just rebelled for a moment—I’m okay now.”
Killian nods slowly. “Do you want to stay in the hotel for the day?”
I rise to my feet, slightly unsteady, waiting for more nausea to assail me and bring me back down to my knees. It doesn’t happen—I feel perfectly fine.
“I think I’m okay,” I say slowly. “I just needed to get that out of my system.”
Killian meets my gaze through the mirror. I wash my hands, looking down at them to avoid his stare.
“Alright,” he replies. “Take a shower. If you’re not feeling up to going out, say so. I won’t be upset.”
I wouldn’t care even if you were upset. I need to keep observing Killian with people—I need to findsomethingto pin on him, and I can’t miss this glowing opportunity to dig.
I manage a weak smile. “Okay.”
Unfortunately, there’s very little to observe throughout the day. Killiandoesplenty of things—more ribbon cuttings, meeting with local business owners he supports, touring various shelters—but none of them offer me insight into who he really is. They only show me how he presents himself to the world; the mask that he wears in front of the general population.
He takes a private dinner meeting with a few of his associates, sending me back to the hotel room early. I enjoy the time to myself, eating my fill of dinner before curling up. When he gets back, it’s the dead of night, but he has no problem waking me up to fuck me.
I let him, but I don’t participate. I’m still upset over what happened last night. When he tries to spend time on foreplay, I push him away—he doesn’t argue, apparently too eager to get inside me.
The next morning, he leaves before I do. A note waits for me on the nightstand, informing me that he left early for a quick meeting, and he’ll return to collect me at around 10.
Collect me. As if I’m an object rather than a person.
Yetagain,I throw up before I shower… but that doesn’t seem to curb my appetite before breakfast.
In all likelihood, my body is probably physically rebelling against the close proximity with Killian. My stress is at an all-time high, and while I’m not someone who gets carsick, Iamsomeone who gets stress-sick when my anxiety becomes overwhelming.
I expect it to go away, but it doesn’t. We move on from London and head to Paris, staying at yet another lavish hotel with amenities that make my eyes bulge. Every morning, as I think about the impending events of the day, I vomit. Killian always leaves for an early meeting, sends me to the hotel before his last meeting or gala of the night, and then fucks me once he gets back. I make no attempts to participate orget anything out of it; after a couple of days, he stops trying to keep up the pretense and just fucks me for his own pleasure.
Sometimes, I even throw up while waiting to get him back. I take it as a sign of my body being beyond done with this arrangement and begging me to cut ties with the beast that is Killian so I can move on with my life.
After how he reacted a couple nights ago, there is very little tethering me to him. I’ve done everything he’s asked of me; I finished the novel he had me write a week ago, I’ve let him have my body in whatever way he desires, and I’ve kept him company for the predetermined amount of time. Each day that passes marks one day closer to my freedom.
On the sixth day, we move onto Germany, where we stay in a formercastlethat’s been turned into a hotel. Our room is the most beautiful and lavish yet, fit for kings and queens. Sun pours through leaded windows, and a vaulted ceiling rises over a living room with carved-oak paneling. There’s a limestone hearth big enough to host a party of three, velvet sofas gathered around a low table of inlaid marquetry, and agrand pianowaits by the window, which overlooks a field of vineyards.
Through an archway, the bedroom is as large as a court. A four-poster bed stands high and canopied in damask, with crisp linens glimmering over the mattress. A pair of gilded mirrors catch candlelight from wrought-iron sconces; a writing desk of black walnut faces the view, stocked withhandmade paperand a fountain pen. The bathroom is sheer indulgence—Calacatta marble, a freestanding copper tub, twin vanities, and underfloor heating that warms the stone. Killian chuckles at my parted lips as I explore the suite on our first night, as eager as a kid at a candy store.
The following morning, he leaves me a note informing me that he’s in meetings until the afternoon, and tells me I’m free to explore with Locke.
