Page 49 of Vengeful King

But I can’t help the little bit of pleasure that slips into my voice, the remnants of what I did creeping in. My words are a low rumble when I say, “Good girl. All I wanted from you was the truth.”

That’s a fucking lie.

I wanted more. When I was spanking her, it wasn’t just about the truth. It wasn’t just about finding out who wanted me dead. I was turned on, and half the time I had my hands on her, I wasn’t thinking about my life or my family at all.

I was thinking about how much I wanted her.

I could have pulled that information from her any other way. I didn’t. I chose to do what I wanted most, what I never should have stooped to doing. I chose to use pleasure to draw out what I wanted from her because it was what I wanted. I just pretended it would be fine if I used the excuse of making her break.

Now, I’m not so sure that I didn’t break a little, too.

I pick her up and she makes a surprised noise in my arms, but she doesn’t struggle when I carry her to the bathroom. Naked, I can feel how warm her skin is. I grab a towel on my way, bundle it onto the toilet seat before I slowly set her down. She still hisses when her ass touches the lid, but the pain on her face is fleeting.

I switch the shower water on and let it fill a few inches, crossing my arms while I wait. My mind is racing ahead to everything this could mean, the possibilities and implications of what I got out of her.

I need to know more.

When the tub is full enough, I guide her in, giving her my hand for support. When she’s seated, the pain comes back, a flash of discomfort before she cautiously settles in the water. I let her orient herself before I speak again.

“You said his name is Mr. V. Do you know anything else about his name?”

“No.” Her response is tired, subdued. Now that the dam is broken, she’s not resisting. The answers come easily. “I never knew any more than that.”

“You didn’t hear anyone else refer to him as something else? Never saw it written anywhere?”

“No.”

I turn and reach for a bottle on the sink behind me, then pass it to her. She gingerly takes it; I notice that our fingers don’t brush. But she’s close.

Again, a wave of desire hits me. I still haven’t let myself release that want. I still haven’t given in. I want to fuck her so badly, but I reign myself in.

I keep asking her questions instead. I need answers—more than she’s given me. More than a mysterious name and endless possibilities.

“When did you first meet him?”

“A day before I came in to the club. I was told the time and place, and I showed up.”

“And how did he arrive?”

“Black SUV, tinted windows. One of his men exited the opposite side from me and came around to watch me. He rolled the window down just enough to talk.”

I can imagine it. Either these men are professional, or they’ve seen enough movies to pretend. Every person from the regular world I’ve met doesn’t have a clue what mafia security means. They assume men with shotguns and hundreds of tattoos will crawl out of every corner.

What security really means is people in strategic places, sometimes hidden in plain sight. It means putting three people between you and the enemy, and having six escape routes.

In this game, staying alive long enough to win is the top priority.

Katrina rests her arms on her knees. Her skin glistens, the water clinging to her in droplets. Once again, I’m reminded how easy it would be to give in. She’s naked, everything out in the open, everything between us broken down.

But I master myself and continue questioning her.

“Have they had any more contact with you?”

“No. And the number isn’t even from him; it’s from the one who loaned me money.”

“How do they know him?”

“They’re one of his men, I guess.”

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