Meeting The Kingmaker Read online

  Meeting The Kingmaker

  Penny Wynter

  A Dark Romance Novella

  Contents

  Meeting The Kingmaker

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Meeting The Kingmaker

  I’m lost, lonely, and broken. This is literally my last chance to get out of this hell called my life. I have to impress the Kingmaker—or I’m dead, anyway.

  This dark romance novella is not intended for the fainthearted. The story contains twisted and filthy situations some readers might find objectionable.

  1

  Emily

  This is such a stupid plan. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I keep repeating that word in my head with each step that I put between me and no less than six armed guards watching the property. They’re not doing a very good job, by the way. I’m by no means a skilled burglar, but I have no trouble at all sneaking past them.

  Pushing my bag back over my shoulder, I reach up and hoist myself over the wrought-iron fence surrounding the property. At this point, I don’t even know which outcome of this situation would be worse—if the Kingmaker’s men pick me up or if the police catch me. At least the Kingmaker wouldn’t care about the six ounces of white cloud in my bag. The police, however . . .

  With a sigh, I lower myself to the ground on the other side of the fence while wondering how I ended up here with crack in my bag, on my way to make the worst mistake of my life. The problem is probably that I can’t sink any lower at this point. I just can’t, so I’m betting all I have, which is only my life, on this terrible, downright shitty plan.

  The grass beneath my feet is meticulously cut and looks so pretty that I almost want to stop to admire it a little longer. My heart pounds in my chest as I crouch low to avoid detection and hurry toward the mansion. This is the only chance I’ve got. If I screw this up, I’m dead by sunrise. There’s no way around it. As soon as my boss, Michael, finds out that I didn’t drop the drugs off at his seedy nightclub, I’m done.

  The last two years of my life have been hell, and that means a lot considering where I come from. I grew up with junkie parents, homeless most of the time. It wasn’t pretty, yet it wasn’t as bad as the last months. I always thought that I really, really wanted to live, that I would always have hope for a better future ahead of me. The little spark inside me that kept me going died a while ago, suffocated by the horrible people surrounding me.

  Two years ago, I still had hope after having met the first decent guy of my life. Unfortunately, I learned very quickly that Sean was anything but decent. He didn’t love me; I was only a token to him. He desperately wanted to join a criminal organization, and I was his entry ticket as he had to bring them a girl for their whorehouse to prove how serious he was. Lucky me, right?

  Well, at this time, Sean didn’t know about my upbringing, and if life on the streets taught me one thing, it’s being ruthless. I wasn’t ready to give up, and something about my refusal to beg and cry enticed Michael, the guy Sean wanted to impress. Michael made it very clear that I would either work for him in the position originally intended for Sean or find myself in a whorehouse.

  To entertain himself, Michael handed both Sean and me guns for an old-fashioned duel. I had no doubt in my mind that Sean would shoot me, so I shot first. It will forever haunt me that I didn’t even wait until the countdown ran out. I lifted the gun and shot, making Michael laugh.

  This was my first night with Michael, and it’s all been downhill from there. When he’s in a bad mood, he beats me up and makes me run his errands, like tonight, and when he’s in a good mood, he wants to fuck me or makes me suck his dick. It’s safe to say that I prefer him in a bad mood.

  The worst part, though, is that I know how well he treats me compared to some of the other people working for him. That he really likes me is probably the reason I’m still alive. But I can’t take it anymore. I just want out. Either I manage to impress the Kingmaker or I die. I don’t care—not at this point, anyway.

  I make my way to the mansion, trying every door and window until I get lucky. The kitchen door isn’t locked, and I sneak inside. As soon as I’m in, my heart beats less frantically. I know that the Kingmaker doesn’t have any staff at home. He prefers solitude, so I don’t need to worry about bumping into anyone until he’s home.

  He won’t be back until 4:00 a.m. though. Everyone in town knows his routines as he barely ever deviates from them. That’s why I’m here.

  Every three months, the Kingmaker acquires a new plaything, a pretty woman he fucks and who submits to his every whim. I’ve heard rumors that he kicked his last lover out yesterday, and filling her spot is my only ticket from this hellhole.

  Although his real name is Atlas Gibson, which evokes enough fear and panic in this town, he goes by Kingmaker because that’s what he is. Michael, my boss, works for someone who works for someone who works for someone who works for the Kingmaker. Michael is somewhere around entry level, while the Kingmaker is the final boss to beat.

  I’m here to crawl into his bed and entice him to make me his new plaything. I can handle three months of depraved sex while being showered with jewelry and expensive designer clothing. The Kingmaker will protect me from Michael, and when the three months are up, I will sell everything he gives me, leave town, and start all over somewhere new.

  I’m only twenty-three. I have my whole life ahead of me.

  Of course, this is the best-case scenario. I might as well die on the Kingmaker’s bedroom floor if he doesn’t find me appealing and ends my life then and there. I don’t even know which option to prefer. I try to calm myself down by thinking that after tonight, at least it’s over—one way or another.

  Stepping out of my cheap shoes, I clutch them against my chest as I make my way through the giant kitchen. The island in the middle is probably bigger than the tiny room in the back of Michael’s strip club where I sleep most nights.

  Out of curiosity, I open the fridge, and the sheer amount of food makes my mouth water. I pick one of the strawberries out of a bowl that’s filled to the brim with them and eye the bottle of champagne next to it. Of course, there’s champagne. I’ve never had it, but it seems to be all the rage with rich people. With a sigh, I close the fridge and start walking again. If the Kingmaker is into the sophisticated type of woman who drinks champagne every other day like it’s no big deal, then I might have a problem.

  Nothing about me is sophisticated. I know how to apply mascara and lipstick, and I’m sure that I look good in a short dress, but that’s about it. I have no idea about politics, and I suck at small talk. Lucky for me, most men I know aren’t interested in talking when the bedroom is involved, and I’m very good at following orders, no matter how dirty.

  Not for the first time, I wonder what the Kingmaker might like in the bedroom. I’ve seen him a couple of times when Michael took me to a party to flaunt me around, yet I’ve never seen Atlas Gibson up close. He is tall and has a very dominant aura, a man who’s used to everyone around him doing exactly what he wants. It’s hard to imagine him being laid back in the bedroom. Instead, I picture him giving harsh orders and slapping my face if I don’t react fast enough. I shudder, and my breath quickens. I wouldn’t mind being slapped by the Kingmaker at all.

  As I make my way to the stairs since I suspect that’s where I’ll find the master bedroom, I pass the living room. I glance in there quickly, and everything looks even more expensive than in the kitchen. The giant leather couch dominates the room. There’s art on the walls and a real fireplace. I’ve always wanted to sit next to one of those. With a longing feeling, I imagine myself sitting there, sipping champagne while the fire crackle
s. A girl can still dream, right?

  I climb up the stairs and start looking for the bedroom. A lush and thick carpet covers the floor, and even if I have my shoes on, nobody would hear me coming. I open and close a few doors before I find the right room. As soon as the smell of exquisite and expensive cologne hits my nose, I know I’ve found my target. I switch the lights on and step inside.

  There’s nothing unusual, just a four-poster bed, two nightstands with pretty lamps, and two doors. I assume that one leads into the bathroom and the other one into his walk-in dresser. My fingers tremble lightly as I extend my hand to touch the silky sheets. I don’t belong here. It’s painfully obvious. Putting my bag and my shoes down on the floor, I cross the room and open the first of the two doors.

  It’s his dresser, all right, and it’s filled with black suits and crisp white shirts. His polished shoes are lined up neatly against the wall. There’s a whole drawer full of expensive watches. I could probably steal two or three of these and sell them to live comfortably for a few months. The only catch is that no one who stole from the Kingmaker has ever lived to enjoy the fruits of their labor. Plus, the final payout will be much bigger if I manage to impress him enough so that he makes me his new plaything.

  I pull out the next drawer, and my breath catches in my throat. Yeah, I might be in over my head. I can tell that those are sex toys, but I have no idea what specific uses most of these things have. The only ones I can identify are the butt plugs and the gags, and why the hell does he keep not one but three knives in here? I swallow thickly and close the drawer.

  Maybe the bathroom will be less intimidating. I need more than twenty steps to cross the distance between the two doors since his bedroom is that big.

  After switching on the lights, I find myself in a room worthy of being in a spa. The bathtub is huge, and the shower has one of those fancy rain showerheads. Everything looks luxurious, from the plushy towels to the soap dispensers.

  I spot a bottle of cologne on the ledge under the mirror and simply can’t resist. I have to smell it. The composition fills my nose and blows my mind at the same time. I can picture leather and almonds in my mind, alongside a hint of lavender and vanilla. It shouldn’t work as well as it does based on that description, but it’s plain amazing.

  I wonder what it smells like on the Kingmaker’s skin. My mind wanders back to the sex toys, and I imagine myself tied to his bed, his strong body hovering over mine and his scent filling my nose before he fills me with something else entirely.

  Damn. I really need to convince him to make me his new plaything.

  I put the bottle down and leave the bathroom, switching the lights off. It takes a moment for my brain to register that the lights in the bedroom are no longer burning, although I left them on.

  I don’t even have time to react to that as a big hand closes around my throat. This is not even a warning. It’s a sinister threat. My back slams against the wall, making me gasp.

  "Who the fuck are you?" a low voice growls, hot breath dancing on my cheek.

  2

  Atlas

  My house smells like coconut and vanilla as I open the front door and step inside. It never smells like this in here because I’m probably one of the very few people on this planet who absolutely hate coconut. It’s the first instruction every woman I take on as a lover gets. No coconut. Never. Under any circumstances. So why the fucking hell does it smell like this?

  Short answer: because someone must have snuck in.

  Judging by the smell, it’s a woman.

  I can’t even begin to imagine how many problems this causes. Why do I pay a bunch of armed guards to watch my house if they apparently can’t even manage that? And who’s waiting for me? Friend or foe?

  I just want to rub the bridge of my nose and sigh dramatically, but instead, I pull my knife out for the third time tonight and make my way up the stairs. I can see the light shining from under my bedroom door, and I don’t like it.

  It’s been a long night, and I spent the last couple of hours torturing a guy who thought he could cross me while all his henchmen watched him bleed to death. They learned a valuable lesson tonight. You really don’t want to make me angry. Unfortunately, the person in my bedroom didn’t get the memo.

  I know exactly where to step to avoid the creaking floorboards as I walk across the carpet, knife in hand. The door swings open, but the bedroom is empty. I hear shuffling in the bathroom and wonder what the intruder could be looking for in there of all places. I have expensive watches in my closet and a lot of cash in a safe downstairs—but the bathroom?

  I decide to switch off the lights to throw the intruder off. This will make attacking them a lot easier.

  The silhouette of a tiny slim woman appears against the light coming from the bathroom before she switches it off. I can’t remember any of my last playthings being that small, and they would know about the no-coconut rule. So she’s a stranger—a cop, maybe.

  She steps back into the bedroom, and I can almost feel how she hesitates as she realizes she’s standing in the dark without having switched off the lights herself.

  I’m on her before she can react. My hand closes around her delicate throat, and I push her against the wall. She seems so fragile like I could crush her within a second, and the smell of coconut really grates on my nerves. It’s her shampoo because the scent intensifies every time she moves her head and her long hair tickles my hand.

  "Who the fuck are you?"

  I’m leaning close, which is pointless since I can’t see shit, but I know she feels my presence, and I’m all about intimidation. Her pulse is erratic under my fingers, her fear coming off her in waves. She heaves as she struggles for air.

  "Emily," she chokes. "I’m Emily."

  That’s not a sufficient answer. I lift her a little higher, pinning her to the wall. Her feet are no longer touching the ground. Desperation fills her as she clutches my arm, trying to alleviate the pressure on her throat. I like how she’s shaking and long to see her face, the panic in her eyes.

  "Please," she wheezes. "I have an offer."

  There’s no reason for me to believe her, and if she was a man, I would’ve killed her by now. Breaking in here is enough of an offense against me to justify it. They don’t call me Kingmaker for no reason. I make or break people. I rule with an iron fist, and I never ever show mercy. So it’s a surprise to myself that I open my fingers to let her breathe. She falls to her knees, hitting the floor hard, coughing and wheezing.

  I switch on the light and study her, the knife still in my other hand. The realization that I’ve seen her before in one of my clubs soothes me. I’ve noticed her because she looks deliciously broken. Her eyes are haunted, and so far, I’ve never seen her smile.

  She cowers on the ground, barely daring to look at me. "I’ve heard you’re looking for a new plaything."

  I can’t believe my ears. Emily, if that really is her name, is bold. I have to give her that. Breaking into my house just to offer her body to me is . . . insane, and I kind of like it.

  But there’s still a problem. I grab her arm, yank her up, and drag her to the bathroom. "Undress and take a shower."

  She blinks at me and quickly nods when I narrow my eyes. Emily almost stumbles when I let go of her arm, yet she obeys me and peels the dress off her body. Her makeup is carefully applied, and the vision of how I make her cry, with her tears leaving black streaks on her face, is enough to drive me crazy.

  "Don’t touch your makeup though," I add, my voice rough. I just need her to get rid of that coconut stench.

  She nods again, almost eager to comply, and hurries toward the shower stall.

  I turn my back to her and pick up her bag. Somehow it doesn’t surprise me to find drugs. Since she doesn’t look like a junkie, I suppose she’s either delivering the drugs somewhere or selling them herself.

  "Who are you?" I ask over the noise of the running water. "And don’t tell me your name again."

  "I work for Michael T
hompson."

  I rub my chin. "Shady nightclub owner, crooked incisor?"

  "That’s the one." She tries to sound lighthearted but fails miserably.

  There’s nothing else of interest in her bag besides the obligatory burner phone and twenty bucks in cash—no ID and no personal belongings.

  Emily wraps herself in one of my towels, looking incredibly lost in the bright lights of the bathroom.

  What the fuck am I doing? This isn’t me, treating burglars like my guests and thinking about bending some random woman over my bed to fuck her hard from behind. I should slit her throat and get to bed. I was tired when I left my club a little over an hour ago, but somehow, watching her, I’m not tired anymore. I’m hungry, fucking starving.

  She stands there, frozen with fear, and it’s so enticing, I can hardly handle it.

  I motion for her to come closer. "Tell me more about that offer of yours."

  Biting her lip, she lets the towel drop to the floor, presenting her body in all its naked glory. "I’m here to apply for the position."

  I swear the little rasp in her voice makes my dick twitch. "Is there a specific position you have in mind?"

  Her eyes dart to the bed. "I can’t imagine you being the type who likes being told what to do."

  "You’re right. What about you?"

  For the first time, she lifts her head a little, and I can see a little gleam of mischief shining through the fear in her eyes.

  "I’m very good at following orders—when the right man gives them."

  "I don’t know." Crossing my arms, I slowly circle her with deliberate steps. "Seems like I’m missing the catch. Why would a pretty little thing like yourself feel the need to break into my house and convince me to take her on as a lover?"