Hail to the King: Kings of the Tower Book Three Read online

  Hail to the King

  Kings of the Tower Book Three

  May Sage

  Hail to the King

  Kings of the Tower Book Three

  May Sage © 2018

  Photography of Thom by Wander Aguiar

  Edited by Theresa Schultz and Sue Currin

  ISBN: 978-1-912415-57-1

  Contents

  1. In Control

  2. Him

  3. Irritating

  4. First Sight

  5. Picture Perfect

  6. The Beginning of the End?

  7. Scrutiny

  8. Inquisition

  9. Fallen

  10. New Page

  11. An Old Man

  12. Frustration

  13. Red Light

  14. Unbalanced

  15. The End of the Beginning

  16. Another King

  17. Magnetic

  18. Deception

  19. New Circles

  20. Friction

  21. The Deal

  22. Maneuvers

  23. Rage

  24. Lost

  25. Scars

  26. Different Strokes

  27. Meddling

  28. Four is Company

  29. Perspective

  30. From One King to Another

  31. The Snake

  32. Chances

  33. A Dance

  34. Alive

  35. Korol

  36. The Winning Side

  Bonus Chapter

  Deleted Scene

  King of Kings, Book Five

  Power Games

  1

  In Control

  Desmond walked through the glass doors of the Kings and Knights high-rise at eight o’clock, sharp, as he always did. One would think his world hadn’t been knocked off its axis just a few days ago.

  “Mr. King.”

  The young and somewhat pretty receptionist blushed when he passed her. Desmond greeted her with a simple nod, walking around her desk. He wasn’t one for banalities.

  It was early. King Industries’ operating hours started at nine; Knightley Security didn’t officially open its doors until noon, and closed in the middle of the night. That said, Desmond had never seen the building empty.

  A man and a woman he didn’t recognize, both in running gear, were already waiting for the elevator. Desmond frowned. He should know who they were. He should be able to at least distinguish whether they were working for him or for Nathaniel Knightley.

  Nate Knightley and Desmond had built this high-rise together, back when neither of them had had enough money to do it on their own. It had worked out well. Desmond didn't need a lot of space; his job was overseeing the growth of his companies, not middle management. King Construction had an office downtown and King Tech was based in San Francisco. He had taken three floors, Knightley Security occupied five, and the rest of the building was rented out to various businesses.

  Down in the basement, they'd built a state-of-the-art gym and a pool any of their employees were free to use.

  Desmond was disappointed with himself. Who did the two joggers belong to? He should be able to tell at a glance. When had he grown so complacent? He truly had no clue what was happening under his own roof.

  His fists clenched at his sides.

  When the elevator door opened, neither of the joggers tried to walk in, glancing toward him.

  He gestured them forward. "You were here first. After you."

  They seemed surprised. Once upon a time, it might have pissed him off, but he had enough experience in this world to know that they had cause to be surprised. Businessmen of his caliber were assholes. They had to be. They simply didn't have the time or energy to waste on niceties. To those who made around five figures per working hour, two minutes waiting for an elevator did matter. They'd simply caught him on one of those days. The days when he’d just recently realized what a fucking ass he was. The days when he wanted to do something about it.

  It would pass. Too soon, no doubt.

  He caught the next ride up to the thirty-seventh floor.

  His office was mostly quiet, although his assistant was already here.

  "Hester. Glad to see you still don't have a life."

  She was the first to walk in, and often the last to leave.

  “Good thing, too,” she replied cheerfully. “You'd be lost without me.”

  She might have a point.

  He tried to smile at her as she handed him his coffee. If her bewildered expression was an indication, he’d failed.

  Desmond just went to his office, giving up. Nice wasn’t a good look on him, apparently.

  He felt most at home in the white, minimalistic room organized just so. He had three offices: this one, one at The Tower, and one at his place. They were identical in all things, except for the view from his window. White walls, white chairs, silver accents. He relaxed the moment he crossed the threshold.

  Desmond wasn't what one would call a workaholic, contrary to what many thought, but he would be the first to admit that his job suited him well. He was the head of King Industries' tech and construction firms, the most hands-on part of the little empire he and his brothers had built after inheriting their father's company. He'd chosen those two divisions because they were hard work. There was always something new, something requiring his attention. Something to fix.

  Fixing broken things was his addiction. He'd spent enough time talking about feelings on a couch to know that he didn't love it; he needed it.

  Now that was true more than ever. If he hadn’t had a purpose to go back to after the mess that had crashed into him that weekend, he didn’t know what he would have done.

  There was almost nothing to fix on his desk. His assistant was annoyingly perfect, and knew just how to set it up. A neat pile of documents on the left, one pencil, one fountain pen, and a red ballpoint pen on the right, a sleek laptop in between, and a glass of water on a new coaster.

  The coaster was Mets merchandise. She knew he supported the Yankees. What had he done to piss her off this time? It might have something to do with the fact that he’d missed work Monday and Tuesday. Rearranging his schedule must have been a pain.

  Hester had an eye for details, just like him. The computer was perfectly parallel to the edge of his desk. Everything was straight except for one detail: his red pen. He moved it a little until it was just right.

  It wasn't a mistake on her part. She knew he preferred to have something to do before starting the day. No one else understood him quite so well. Not even his brothers.

  She appeared the moment he took a seat on his large, white Chesterfield, her spaghetti-straight blonde hair pulled into a perfect ponytail. She always had blood-red lipstick on, and rectangular glasses framed her large brown eyes. Today, she'd opted for an elegant gray suit that made her look like she owned the world. She was the best-paid employee in his entire corporation; she could afford it.

  "What does today look like, Hester?" he asked, although he'd memorized his schedule on his ride to work. She would have the most recent update.

  "When will you call me Hes? Everyone else in the office does, you know.”

  Desmond shrugged. It wasn’t that he had something against nicknames, per se. They just denoted a level of intimacy he wasn’t comfortable with.

  "I'm not everyone."

  She rolled her eyes.

  "It's going to be a long day. You have half an hour to review the Lloyds contract—just the highlights, we haven't changed anything else—and check the three emails I forwarded you. Then, we’re on our way downtown to check out that club you want to acquire. Brunch at eleven with Nicola, lunch
with Sigfried at one, afternoon tea with Lady Tabitha at three, back at the office to talk about the Clarke case. Your lawyers are booked for an hour, and then our publicist wants to know if you could give her half an hour to speak about how to handle the collateral damage."

  Desmond lifted his gaze to Hester’s and a second passed. She'd worked for him for five years now, and she was used to his ways. It took a lot to intimidate her. Still, she swallowed with difficulty and cleared her throat.

  "Sorry. That sounded awfully cold, didn't it? I mean, the woman who got tangled up in the mess. I can't remember her name."

  Ryn. Kathryn, to be accurate.

  Desmond really didn't think that nicknames were appropriate for casual acquaintances or business associates, but in her case, he made an exception. Ryn suited her more. Kathryn was too stuffy and old-fashioned for a woman like her. Besides, she’d earned the right to be called whatever she fucking wanted.

  "No publicist. Tell Anna to stand down."

  That made no sense, and Hester’s baffled expression made it clear that she thought so. Situations like the one he found himself in were exactly why publicists existed.

  Nonetheless, now that the words had crossed his lips, he didn't feel like taking them back.

  “Not yet, in any case. I'd like to speak to Ryn directly.”

  Ryn had been blackmailed, raped, and abused by one of their executives for years. It wasn’t on him, or on any of his brothers. Deep down, he knew that. But he should have seen something. No, that wasn’t right. He had seen something.

  Years ago now, the very first time Ryn had been led to The Tower, the lifestyle club he and his brothers had inherited from their father, he’d seen that she’d been uncomfortable with her boss. He’d guessed that she wasn’t attracted to Wallace, although she’d let him touch her. And he’d ignored it. He’d just assumed she was letting him in her pants so he’d buy her things, or maybe because she hoped to replace Mrs. Clarke someday.

  If he’d taken her to the side and asked quietly, if, if, if.

  Every day since he’d learned the details, he was considering the what ifs.

  It didn’t matter in the end. What mattered was making things as right as they could be for her now. He was more interested in helping Ryn than he was in limiting the damage to the reputation of his company.

  Hester paused.

  “The lawyers will want to be there. They—”

  “Can advise me when I give them a rundown of the situation after meeting her. Book them tomorrow at nine. Contact Ryn, and ask her if she'd meet me.”

  “Ryn,” Hester repeated, her eyes wide open. She blinked three times. “Right. Of course. I'll get on it.”

  She started to walk away and Desmond pulled the Lloyds contract and took his red pen in his left hand. He didn't bother opening it, patiently waiting.

  Hester managed to make it to the door before she turned back.

  “You know what? No. The woman was coerced, blackmailed, and raped by one of our executives. If you don't want to handle this professionally, with your lawyers present, I'm not getting in the middle of it. You're making it a personal thing, so you can call her yourself.”

  He did manage a small smile this time. His first real one since the weekend. There weren’t many women who talked to him that way.

  Just two.

  Hester and Ryn.

  “You're sure you don't want to marry me?”

  They both knew he was joking. He wasn’t her type; her type was boho musicians who stole from her and married cabaret dancers in Vegas.

  Everyone had to have one flaw. Hester’s was godawful tastes in men.

  “You're not worth all your billions. Too much work.”

  On that note, she turned on her heels, trying to leave.

  “I can’t call her, Hester.”

  The assistant paused.

  “She’s not taking my calls at all. We had….” How best to put it? “A misunderstanding. She was under the impression that I was trying to buy her off when I wanted to help. Hence why I’m not talking to her with lawyers and a publicist in the room.”

  “Oh.”

  Hester thought it out for a moment. Then her features illuminated.

  “Well, how about you call her from a withheld number this time? Your company phone is set up that way if you press star, then seven, before dialing. But a warning: you have about five seconds to get her to stay on the phone. You better channel your inner Maverick and charm her socks off.”

  Desmond winced. He didn’t have an inner Maverick. An inner Callum? Perhaps. He could manage a Machiavellian persona every now and then, but imitating the easier demeanor of his youngest brother was beyond him.

  Five seconds….

  He started to dial the phone number he’d memorized days ago on the keypad of the phone.

  In all honesty, he could have borrowed one of his brothers’ phones, or just gotten Callum or Maverick to deal with her.

  Everything about Kathryn Woodrow summoned the beast, awakened the nightmares he’d spent a lifetime outrunning, so he didn’t have a choice.

  “Ryn.” She’d answered on the fourth ring. Five seconds. He had five seconds, if that.

  Five seconds to tell her he wanted to help her. Make sure she lived somewhere safe, that she was seeing someone about what had happened to her. Let her hold on to him and cry on his shirt any time she needed to.

  He couldn’t let her hang up.

  “I’ll watch Lord of the Rings if you stay on the line.”

  Only cowards ran from their demons.

  2

  Him

  Six days ago

  It hadn't been the first time that she'd been lent out to a man. Ryn was used to it, as much as anyone could get used to that sort of thing. Having sex with strangers she didn't choose was her normal.

  That probably made her a whore. Many would think so. She'd stopped caring about what people thought a long time ago, to keep what was left of her sanity intact.

  Wallace had let her choose what she was wearing today. A bonus. She wouldn't be uncomfortable in itchy, gaudy sequins at least. She was wearing a short black sheath that left very little to the imagination. Wallace and his friends didn't have much imagination.

  Three years back, at the beginning of this mess, she remembered crying on the bathroom floor, shaking, begging. That naive Kathryn Woodrow had died a long time ago, buried by a cold, detached survivor.

  She walked down the grand staircase of Wallace's excessive townhouse. The whole place reeked of nouveau-riche. She could tell the difference between old money and those who flaunted their newly acquired wealth, now.

  Halfway down the staircase, Ryn froze. Her eyes widened. She was pretty certain she blanched.

  No, it couldn't be. It wasn't Desmond King standing next to Wallace in the foyer, waiting for her, right?

  She would have known who he was from any glossy magazine, but it wasn't the first time she met him in person. Not because she was employed by a subsidiary of the corporation he and his brothers owned—she was too far down the food chain for them to breathe the same air. She'd seen him at The Tower, the exclusive, expensive, extravagant lifestyle club he owned.

  Unlike his brother Callum, Desmond didn't join the plebes and fuck along with them at The Tower, but from time to time, he showed his face at the bar, stopping to talk to the most affluent members.

  He didn’t even pay attention to Wallace. Ryn? She didn't exist in his stratosphere. They’d literally bumped into each other once and they’d exchanged one or two words that she’d been too panicked to fully comprehend, but that was it.

  Or so she'd thought. But here he was, watching her stand stupidly in the middle of the monstrous marble staircase.

  She blushed, and forced herself to keep on walking down, her chin up and her shoulders back.

  Desmond King resumed his little chat with the man who was, for all intents and purposes, Ryn's pimp, ignoring her.

  She'd seen this happen dozens of times. Wi
th young men, old men, fat men, and even some handsome ones. It didn't matter what they looked like. They all made her want to claw her skin off her bones. They were all disgusting. Him included.

  It wasn't fair to feel that way. Most of them didn't know she was being forced into this. They thought she was like them, part of their strange community, embracing the "lifestyle". But hating everything about them was one of the ways she stayed sane.

  Now she was closer, she could hear Wallace and Mr. King talking, although they kept their tone low.

  “The opening is going to be spectacular, sir,” Wallace insisted. “Don't let the worrywarts get you down, the little storm won't change a thing.”

  “We'll see. My brother's plane can't take off, so that's not entirely reassuring. I'm sure the locals will attend, but the members of the press from the States, London, and Singapore may not be able to get to Venice in time. If so, we'll have to look into inviting them again as soon as possible. We need international coverage.”

  They were talking about the boutique palazzo hotel they were opening in Italy, she gleaned. During the day, she did work as Wallace's assistant, and for what it was worth, she was actually good at her job.

  Automatically, without thinking to question herself, Ryn interjected. “Sir, I contacted every guest as soon as I heard about the weather warning.” Desmond turned back to her, rather sharply. His eyes were cold, and very intense. Somehow, he managed to make her feel uncomfortable. Naked and vulnerable.