The King

“You got another one.” Jasper hovered in the doorway, a box in one hand. “This one’s from Eight. Jim Jernigan.”

Dallas flipped his notebook shut, hiding the list he’d been making, and jerked his head at his second-in-command. “Oh, boy. Might as well open it up. Bren checked to make sure it wasn’t a bomb, right?”

“If the other sector leaders wanted to send you bombs, they missed their chance. Should have done it yesterday.” He set the box on Dallas’s desk and nudged it. “They have to make nice with you now. You’re one of them.”

Yes, he was. And pretty soon he’d have to put on his best lazy smile and go out to join in the celebrations. He would toast the fallen and drink to victory and let the liquor run a little more freely—and cheaply—than usual, so that everyone left feeling warm and happy about the new world order.

He’d have to fake it. Hard. Because no one could know that Dallas O’Kane wasn’t sure the price had been worth it.

Reaching out, he flipped open the box. Inside, nestled on a bed of black tissue paper, lay a silver flask embossed with the logo Dallas had chosen for O’Kane Liquor—with one slight change.

A crown rested on top of the skull.

Of course.

Dallas picked up the small card and flipped it open. A single line was printed inside in neat handwriting.

Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.

Wasn’t that the goddamn truth.

“Well, this is better than the box of guns I got from that asshole in Three,” Dallas forced himself to say as he crumpled the note and tossed it in the garbage. “This group’s gonna be fun to deal with.”

“Better you than me.” Jasper narrowed his eyes. “What are you doing in here, anyway?”

Dallas shut the box and set it firmly on top of his notebook. “Just reviewing some of the intel Mad got for me about the other sector leaders. They’ll be holding a meeting soon to welcome me officially, and I want to make a good show of it.”

“You’re gonna miss the party.”

Dallas leaned back in his chair and eyed Jasper. The man had a bruise on his cheek and a bandage peeking out from under one sleeve, remnants of the last brutal fight that had gone down in the streets of Sector Four. The convenient delivery of a crate of med-gel—along with congratulations from the leader of Sector Five—meant that the more obvious scars of today would heal. The survivors would go on.

But only the survivors.

“I don’t think the party’s winding down anytime soon,” he said, tapping his finger on his desk. “Things are gonna change, you know. There’ll be times when you have to hold down the compound because I’m dealing with sector shit.”

“I learn fast. I’ll figure it out.” Jas stretched his wounded arm and winced. “Fuck, this hurts. I think I’ll have a few more drinks, find a pretty lady to take the edge off. You coming?”

“I’ll be there in a minute.” He tapped the box in front of him. “I better put this with the rest of them.”

“All right.” Jasper hesitated at the door. “You did the right thing, you know. Stone didn’t give a damn about this sector.”

“I know.” The grin came easily—he was getting good at this. “I don’t know how much better I’ll do, but I sure as shit can’t do worse.”

“Truth. See you at the celebration.” He closed the door behind him, leaving Dallas alone.

He picked up the box and spun his chair. The table behind him was littered with gifts—some from grateful crafters eager to ingratiate themselves to the new king, some from the men and women who plied trades or sold services in his sector and knew the value of a good investment.

And some from the leaders of the other sectors—the men and one woman who were now his peers.

Gideon Rios of Sector One had sent him a crate of their family’s wine along with a set of exquisitely delicate glasses that had no doubt been hand blown. Cerys of Sector Two had sent him a gilded dagger so heavily crusted with gems that it was basically unusable. Three’s useless box of guns had been balanced out by Five’s extremely useful supply of medicine. And, of course, the cheap assholes in charge of Six and Seven had yet to send him anything.

Dallas set the flask with its pointed warning next to the pile of gifts and turned back to his desk.

The notebook was still there. He flipped it open and stared at the two lists of names, the slashes of black ink across the crisp white paper still a punch in the gut.

Four O’Kanes had given their lives in the war to take down Matthew Stone. So had seventeen fighters who had taken to their side when the battle poured into the streets. Twenty-one of his own dead to secure an entire sector.

Most people would count that a bargain. A barbarian king certainly would.

Dallas could only see the losses. The people left behind. Zan, whose older brother had gone down in the fighting. A waitress who lost a son. A dancer who lost her lover. One of their newly hired bouncers had taken a bullet meant for Dallas and had left a pregnant wife and a three-year-old daughter behind.

At least Matthew Stone’s fortune—though much smaller than the former leader had always pretended—would expand Dallas’s already bulging coffers. He could take care of the people left behind. His people. He could do whatever the fuck he wanted.

Except let anyone know how much it had hurt.

The lives of everyone who depended on him—of everyone in this damn sector—depended on his ability to play this game. To give them what they wanted—a strong leader. To give his enemies what they feared—a dangerous, ruthless barbarian.

To do both so exquisitely that they never saw his deeper game.

Declan O’Kane could grieve for the dead later. Dallas, king of Sector Four, had a party to get to.

»»» § «««

The battle for control of Sector Four seemed to have left the O’Kanes with a new appreciation for the vicissitudes of life. When you were down, you worked like hell to get back on your feet. And when you were up...

Well, you partied your ass off.

The Broken Circle stage had been turned into a dance floor. Even though the night was wearing on, it was crowded with bodies, people dancing with feverish abandon. Of course, with so much liquor spilling through the club, clothes were starting to come off.

And Dallas O’Kane, newly minted leader of Sector Four, was nowhere to be found.

Lex had caught sight of him once or twice earlier, dancing and drinking and grinning and flirting. Everything he was supposed to be doing on the day he’d liberated a sector from near-tyrannical rule. But he was doing it all so hard that it made her teeth ache a little.

She couldn’t watch anyone try that hard, especially Dallas O’Kane.

And now he was gone. She supposed he could have peeled off a couple of women from the adoring crowd and taken them upstairs to show them exactly how rewarding the attentions of a king could be, but somehow she doubted it.

Lex skirted around the bar and picked up a bottle from a crate stacked by the kitchen door. Flash narrowed his eyes at her, and she waved the whiskey at him. “If I don’t pay for it, you know where to find me.”

Now the question was where to find Dallas. She closed her eyes and tried to think—if I were him, and I wanted to hide, where would I be?

But she didn’t know the answer. She never did, and maybe that was why she always, always had to find out.

The warehouse was empty, and so was Dallas’s office. Lex drifted from place to place, telling herself the entire time that what she needed to do was head back to the party, crack open the bottle, and drown herself in both.

She found him in the garage.

One of their salvaged cars was parked there, a door hanging askew and the hood up. Dallas’s leather vest lay across a table, leaving only a tight white T-shirt that hugged his flexing muscles as he worked on the engine.

“Need a hand?”

A wrench banged against the metal frame as he cursed softly and straightened. “You get bored with the party?”

It was a motivation he’d believe, and that was reason enough to let him. But that wasn’t what she wanted, not tonight. “Just thought you might not need to be alone.”

He turned to the bench and set down the wrench. Tension carved every muscle in his back from stone. “I’m fine.”

He was locked up as tight as the safe in his office—but Lex had cracked that, hadn’t she? “Yeah, you look it.” She unscrewed the cap from the bottle. “Here.”

Dallas accepted the whiskey and took a swig straight from the bottle. Then he offered it back. “I thought you didn’t like this.”

“I’m acquiring a taste for it.” The liquor flowed over her tongue, sweet and a little sharp. “Talk to me.”

“What about, darling?”

She jerked her head back toward the door. “The stuff you can’t say to them.”

His expression stilled. When he reached for the whiskey again, his fingers curled over hers for a moment, warm and rough. “Who says there’s anything I can’t tell them? I trust my people.”

It wasn’t about trust. It was about security, about the burdens he had to carry alone because sharing them might make it seem like he didn’t have things under control—even if no mere mortal could ever hope to. “People are dead, Dallas. I don’t want to play this game with you right now.”

He closed his eyes and tugged the bottle out of her hand. This time, he drank deeply—three long swallows that had to burn. “I know who’s dead,” he said roughly, his eyes still shut. “I know how many people they left behind. I know it all.”

So did she, and her chest ached with the weight of it. “So let me help you.”

“How?” His sudden laugh was all sharp edges. “I can throw money at it, but money doesn’t unmake orphans. I did this. They died for me. Nothing will change that.”

He’d do what he could, they all would. Tomorrow, they’d start rebuilding what had been broken, bit by bit. People and families and businesses.

But first, they had to get through tonight.

“I’m talking about you.” She took the bottle, carefully capped it, and set it aside. “I’m here for you.”

“Are you?” He leaned back against the workbench and spread his arms wide. “Is this what you expected, when you dressed me up that first time? Did you see this coming?”

Yes and no. None of the leather was new anymore, and the scuffs and creases suited him. He’d taken some of the pieces and left others behind, adapting it all so that the two were now inextricable, Dallas O’Kane and Sector Four’s barbarian king. It wasn’t a costume anymore. He owned it, the way he slowly but surely took over everything.

The way he owned her.

“I knew you wouldn’t be happy with Matthew Stone—or anyone else—telling you what to do. But the rest of it—the loss—” She swallowed the words.

“I don’t blame you.” He reached out to touch her cheek, his fingers painfully gentle. But the thumb that pressed against her lips was rougher. Possessive. “I made the choice. I got them killed. I don’t get to forget that, because now I have the power to get everyone killed.”

“You can’t forget it.” Her lips kissed his thumb as she spoke. “But you can’t let it torture you, either. You won’t be any good to them then.”

“I gotta go back in there and smile and let them know all of this was worth it. How do I do that, Lex? How do I stop fucking thinking?”

He knew the answer already. It was there, burning in his gaze, as she lifted her hands and threaded her fingers through his hair.

His thumb pressed harder, edging between her lips. “Am I your king?”

She licked him, then closed her teeth on his thumb.

His eyes flared. He pushed deeper, letting her teeth drag over the pad of his thumb. “Show me.”

How many times had she imagined those words, low and silky with invitation? Often enough for it to seem familiar as she stretched up and kissed his jaw, his throat, the tiny bit of shoulder left uncovered by his collar.

It wasn’t enough.

Her hands shook as she slid them under his shirt and pushed it up. His free hand caught one of her wrists, trapping her fingers against his abdomen as he watched her, his thoughts impossible to read.

Not again. Not here, now. “I think it’s time to settle up on that favor you owe me.”

“What favor?”

“The chemical printer,” she reminded him. “I haven’t collected yet.”

His eyes narrowed. “What do you want?”

She was holding a sector leader’s marker. A smart person would use it strategically, for money or power or influence. For survival. But she was on fire, so consumed that she couldn’t remember what it felt like not to burn.

“You said show me.” She curled her fingers, digging her nails into his skin. “Just this once, I want you to let me.”

Tense silence grew between them, and she knew Dallas would have preferred a demand for money or influence. Anything that let him stay locked up tight, all his vulnerabilities guarded, his weaknesses protected.

Anything that let him keep all the power.

Finally, he released her wrist and he held his arms out to his sides, as if inviting her to do her worst. So she pushed his shirt higher, urging his arms up until she could pull the worn cotton over his head. It fell to the floor, and he grabbed the workbench, curling his fingers around it on either side of him as if to hold himself forcefully in check.

His bare chest beckoned, broad and strong, and she brushed her lips over his collarbone.

Dallas sucked in a breath. “Why this? Out of everything you could have asked for?”

“It’s what I want.” He had a tattoo on the right side of his chest, fanned out cards showing a royal flush with the king on top, and she traced its edges with her fingertip. “We can have a safe word.”

He quirked one eyebrow. “Do I need one?”

“Only you can answer that.” She leaned in and started following the path she’d traced again, this time with her tongue.

“Fuck.” His head fell back, and his groan made his chest rumble beneath her lips.

His skin heated, and all she wanted was to strip naked and press against him, let that heat warm her, too. But this was a delicate dance—one wrong step, and it would be over.

She bit his nipple instead.

His groan turned to a growl, and she swore she heard the wood creak under the force of his grip. “Lex—”

“Shh.” She placed her fingers over his lips, then snatched them away before he could bite her. “Don’t distract me.”

She had one night, one chance to satisfy the curiosity twisting her into knots, and she took it. She explored him slowly, filing away each discovery. The way scraping her teeth over his shoulder made him shudder, or the delicious moan when she blew softly into his ear. Raking her nails over the back of his neck elicited a sigh. And when she ran the back of her hand lightly down his abs, he stilled under her touch and held his breath.

Through it all, his tension grew, and she couldn’t tell if it was because he was just as fucking turned on as she was, or if he resented having her know these things. If he saw it as a weakness she could exploit. To know, she would have to ask, and that would be the gravest sin of all where Dallas O’Kane was concerned.

So she held her tongue and reached for his belt buckle.

A word finally escaped him. Just one. “Yes.”

It echoed through her, and she leaned closer, until their mouths almost touched. “Alexa.”

“What?”

The warm leather slipped free of the buckle. “It’s my name.”

“Alexa.” It rolled out of him in a low drawl that made those three syllables last forever. “I like it.”

She toyed with the button on his jeans. “Yeah?”

“Oh, yeah.” The muscles in his arms flexed as he adjusted his grip. “You gonna torture me all night? Is that how you treat your king?”

He was teasing her, and she hid her smile against his jaw as she pulled the button free. “Every king needs a reminder—there are some things you can’t buy or command.” She tugged at his zipper slowly, opening it with a low, unending rasp. “Some things have to be offered. Given.”

“And here I thought a king could have whatever he wanted.” He turned his head just enough for his stubble to scrape tauntingly over her skin, and his whisper fell hot on her ear. “You never did like following the rules, did you?”

“If I did, I wouldn’t be here.” She kissed him, licking past his lips as she edged her hand into his pants and wrapped her fingers around his cock.

His hips arched forward, thrusting into her grip. One of his hands tore free of the bench, and he groaned as he sank it into her hair, tangling his fingers in a brutally tight grip. It felt like possession, the kind she craved.

If he could only bring himself to give it to her here, like this, she’d take it. Every stolen moment, every uncontrolled touch, even if it hurt. That way, when he finally, inevitably withdrew, at least she’d know she hadn’t dreamed it.

She kissed his throat, his chest. Lower. She pushed his jeans down as she dropped to her knees, and his cock sprang free, rigid and thick. So hard it had to ache.

She looked up at him. “How long has it been?”

“Does it matter?” His free hand curled around his shaft, stroking once as his gaze fixed on her lips. “It’s never been you.”

She trailed her fingertips lightly over his erection and his hand and back again. “Why not?”

“You think I would have gotten out of bed to take over the world if I had this mouth waiting for me?” He tugged her closer and traced the hard crown over her lips. “You think I would have done anything else?”

“Yes, I do.” She licked him once, then closed her mouth around the head of his cock.

“Oh fuck.” His fingers flexed at the back of her head, as rough and demanding as his voice. “God, yes.”

He’d accused her of planning to torment him, but it didn’t seem right, no matter how long she wanted to make this last. He was already trembling, so she took him deeper, faster, letting his hand in her hair guide her as she fluttered her tongue over him.

And he needed it. Oh, he’d never admit it with words, but his body betrayed him in a thousand tiny ways. The low, desperate sounds he made. The jerky thrust of his hips. The tension in his body—for weeks he’d been made of tension, but now every single molecule in his body was entirely focused on the next flick of her tongue or glide of her lips.

Entirely focused on her.

It was a heady feeling, headier than the pleasure or the power or even the fulfillment of this particular fantasy. She’d spent so long yearning for Dallas’s attention, and now that she had it...

It wasn’t the kind of thing you could walk away from. And yet, she had to. Somehow.

She took him deep, and he groaned again, clutching at the bench with one hand as his other twisted tighter in her hair. His hips moved to meet her, matching the rhythm of her mouth rising and falling as if they’d been doing this forever.

And, as if they’d been doing it forever, she knew exactly when he gave in. She knew the second before a guttural growl escaped him. His hips jerked, and his whole body went rigid as he came. He spilled over her tongue, and she swallowed him with a moan, stroking his hip to soothe him as he gasped and shuddered.

His head fell back when it was over, leaving his face bathed in harsh light. His hand gentled at the back of her head, fingers stroking softly. “Damn,” he whispered.

“Almost speechless,” she teased. Then she rose and kissed his cheek. “Better?”

“Maybe.” But he was smiling as he reached for his pants. “Was your favor worth it?”

“It’s not over,” she countered. “When’s the last time you slept?”

That wiped his smile away. A furrow appeared between his brows as he zipped up his pants and gripped his belt. “I gotta make another appearance at the party. No rest for the wicked, Lexie love. Or for kings.”

How could a nickname be more intimate than his dick in her mouth? “Just an hour. Maybe two.”

He exhaled roughly and somehow managed to buckle his belt crankily. But when he pushed off the workbench, he turned toward the leather couch against the side wall. “Fine. If I lie down for an hour, will that pay my debt?”

“Free and clear.” She held out her hand.

Dallas accepted it, and she led him to the couch. When she sat down, he stretched out and laid his head in her lap. “One hour,” he reminded her as his eyes drifted shut.

Lex stifled a sigh as she smoothed his hair back from his forehead. “I promise, Dallas.”

“Declan.”

She froze mid-stroke, then bit her lip even though he couldn’t see her smile. “Declan.”

“Mm-hmm.”

He fell asleep almost instantly, and Lex sat there, motionless, as the minutes ticked by.

A blowjob and a nap. What a weird fucking way to end a flirtation.

And it was ending. It had to, for the sake of her sanity. She’d chased Dallas so long and so hard that it almost seemed normal to knock on a door only to have him slam it in her face. It wasn’t like he meant to hurt her—in the strangest way, she could tell that he didn’t—but intentions mattered less than the end result.

He had solid steel walls three feet thick. She wanted to get past them, and he wouldn’t let her. Full stop, end of story. Because if she didn’t lock it down now and walk the fuck away, she’d keep throwing herself at him. Sooner or later, she’d grind herself into nothingness.

Better to end it. If he wanted to see her, he knew where to find her. And if he didn’t, she’d manage. One foot in front of the other, just like always.

Just like always.