King of Me(5)

By: Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

He slowly rose from the table, a predatory look in his silvery eyes. “I don’t think so.”

I shook my head at him. “You can’t bully me into feeling something for you. If you want this to work, you’re going to have to accept it.”

I turned toward the door, feeling goddamned proud of myself. I’d stood up to the ancient, powerful king without becoming tongue-tied. I said exactly what I’d meant to say and—

I felt a pull on my arm, and my body flew through the air, landing with a crash onto the table. Our champagne glasses tumbled to the floor, as did the candle and silverware.

He pinned me by the neck, face down. “Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to, Mia? Huh? A man who gives a shit what you think or want?”

I grunted in agony as he pushed my arm behind my back and ground my neck into the table. “Get off, King!”

“Sir?” the waiter asked, obviously wondering what the noise was all about.

“Leave!” King barked. “Or I will kill you.”

“Help!” I screamed.

“Uhhh…Call if you need anything, sir.” The waiter disappeared into the kitchen.

Sonofabitch wasn’t even going to lift a finger for me?

“Don’t go! Help,” I screamed again.

“I’ll help you, you fucking bitch.” King pressed my neck harder into the table with one hand and began shoving my dress up with the other.

I felt the hem pass my hips, exposing my black lace thong. I’d put it on tonight, anticipating I’d have the nerve to follow through.

“Don’t, King.”

“Shut the fuck up. I should have done this the night we met.” He shoved down my panties, and I couldn’t believe he was doing this. The evil fucking bastard would never find salvation from his curse, but perhaps he’d never wanted it. A man who truly wanted love would never do this. Never.

“Don’t, King. Or I swear, I’ll—”

“What? Curse me again, you bitch? You cannot hurt me now because you are nothing,” he roared.

I flung myself up from the bed, covered in sweat, panting and crying. Oh my God. Oh my God. I clutched the pink pajama fabric covering my chest, my head swiveling from side to side. I wasn’t in any restaurant, nor was I being violated—thank God. I was lying on a bed in King’s palatial estate in Crete.

“Nice dream, Miss Turner.”

I yelped.

In the corner, King comfortably sat in a leather armchair. He wore faded jeans and a white linen shirt partially unbuttoned and exposing the tan chiseled planes of his pectorals. A wicked smile occupied his full lips.

I felt my face turn rage-red. “You…you…”

“Don’t blame me.” He held up his palms as if surrendering. “That was all your twisted little brain. I merely observed.” He leaned back, smothering a smile. “However, I must admit, you have a dirty, dirty mind.”

If I could kill him with my bare eyes, I would. God, I hate you.

He laughed, his chest and shoulders shaking as his head tilted toward the sky, before he returned his unapologetic gaze to my furious eyes. “Then we have our work cut out for us, don’t we, Miss Turner?” He stood and strolled casually toward the door of the master suite and then stopped right before twisting the handle. “I’ll see you downstairs to discuss the real terms of our new deal. And so we are clear,” he narrowed those stunning, pale gray eyes, “sex, even your scandalous version—as tempting as it may be—won’t be part of it. I know how disappointing that must be, but I’m sure you’ll get over it.” He flashed a wicked, cocky grin and left.

I growled out a breath toward the closed door. Sonofabitch. As if not sleeping with him was some great loss. And how the hell could I help what I dreamed? Clearly my brain was letting off steam, my dream a metaphor for how I felt ruinously cornered by the situation.

I sighed, knowing that feeling sorry for myself wasn’t going to solve a thing.

Just stay focused, Mia. Keep your eyes on the prize. Getting my brother back was all that mattered, and my new ruthless outlook on life—compliments of living in King’s world for a few months—would help me do that.

Don’t forget who you’re dealing with: the goddamned devil. A devil who knew how to push every single one of my buttons, and had.

But you’re not that same girl anymore.

No. I wasn’t.

And this time, I was playing for my own prize.


I showered quickly and threw on a pair of jeans and a plain tee. The weather outside was tepid with a slight mugginess to it (I supposed typical for late fall in Crete), but with my curly blonde hair in desperate need of a trim, I was in permanent anti-frizz ponytail mode. At least I’d been getting a little sleep, despite the nightmares, and my blue eyes were finally rid of their bloodshot edges.