Page 73 of King of Pain (Damaged Hearts #1)

King of Pain

Anthony

I’m finishing the last couple entries on the client summary when I hear the familiarclackof heels in the hall outside my office.

Meg breezes in a second later, dropping her leather tote onto the chair across from my desk. “I’m out,” she says, pulling her phone from her pocket and grabbing for her lip gloss. “Heading to the airport now.”

I glance up from my screen and say, “I’m right behind you. Just wrapping up the summary of our clients’ contract renewal dates. I’ll email it over before I head out.”

Meg uses the camera on her phone as a mirror, swiping the gloss across her lips like it’s a race. “Excellent. Thank you.” She presses her lips together, examining her reflection, then says, “Actually, can you just text me the file instead of emailing it?”

I blink at her, surprised. “Uh… sure. I think the file’s small enough.”

“Perfect,” she says, stashing the gloss back in her bag and slinging it over her shoulder. “I’ll review it on the plane. I’m off to Atlanta for a few days, but I’ll be back in time for Chance’s big night. I bet he’s getting excited.”

I smile as I lean back in my chair. “I think he is. He was out of town for a couple days himself. Just texted me an hour ago that he got back to the condo.”

Meg gives me a knowing grin. “Well then, what are you still doing here? Go home. Welcome home sex is almost as good as makeup sex.”

I let out a sharp laugh. “Ha! I may have to test your theory. You know. For science.”

She raises her eyebrows as she heads for the door. “We’re an HR nightmare.”

“Go catch your booty flight,” I say, wagging my brows at her.

She snickers. “I’ll see you Saturday.”

The second the door clicks shut behind her, I lean back in my chair and blow out a breath.

I think about how damn lucky I am to have her as a mentor—tough, smart, direct as hell.

She’s taught me everything I know and never once made me feel like I had to claw my way through some hazing ritual to prove myself.

I’ve heard the horror stories—agents who eat their young, gatekeep for sport.

Meg’s not like that. We work well together. Really well.

Which is why her request earlier has me scratching my head.

Meg always plays her cards open when it comes to internal agency stuff. This thing with the summary? The request to text it? It’s a bit left field. She knows I’d never question her process—not openly, anyway—but I can’t shake the feeling something else is going on.

Still, that’s a worry for later. Right now? There’s a man at home with a body sculpted by angels and a mouth that makes me see the heavens.

I airdrop the file to my phone, attach it to a text, and send it off to Meg with a follow-up message:

Me: Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.

I shut my laptop, tuck it into my bag, and head out the door with one thought in mind:

Get home to Chance.

As I step into the elevator, I shoot him a quick text:

Me: On my way. Get naked.

I smirk, watching the screen for a second, waiting for the telltale little gray bubbles.

Nothing.

Then the read receipt.

Still no bubbles. No snark.

No “yes sir” or eggplant emoji.

Not even a GIF.

Huh.

But I don’t think too much of it—his silence might just mean he's doing exactly what I told him to. Using the five-minute countdown to get naked and treat me to my favorite view: him, spread out and ready for me.

I smile to myself as the elevator dings and the doors slide open.

The walk to the condo is quick. I unlock the door and step inside.

Guinness comes padding over, tail wagging like mad, nails tapping against the hardwood. I crouch down and scratch behind his ears, murmuring a soft, “Hey, little man.”

But as I’m knelt there, I spot Chance.

Sitting on the couch. Still. Silent. Facing the TV.

The TV isn’t even on.

My heart stutters. Something’s off.

I stand, letting my bag drop onto one of the bar stools and slowly walk toward him.

“Hey,” I say quietly, stepping up behind the couch.

He doesn’t move.

No glance. No reaction. Not even a muscle twitch. Just… staring.

Okay, this is weird.

I lean over, gently sliding my hands down his chest, tucking my face into the curve of his neck, breathing him in. The familiarity of his scent—cologne, sweat, and something uniquely him —grounds me.

Softly, I whisper, “Fuck, I missed you,” and press a long, lingering kiss to his neck.

He finally turns his head, blinking like he’s coming out of a fog. “Oh. Hey.”

He leans in and kisses me, gentle. Sweet. But something’s still off—like he’s present physically, but not all the way in it.

“You okay?” I murmur; my palm still pressed to his chest.

Chance shifts, gets up on his knees on the couch, now facing me fully. “Yeah,” he says, tone firmer this time. “I am now.”

He grabs a fistful of my shirt and yanks me down into a kiss that’s the exact opposite of the one before—this one is filthy, greedy, full of tongue and teeth and want. He breaks it just long enough to pant, “Much better now.”

I barely have a chance to smirk before he starts unbuttoning my shirt like a man possessed.

“I fucking love you in a white dress shirt,” he growls, eyes trailing down my chest like he’s starving. “The way it accents that tan Italian skin…”

His fingers tug the fabric free from where it’s tucked into my slacks, undoing the last button with a flourish.

“But,” he continues, sliding the shirt down my arms and letting it drop to the floor, “I like it a hell of a lot better when it’s crumpled in a corner after I’ve had my way with you.”

I raise a brow. “In a rush, are we?”

He nods, eyes hooded and dark. “Desperate,” he breathes, and then presses his mouth to mine in another scorching kiss.

“Going through withdrawals,” he mutters as he unzips my pants and hooks his fingers in both my slacks and boxer briefs, dragging them down in one motion past the bottom of my ass.

He kisses me again.

Once. Twice. A third time—each kiss punctuated by a word.

“I.”

kiss

“Need.”

kiss

“Your.”

kiss

“Cock.”

He licks his lips, eyes flicking up to meet mine.

“Fucking now.”

Then he dives onto my dick, swiftly taking it to the back of his throat.

I thread my fingers into that sexy fucking head of hair and throw my head back in ecstasy.

“Three times?” Chance groans, voice still wrecked as he towels off, water dripping from his hair and that sculpted chest. He shoots me a glare that has no heat. “You know I have to walk tomorrow, right?”

I shrug, towel slung low on my hips. “You’ll live.”

He snickers, rolls his eyes, and steps into the bedroom. I follow behind, just in time to land a sharp smack on his ass. He yelps, then grins as he heads to the dresser and yanks open the drawer.

“I'm taking Little G out,” he says, tugging on a pair of sweats and a threadbare Goonies T-shirt that struggles against his chest and biceps.

I smile as I tug on a pair of shorts. “Sounds good. I’ll start dinner.”

Chance nods, ruffles his damp hair, and heads out to leash up Guinness. I hear the soft murmur of his voice in the living room as he talks to our little guy like he’s a person, then the gentle click of the door shutting behind them.

I walk to the nightstand to grab my phone off the charger.

I start scrolling my notifications and my thumb halts when I see a CNN notification on the screen.

“Three Dead in Detroit Area Catholic…”

I freeze. My stomach twists as I unlock the phone, press into the notification, and open the article. My heart races as I read the sub-headline:

“Three Catholic priests, currently under investigation for sexual misconduct with minors, all perished overnight in a fire that consumed Foster Hall.”

My knees buckle and I sit down at the edge of the bed. My heart thuds violently behind my ribs as I keep reading.

“Fathers Tommy Klass, Francis Bergin, and Dean Colvecchio, of the St. Clair Parish, were all inside Foster Hall at the time and perished in the fire.”

My head swims.

“Unconfirmed reports from an anonymous source within St. Clair Police Department cite an email from Father Tommy Klass' account to the Detroit Diocese, alluding to suicidal intent.”

My hands shake. My skin buzzes with something—fear, disbelief… but under it all, something darker.

Relief.

I keep scanning, my eyes catching on a line that sends a chill up my spine:

“…all three of the deceased had a rosary affixed around their neck, melted in place from the fire. Strangulation has not been ruled out.”

I lower the phone into my lap. My palms are clammy. My throat is dry. I stare straight ahead, but I’m not seeing the room.

I’m seeing him. Father Tommy. Black hat, whiskey breath, threats whispered with a smile.

Gone.

I blow out a breath, hands trembling, and then a thought slips into my mind. I open my browser, type in a quick search, and find the confirmation I need from a reputable legal source. The moment I see it spelled out clearly, I shoot up to my feet just as the door opens.

Chance steps in, Little G trotting beside him, tail wagging. Chance is crouched down unclipping his leash when I blurt out—

“Marry me!”

Chance’s head shoots up and he stares at me, wide-eyed.

“Wow,” he says, rising slowly to his feet. “Quite the romantic build-up there, Pacini. I'm completely swept off my feet.”

I stalk toward him, grab the front of hist-shirt in both fists, and pull him close.

“Marry me, you big, gorgeous idiot.”

Chance laughs, but his brows knit. “What is this? What’s going on with you?”

I release his shirt, take a step back, and lift my phone. “Spousal. Testimonial. Privilege.”

He blinks. Once. Twice. Gulp.

I scroll and read aloud, “The spouse of a criminal defendant who is called as a witness by the prosecution may choose to but cannot be compelled to testify against his or her spouse about events that occurred—” I emphasize the next words, “— before and during the marriage.”

I look up. He’s still staring at me.

“I’ll confirm it with Jen, but that’s direct from Stanford Law.”

He shifts again. “Ant, why are you—”

“I know what you did for me,” I say, stepping closer, cutting him off. I slide my hand behind his head, pressing our foreheads together. “I know what it cost you.”

He stays quiet. But his eyes—God, his eyes say everything.

“The things you do for the people you love… it rocks me to the core, Chance.” I cup his face in my hands. “So now, it’s my turn to protect you.”

He still doesn’t say a word.

Instead, he leans in and kisses me. Soft. Meaningful. His hands on my hips, mine still holding his face. I don’t want to let go.

When he finally pulls back, he stares at me for a beat and says, very calmly, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Then he turns and heads toward the bedroom.

“I love you,” I call after him.

He pauses in the doorway, glances over his shoulder. “I love you too.”

Then a pause.

“And… Ant?”

“Yeah?”

A half smile pulls at his mouth. “Getting hitched won’t be necessary—but I’d marry you any day of the week, Beautiful.”

A couple hours later, the scent of garlic, herbs, and roasted tomatoes fills the air as I finish making dinner. I’m tossing the pasta in the pan one last time when I hear the stool creak behind me.

Chance is seated at the island, chin in hand, that slow, lazy smile spreading across his face as he watches me like I’m his own private FoodTV show. I grab one of the stuffed mushrooms I made for an appetizer off the tray, still warm, and press it gently to his lips.

“Open,” I say.

He raises a brow and takes the whole thing in one bite. His eyes flutter closed. A low, borderline pornographic moan vibrates from his chest.

“Oh my God,” he groans. “What even is that?”

“Just a little something to tide you over.” I smirk, handing him the bottle of Cabernet I uncorked earlier to breathe. “Make yourself useful. Pour us a glass. Then go sit at the table, I’ll bring the pasta out.”

He laughs and slides off the stool, bottle in hand, while I carry the salad to the dining table. By the time I return with the big serving bowl of spaghetti, he’s filled both glasses and is already seated kitty-corner from my spot.

I set the bowl down between us, grab the tongs, and serve us each a generous helping.

Then I raise my glass.

He meets my eyes, lifts his.

“To freedom,” I say quietly.

His jaw tightens slightly, but he holds my gaze as our glasses clink.

We both take a sip, then Chance sets his glass down and digs into the salad first, giving a soft hum in appreciation. And I just… watch.

This man.

This man has risked everything for the two people he's loved most.

Ma.

And me.

Not only has he risked it all—he’s taken on all that pain.

Chance Sullivan takes everyone’s pain—plus the pain he inflicts on himself from his actions—and absorbs it like some kind of sin-eater.

The first time we made love, when he told me to fuck all my pain into him, I know he meant it.

If it was physically possible, he would take every drop of it from my body.

It’s honestly baffling how he’s able to be so loving and tender when he’s carrying all that pain in his heart. Somehow, he lords over it—like a King of Pain. Cages it in the depths of his soul and throws away the keys to the kingdom.

If it’s the last thing I do, I will make sure he gets what he needs to heal. I will make sure he never has to do it again.

He twirls a bite of pasta onto his fork and takes a mouthful. The moment it hits his tongue; his eyebrows go up and he leans back in his chair in surprise.

“Damn. This is not your regular spaghetti, is it?”

I fight the grin tugging at my lips. “Nope.”

He chews, thoughtfully. “It’s got some kick. And an almost… what is that? Charred flavor?”

I nod. “Spot on. Those are the primary flavor profiles of the dish.”

“It’s delicious, babe. What’s it called?” He takes another big bite.

I lift my wine glass to my lips, take a sip, then meet his eyes dead on.

“Assassin’s Pasta.”

Chance chokes loudly.

He starts coughing and sputtering, eyes wide as he reaches for his wine.

I pat him a few times on the back and smirk.

“Eat up.”