Page 173 of Kings & Queen

I rolled my eyes, which I knew he hated with a passion. The irony was not lost on me that the hell I endured, elements of the lifestyle that kept me frozen in a place of perpetual fear, was something my brother and his friends practiced.

Practiced? Do you hear yourself, stupid? They don’t just practice it. They live it; it invades every aspect of their lives, and if you didn’t love them as much as you do, you’d be horrified.

I knew in my heart they were not like the men who had taken me and kept me for two years. I knew they didn’t subject women to cruelty. They would no more hurt another woman than they would me.

But the reality remained, and now—dear god—Spring was involved with them. I gulped, not even able to comprehend how that could happen. The sheer thought of it sickened me down to my core.

“Don’t do that with me, young lady.”

A scowl darkened his expression. I purposefully put my hands on my hips and gave him an exaggerated eye roll. What was he going to do about it? I picked up my phone and went to text him, but he grabbed it out of my hands.

“No. Enough, you can talk. Tell me what the fuck that was about?”

He was only being bossy because Mum and Dad weren’t around. Did I have them wrapped around my finger? Did I have them catering to my needs? Hell yes, I did. Did I feel guilty about it? Not in the least bit.

I did what I had to, to keep myself safe and sane. Feeling secure was the only thing that got me from point A to point B. Never mind that point A and point B rarely meant leaving the house or my comfort zones, but it worked.

“Bella, don’t be a child. For fuck’s sake, you’re twenty-three years old. You’re not a little girl. Grow the fuck up. If Alek, Nik, and Ivan want to sleep with the same girl, then that’s their business.”

Stupid, foolish man. He was clueless. He thought I cared about who the King brothers were sleeping with. I shook my head and snorted in laughter. I couldn’tcare less who or what they were doing. It wasn’t my business. If I wanted to, I would tell him so, but all I could think about was going home.

I sneered, loving how he thought taking my phone was going to make me talk. He could keep it. It only provided me with another excuse to keep quiet. I began pulling clothes out of the dresser and threw them in the suitcase. And just as quickly, he pulled them out.

“Don’t make me call Father, young lady.”

He grabbed my hands, but I yanked away from him, smacking him on the chest. He easily towered over me and grabbed my wrists shoving them behind my back.

Through clenched teeth, he seethed and said, “Stop.”

I fought every instinct in me to go slack in his hands, afraid if I did, he’d see right through to my secret hell. So I did what I never could back then. I bucked against his hold, twisting and writhing, becoming feral almost. He held firm.

“Let me go,” I yelled. Tears of frustration and fear stung my eyes.

But his grip only tightened, so I kicked and shoved my body into his, my movements frantic. Even though his strength overpowered mine, I kept struggling, desperate to escape.

“Stop fighting me, and I will,” he commanded.

“Never,” I hissed.

Something in my eyes must have gotten through to him, because he sighed and released his grip. Immediately, I brought my wrists to the front, rubbing them where his fingers had dug into my skin.

My breath came in ragged gasps as I struggled to regain my composure. Adrenaline still coursed through my veins, and my chest heaved as I tried to steady myself.

Taking his phone out, he said, “You’ve brought this on yourself.”

It was obvious who he was going to tattle to, and I relished it. Let him call our parents. I glared at him, defiance burning in my chest. I turned back to my suitcase and resumed packing with exaggerated, angry movements.

As I tossed the unfolded clothes into the bottom, I couldn’t resist sticking my tongue out at him, a gesture that felt oddly satisfying.

Childish? Absolutely. Did I care? Not at all.

Bash put his phone on speaker, and the ringing filled the room. I tried to ignore how hard my heart was pounding in my chest. Anger and anxiety churned in my stomach, and I froze, mid-toss, as my father’s voice crackled through the speaker.

“Son, is everything okay?”

There was nothing I loved more than the sound of my father’s voice. It was rich and refined, and his accent, even after all the years of living in London, was authentic to our heritage.

It was the one thing I dreamed about hearing the most while I was kept. My father used to read me stories each night, and whenever I heard his voice, it automatically transported me to a safe place.