Page 2 of Marrying His Son’s Ex (Forbidden Kings #3)

KASI

Three Months Later

“You’re not eating enough, Kasi.”

Mrs. Rosetti corners me by the cash register as I’m wiping down the counter, her weathered hands planted on her hips in that universal mother pose. At sixty-five, she’s built like a brick house and twice as stubborn.

“I eat plenty,” I lie, avoiding her sharp brown eyes.

“Plenty of what? Air?” She clicks her tongue disapprovingly. “You were skin and bones when you showed up here three months ago, and you’re still skin and bones. A strong wind could blow you away.”

“I’m fine, Mrs. Rosetti.”

“Fine, she says.” She throws her hands up dramatically. “You know what fine stands for? Fucked up, insecure, neurotic, and emotional. My late husband used to say that.”

I can’t help but smile. “Your husband sounds like he was a wise man.”

“Wise enough to marry me.” She softens, reaching over to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear like I’m one of her own daughters. “Whatever you’re running from, cara mia, it can’t follow you here.”

Rosehill is the kind of town where nothing ever happens. Population five thousand, one main street, and enough distance from my old life that I can almost pretend Kasimira Vale never existed.

Here, I’m just Kasi. Kasi who works the morning shift at the bakery, who lives in the studio apartment above the hardware store, who pays rent in cash and keeps to herself. Nobody asks questions about why a twenty-two-year-old woman has no credit history, no social media, no past worth mentioning.

I turn down Sycamore Road, past the white picket fences and perfectly manicured lawns. Children play in their yards while their mothers water gardens, and everything is so beautifully normal it almost hurts to look at.

This is what I bought with one night in a stranger’s arms.

The money had been more than I’d ever dreamed of—five thousand dollars from the man whose face I never saw but whose touch I still feel in my dreams.

Every night, I trace the phantom paths his hands took across my skin, remembering how he held me like I was something precious instead of something to be used.

And sometimes, when the loneliness gets too sharp, I let myself fall into the memory completely. I close my eyes, press my hand between my legs, and imagine the way his mouth tasted me—slow, thorough, like worship—his tongue dragging against my clit until I broke apart in his arms.

I come thinking of a stranger whose face I never saw. A man I crave even as I fear what it means to need someone again.

I used that money to run as far as I could. Straight to the airport with my ticket to Seattle clutched in shaking hands, freedom just a boarding gate away.

I was standing in the security line, finally allowing myself to believe I might actually escape, when I saw him.

Viktor Kozlov. Dante’s right-hand man, his personal enforcer, the man who did all the dirty work Dante was too pristine to handle himself.

He was dressed like any other traveler—jeans, baseball cap, backpack slung over his shoulder—but I’d recognize that hulking frame and those dead shark eyes anywhere.

He was scanning the crowd methodically, and when his gaze swept toward the security checkpoint, I ducked behind a family with screaming toddlers.

My heart hammered against my ribs. How had they found me so fast? I’d been so careful, paid for everything in cash, told no one where I was going.

Viktor’s head turned, and for one terrifying second, our eyes met across the terminal.

Recognition flashed across his face.

I ran.

Abandoning my place in line, I sprinted toward the departure gates, weaving between travelers and luggage carts. Behind me, I heard Viktor shouting into his phone, calling for backup.

“Gate forty-seven!” I heard him yell. “She’s heading for gate forty-seven!”

I changed direction, diving into a crowd heading toward the international terminal instead. My lungs burned as I pushed through the mass of bodies, using every trick I’d learned from two years of trying to escape Dante’s parties unnoticed.

The boarding announcement for my Seattle flight echoed overhead just as I spotted the gate. Viktor was there, along with two other men I didn’t recognize, all of them watching the passengers line up.

They thought they had me trapped.

I waited until the final boarding call, then sprinted from my hiding spot behind a coffee kiosk. The gate agent was reaching for her radio when I shoved my boarding pass at her.

“Please, I’m going to miss my flight!”

She hesitated, probably seeing the panic in my eyes, then waved me through.

I didn’t look back as I ran down the bridge, but I could hear Viktor cursing behind me, too late to follow without a ticket.

Thirty thousand feet up, watching the city disappear below, I knew this was just the beginning. They’d be waiting in Seattle. They’d have people at every hotel, every car rental, every place someone like me might try to hide.

So I’d gotten off the plane and walked straight to the train station instead.

Bought a ticket to Portland with cash, then another to Sacramento, then another to this tiny mountain town that barely existed on most maps.

Three different trains, three different identities scratched on napkins and thrown away, until even I wasn’t sure who I was anymore.

No phone. No credit cards. No digital footprint for them to follow.

I imagine Dante’s rage when his men reported back empty-handed. I picture my father’s panic when he realized his precious asset had slipped through their fingers. The thought brings a smile to my lips as I climb the narrow stairs to my apartment.

The space is barely big enough for a bed and a kitchenette, but it’s mine. I chose the furniture—secondhand from the local thrift store. I picked the curtains—pale yellow like sunshine. I decided where to hang the single piece of art on the wall—a photograph of wildflowers.

I’m taking out the trash when I spot the newspaper someone left by my door. The Rosehill Gazette, with its cheerful local news and community announcements.

I almost throw it away without looking. Then a headline on the front page catches my eye.

Prominent Businessman Dies in Private Jet Crash

My hands freeze on the paper. Below the headline is a photo that makes my blood stop flowing entirely.

Dante Moretti. Smiling that charming smile that fooled me for an entire year. The same green eyes that turned cold when no one else was watching. The same face that haunted my nightmares for months.

Dead.

I sink onto my bed, legs suddenly too weak to support me, and read the article with shaking hands.

Three weeks after a tragic aviation accident, funeral services announced for the missing heir.

Dante Moretti, 23, heir to the Moretti business empire, is presumed dead following a private jet crash that occurred three weeks ago near Las Vegas, Nevada.

The aircraft, a Gulfstream G650, experienced catastrophic mechanical failure shortly after takeoff from Henderson Executive Airport on the evening of March 15th.

No survivors were found at the crash site.

The aircraft was completely destroyed on impact, with debris scattered across a two-mile radius in the Nevada desert.

All four passengers aboard are presumed dead: Moretti; his associate Viktor Kozlov, 35; pilot Captain James Connor, 42; and flight attendant Sarah Gerald, 29.

Despite extensive search and rescue operations conducted by federal authorities, no remains have been recovered due to the severity of the crash and the subsequent fire that consumed the wreckage.

The National Transportation Safety Board is conducting a full investigation into the cause of the mechanical failure.

“The Moretti family has suffered an unimaginable loss,” said family attorney David Roth. “After three weeks of hoping for a miracle, we must now accept that Dante and the others aboard that aircraft are gone.”

Memorial services for Dante Moretti will be held Thursday at 2 PM at St. Michael’s Cathedral in Oakmont…

I stop reading. Oakmont. Sixty miles from here.

After running three thousand miles to escape him, after taking trains and buses and walking for days to put distance between us, he’s going to be buried an hour away from the new life I’ve built.

Even in death, Dante Moretti is still finding ways to torment me.

But as the shock fades, something else takes its place. Something bright and fierce and overwhelming.

Relief.

He’s actually, truly, completely dead.

I laugh out loud in my empty apartment, then clap a hand over my mouth like someone might hear. But the laughter bubbles up anyway, mixed with tears.

For the first time in years, I’m completely, utterly free.

The newspaper crinkles as my hands shake. I read the article again, then again, making sure I’m not hallucinating. Making sure this isn’t some cruel trick.

I think about the last time I saw him—the way his breath ghosted against my neck as he whispered how good my pussy felt wrapped around him, how perfect I was made for him to fuck.

He liked it when I lay still and let him do whatever he wanted. When I let him push my legs apart and take me like I was some custom-built toy designed to fit him perfectly.

I thought that was love—to let him use me, to be grateful for every inch he forced inside me, for the praise-laced filth he whispered while emptying himself into me.

When he was done, he kissed my forehead and told me he had an emergency to attend to, that he’d be back in three days.

Now he’ll never find me. Never hurt me. Never touch me again.

The funeral is Thursday. Two days from now.

I want to watch them lower his coffin into the earth and know, absolutely know, that my nightmare is over.

I want to spit on his grave.

When night comes, I lie in my narrow bed and let myself remember the other man. The stranger who showed me what gentleness felt like, who touched me like I was worth something more than the sum of my usefulness.

My hand drifts beneath my nightgown, fingers brushing the sensitive skin of my belly before sliding lower, parting my thighs without hesitation. I’m already wet—embarrassingly so—just from thinking about the way he touched me that night. Like it was just last night and not three fucking months ago.

I bite my lip as my fingers find my clit, circling slowly, teasing myself the way I imagine he would if he were here. If his broad shoulders were pinning me to the mattress, his breath hot against my ear as he whispers how fucking sweet I taste.

My hips lift, chasing my own touch, my pulse pounding as I remember the way his mouth claimed me—slow at first, like worship, then harder, hungrier, like he was starving for me.

He licked me like it was his only purpose, like he wanted to memorize every twitch, every breathless moan. His tongue flicking, curling, sucking me deeper into oblivion until I was trembling for him, gasping his name even though I never knew it.

I moan softly, my fingers working faster now, chasing the memory of his mouth, the scrape of his stubble against my thighs, the thick, heavy weight of his cock pressing against me as he slid inside for the first time, filling me so perfectly my body wept for him.

God, the way he fucked me—slow, controlled, but deep. Like he was savoring every single inch, pulling out almost completely before driving back inside, forcing me to feel all of him, to take every inch of him until I broke.

My back arches as I circle my clit harder, my free hand sliding up my body, cupping my breast, pinching my nipple the way I remember him doing when he pushed me closer to the edge. His teeth had grazed my skin then, biting just enough to make me gasp and beg for more.

I’m panting now, chasing it, my thighs trembling as the orgasm builds like a storm rolling through me. My body’s already shaking before it hits—and when it does, I shatter, crying out into the empty room, my legs clenching around my hand as wave after wave crashes through me.

For a moment, I forget how to breathe.

When the tremors finally fade, I lie there, flushed, my skin damp with sweat. My heartbeat pounds in my ears as I stare at the ceiling, my body still tingling with aftershocks.

And in the thick silence, one truth settles deep inside me.

I want him again.

I want what only he gave me.

I lie in the dark and wonder about him. Who he was, what his life looked like, whether he ever thinks about that night the way I do.

And I hate myself for it.