Page 6 of Marrying His Son’s Ex (Forbidden Kings #3)

KASI

The door locks with a click as Alaric leaves, and I count every second that passes after his footsteps fade down the hallway.

Twenty-seven minutes. That’s how long I wait, pressed against the wall beside the door, listening for any sound that might indicate someone’s coming back.

When I’m certain I’m alone, I spring into action.

The room is larger than I initially thought. It’s a guest suite designed for long-term stays. Mahogany furniture, silk curtains, a marble bathroom. Even the carpet feels expensive beneath my bare feet.

But it’s still a prison.

I search methodically, the way my father taught me when I was twelve and he was convinced his enemies might raid our house. “Always know your exits, Kasi,” he said, showing me how to check window locks, how to identify structural weak points. “And always have a plan.”

Back then, I thought he was being paranoid. Now I’m grateful for every survival lesson he drilled into my head, even though he’s the reason I’m in a situation where I have to use it.

The closet yields exactly what I expected. There are shoes and clothes in my size, from jeans to dresses to workout gear. All with tags still attached, like they’ve been waiting for me.

The thought makes my skin crawl. They planned to keep me here long enough to need a wardrobe.

I grab the darkest outfit I can find—black jeans, black hoodie, black sneakers, and a pretty sundress just because.

Everything fits perfectly, which somehow makes this whole situation more terrifying. At the bottom of the closet, I find a small black backpack that’s exactly the right size for essentials.

The mini-fridge in the corner is stocked like they’re preparing for a siege—water bottles, protein bars, fresh fruit, energy drinks. I take five bottles of water and as many snacks as I can fit, leaving room for the few clothes I’m packing.

My fingers find the chain around my neck, and relief floods through me. They didn’t take my mother’s necklace.

The delicate silver chain features a small diamond pendant, one of the few things I have left of her. It’s worth enough to keep me fed for weeks if I can find someone to buy it.

The window is my biggest challenge.

I’m on the second floor, overlooking the estate grounds that stretch for what looks like miles. But there’s an old oak tree about six feet from the window, its branches thick enough to support my weight.

I’ve climbed bigger trees.

I change quickly, stuffing my pajamas into the backpack along with underwear and socks that still have tags on them. The window slides open silently—either they’re confident in their security, or they want to give prisoners the illusion that escape is possible.

I prefer to think it’s arrogance.

The night air hits my face as I climb onto the windowsill, and I freeze for a moment. It’s a long way down. But then I hear voices in the hallway outside my room, and fear overrides everything else.

“I’m invincible,” I whisper to myself, the way I used to when my father made me practice these drills. “I’m invincible.”

I leap.

My hands catch the nearest branch, bark scraping against my palms as I swing myself toward the trunk. The tree holds, and I scramble down as quietly as possible, trying not to think about what happens if someone looks out a window right now.

“I’m invincible, I’m invincible.”

My feet hit the ground, and pain spikes up under my feet, despite the shoes I’m wearing. I swallow the ache and crouch behind the massive trunk, listening.

No shouts, no alarms, no sounds of pursuit. Just the distant hum of highway traffic and the soft rustle of leaves overhead.

I’m about to make a run for the perimeter when I hear footsteps on gravel. I press myself flat against the tree and hold my breath.

The footsteps pass within feet of where I’m hiding.

When they fade, I count to thirty, then look at the sleek silver watch I found in the nightstand drawer—11:47 PM. Perfect. Late enough that most of the household staff will be asleep, but not so late that security will be on high alert.

I sprint toward the service road that leads to the main gate, keeping low as I pass the illuminated fountain in the center of the circular drive.

The estate is massive—I can see at least three separate wings of the main house, all connected by covered walkways.

Security lights dot the perfectly manicured grounds every fifty feet, creating pools of brightness I have to avoid.

To my left, I can make out what looks like a guest house. To my right, a garage that could easily hold twenty cars. Everything is pristine, expensive, designed to impress and intimidate in equal measure.

A delivery truck is pulling out of the service entrance, moving slowly enough that I can catch up. Without thinking, I dive into the back, landing hard among empty crates and the smell of cleaning supplies.

The truck picks up speed, and I allow myself one second of triumph.

I did it. I actually did it.

I didn’t think I’d make it this far and this long. Four more days of running, on top of the months I’d already spent hiding from Dante’s men, and I’m starting to understand the true cost of freedom.

Like how your body adapts to sleeping in bus station chairs and cheap motel beds with scratchy sheets, how protein bars taste like cardboard after the second day, but you eat them anyway because they’re fuel.

How paranoid you become when every dark sedan might be hunting you, when every stranger’s lingering glance could mean discovery.

I thought I’d learned everything about survival during those first desperate weeks after escaping Dante. But being hunted by his father is different.

I pawn my mother’s necklace in a small city in Ohio, trying not to cry when the pawnbroker gives me seven hundred dollars for something worth ten times that. But it’s enough to buy bus tickets, cheap motels, and enough food to keep me moving.

I travel only during the day, mixing with commuter crowds and tourists. I stay in different motels each night, and always use fake names while I keep traveling west.

By the fourth day, I’m exhausted. Bone-deep, soul-crushing tired in a way that makes every step feel like I’m walking through quicksand. When the bus stops in a tiny town called Millfield, I see a diner across from the station and make an impulsive decision.

I’ll give myself twenty minutes to eat something that isn’t a protein bar, then get back on the road.

The diner is straight out of the 1950s with red vinyl booths, a black-and-white checkered floor, and a jukebox in the corner. Everyone knows everyone in this kind of place, except for the traveler passing through.

I slide into a corner booth where I can see both the entrance and the back exit, order coffee and the first real meal I’ve had in two days. The waitress is friendly and not curious, which is exactly what I need.

I don’t wait for too long before the food arrives—meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and green beans. It all tastes like food cooked by a person who put love into the act.

I’m halfway through my second cup of coffee when the front door bangs open.

Three men in leather jackets swagger in, and my blood turns to ice.

They’re young, cocky, with the kind of aura that means trouble. But they’re not wearing expensive suits, and they don’t move with the controlled precision of Moretti soldiers.

“Hey, old man,” one of them calls to the owner behind the counter. “We’re gonna need you to empty that register.”

The diner goes silent. The few other customers—an elderly couple, an older man, a woman with two young kids—all freeze.

My heart is hammering, but not from fear of these amateurs. I’m terrified because I thought they were here for me. For one horrible beat, I thought Alaric had found me.

“I’m calling the police,” the owner says, reaching for the phone.

“I don’t think so.” The leader pulls out a knife, not even a gun. “Just give us the money and nobody gets hurt.”

The owner, who’s probably in his sixties, looks around his diner at the frightened customers and, with a sigh, opens the register. “Take it and get out,” he says quietly.

They grab the cash and walk back toward the door, laughing like this is all a big joke. The woman with the kids is crying quietly, and the elderly man has his arm around his wife.

When the door swings shut behind them, everyone starts breathing again.

“Everyone okay?” the owner asks, and there’s a chorus of shaky acknowledgments.

He looks directly at me, likely noticing that I’m new in town.

“I’m real sorry about that, miss. Don’t let those boys scare you too much.

The thieves in these parts are different from those in the big cities.

They’re not looking to hurt anybody, just need some quick cash.

Long as you’re honest about what you got, they’ll leave you be. ”

A few of the other customers chuckle softly, like this is just another Tuesday in Millfield. The elderly woman pats her husband’s hand. The older man goes back to his coffee like nothing happened.

All I can think about is finishing my food and getting the fuck out of here. The last thing I need is to draw more attention to myself, especially after that moment of panic when I thought those men were Moretti soldiers.

I force myself to take another bite of meatloaf, trying to look normal while my heart is still racing.

Just a few more minutes, then I can disappear back into the crowd of anonymous travelers moving through small-town America.

I finish eating, my hands shaking as I reach for my wallet, and I keep glancing at the door.

That’s when I see him make an entrance.

Alaric.