Page 5 of The Kingpin’s Omega Lover (River City Omegas #2)

THREE

True to his word, King stepped into his building’s elevator at precisely five-fifty-four, according to his cell phone, proud of himself for being home an hour before dinner’s scheduled time.

He’d have been running a good minute sooner, but someone else was using the private elevator that serviced the top four floors.

And even though the regular/guest elevators automatically stopped at the eighteenth floor to deposit passengers before ascending to the penthouse floors with the use of a key, it was a precaution King could not shake.

He hated elevators in general, but they were a necessary evil to live on the top floors of a building that had been under construction when he purchased the penthouse: two levels of solid steel, marble, bullet-proof windows, and an upper terrace with the best view in the entire city.

Once he’d purchased it, he’d even had input with the builder on specific security measures he required.

It had been his sanctuary for the last twelve years, and so far, it had kept Kensley and Malori safe.

Once the private elevator returned to the ground, King inserted his key and turned it.

The doors slid closed and he rose smoothly.

The two private floors below him were also considered penthouses, because they were large, spacious, and took up the entire level, but they did not have rooftop access. Not like King’s penthouse.

The nauseating elevator ride finally stopped, doors sliding open to a wide, well-lit foyer.

Even though you needed a key for the elevator, or a buzz-in from the actual penthouse via the guest elevator, King had requested the foyer be built so no one, not even himself, stepped directly inside his sanctuary.

Some might call it paranoia; King called it self-preservation.

Instead of the expected food smells, the only thing that greeted King when he entered the spacious first-level living room was the muffled sounds of two people arguing.

Even though Kensley and Bishop had nested in the upper south wing and both levels of the penthouse had full kitchens, Kensley preferred cooking family meals in the lower kitchen.

It was larger, had a double-range, and (according to Kensley) a better view of the city.

After spending the last fourteen years eating and preparing bland, basic meals, day after day, Kensley loved planning elaborate menus.

The sterile smell of cleaning supplies instead of spices worried King enough to pick up his pace across the long living room, down a short corridor to the large kitchen.

An assortment of ingredients covered the granite countertop, along with two cutting boards, and various other implements.

Bishop stood near the double-door refrigerator, both hands resting on Kensley’s shoulders.

Kensley’s own arms were wrapped around his swollen belly.

The sight of the in-love pair sent dual pangs of jealousy and worry right through King’s heart.

He was intensely jealous of Bishop and Kensley for finding each other during such a dramatic time in their lives.

Not only had they fallen quickly in love, but they’d discovered they were also fated charum—a primal connection between two beloved souls, stitched together in heaven and torn apart on earth, each destined to wander restlessly until reunited with their charus.

The idea was a little melodramatic to King, but he could not deny their love for each other.

Or that their soul-deep connection had triggered Kensley’s fertility period, which resulted in a very unexpected pregnancy.

King was jealous of everything they had, but he did not resent their happiness for a moment.

King’s worry was for Kensley’s advanced pregnancy. Yes, King had known since Kensley had presented as omega at fourteen years old that this was a possibility, but to see his younger brother’s belly growing with child…to know King would soon be an uncle…terrifying.

And beautiful.

The pair looked his way when King entered, his shoes squeaking on the tile floor. Kensley’s face was pinched but he wasn’t crying, thank fuck. Bishop seemed mildly irritated, instead of openly panicked, which helped soothe King’s own frazzled nerves. “What’s wrong?” King asked. “Kens?”

“I’m fine.” Kensley straightened his spine, and his arms dropped to his sides. “Venting to my charus.”

No emergency. Good. His instant alert dropped to regular levels, and King’s stomach growled.

He hadn’t eaten lunch, and since dinner didn’t appear to be in progress, he crossed to the counter’s large fruit bowl and grabbed an apple.

Kensley scowled at him but didn’t object to the snack.

“Did Bishop kiss it and make it better?”

Bishop quirked an eyebrow at him.

Kensley sighed. “No, it’s not me. It’s Malori.”

King’s skin prickled, and he squeezed the apple, fingernails piercing its flesh in several spots. “What? What’s wrong with Malori?” He gazed around the kitchen, as if the object of his affection was hiding in a darkened corner, waiting to be noticed. “Where is he?”

“I’m not sure. His therapy session ended about ten minutes ago, and he was really upset after.

I tried talking to him, but he just…needed space.

” The misery in Kensley’s voice and etched into the lines on his face hurt King’s heart.

But Kensley had Bishop to lean on for support.

Malori was somewhere in the vast penthouse, alone.

Protective anger heated his chest. “What did the therapist do?” The sessions were all tele-calls, so the woman King hired couldn’t have physically hurt Malori. But words were often sharper than blades.

“I don’t think she did anything.” Kensley turned so he could lean his back against Bishop’s chest for support.

Bishop wrapped his arms around Kensley’s waist, both hands splayed protectively over Kensley’s belly.

It was nauseatingly cute. “Mal’s been really angry these last few days. Angrier than usual.”

“And he hasn’t told you why?”

“Not specifically, no, but…” Kensley gnawed on his lower lip. “Based on some of the stuff we’ve talked about, I have a good guess.”

King grunted and loosened his grip on the apple before it exploded in his palm.

Knowing where Malori had spent the last three years of his life didn’t narrow down those guesses at all.

At least, not for King. The therapy session could have triggered any of a thousand terrible, painful experiences at the hands of sadists like Norris Landau, whose body should be in multiple locations around a different state by now.

“All you can do is be his friend,” Bishop said in a soft tone he reserved for Kensley. “He’ll talk when he’s ready.”

“I guess.” Kensley pouted a moment longer then straightened. “I need to get dinner going. Help me?”

Since Kensley was asking Bishop and not him, King bowed out of his kitchen with the apple and went in search of his other houseguest. King’s personal quarters were on this level, and he kept them locked when he wasn’t home, so no sense in looking there.

Malori was staying in a guest room on the north side, with its own bathroom and small balcony. King knocked but got no answer.

He’d given Malori a cell phone with a tracker app, but since Malori almost never left the penthouse, it was useless in narrowing down his location.

When King was upset, his favorite place to sit was on the rooftop terrace.

It was long, narrow, had a garden at one end, a greenhouse on the other, and was accessible from two entrances—one from Kensley and Bishop’s suite, and the other from the second level’s living room balcony.

Hot summer air slapped King in the face when he went outside.

It could get windy up here in the winter, but today the air was still, heavy and oppressive, even with the sun hugging the horizon.

He ignored the orange ball in the dimming sky and walked toward the terrace garden, full of small flowering trees, boxwoods, and potted plants that King had once paid someone else to landscape for him.

But over the last six months, new potted flowers had been added, requested by Malori, since he spent a lot of his free time out here.

King could empathize with Malori’s desire to be outdoors as much as possible, after having spent three years a prisoner, only able to feel the sun from his barred window during a small portion of daylight hours.

King had spent chunks of his fuzzy childhood locked away, as well, denied the freedom to enjoy the outdoors.

He knew what it was like to live inside of a box.

A seating area existed beneath an arbor of twisted vines and green shady leaves.

Malori was curled up on one of the chairs, thin arms wrapped around his drawn-up knees, head resting on the back of the chair.

He was angled toward King’s approach, but King still purposely scraped his shoes on the cement walkway, in case Malori didn’t see him.

“Malori?”

“Is it dinnertime?” Malori asked in that aching, hollow tone that plagued him when the past clung hard. On the rare occasion Malori had laughed in King’s presence, King had wanted to weep for its beauty. These soft, mournful moments made King want to weep for other reasons.

“Not for at least an hour.” King sat on the edge of the wooden chair opposite Malori.

He instantly hated the way his body longed to touch the damaged younger man, who avoided direct contact with everyone, even Kensley.

King’s attraction was inappropriate and rude. “Do I need to fire your therapist?”

Malori raised his head, his wide, round eyes narrowing. “Why would you do that?”

“Kens said you were upset after your session.”