Page 8 of The Kingpin’s Omega Lover (River City Omegas #2)
FOUR
Malori woke the next morning with a knot in his stomach that he didn’t like or understand.
He hoped it was simply indigestion from last night’s late supper of stuffed chicken breasts with a heavy cream sauce—delicious but overly rich for Malori’s still-adjusting gut—and nothing to do with his eight-thirty appointment with King.
His mysterious eight-thirty appointment with the much older, handsome, enigmatic man who had made Malori feel things since the moment they met.
Not exactly a meet-cute in anyone’s book, not with Malori freshly beaten, used and shot in the shoulder, huddled on the floor and expecting death at any moment. Not with King and Bishop coming to the rescue, guns metaphorically blazing, saving Malori and Kensley in the nick of time.
Kind-of the nick of time, since Kensley had shot Decker in the same moment Decker had shot Malori, and then Malori emptied the rest of the clip into Decker’s still, defenseless form.
With the distance of time and reflection, Malori had thought more about shooting a man while he was down and unconscious…
and Malori wished he’d had another clip to empty into the bastard. Maybe three more clips.
Decker had deserved a much longer, slower, more painful death than he’d received.
There had been nothing cute or romantic about the way Malori and King had met, and nothing cute or romantic in the days and weeks that followed.
King had simply been…present. Steady. Attentive and aware and protective in ways that no one had been since Malori was a young child.
When he’d had a family that loved him. When he’d been a small, shy kid who loved dinosaurs and coloring books, and eventually teasing cute girls on the playground.
Before he’d presented as omega, and his entire world became about survival.
Emotions and feelings hadn’t mattered for years, not until he met Hannah.
Not until he fell in love with Hannah and revealed his deepest secret to her.
Even four years later, Malori wasn’t positive Hannah had betrayed him, but he had no other explanation for being taken to the Farm.
And after his second child was stolen from him, Malori hadn’t thought he possessed any more feelings.
He thought the last of them had disappeared along with his son.
He’d been wrong.
Alexander “King” Kingston made Malori feel things. And he didn’t like it.
Malori took a quick shower and forewent shaving.
He often did, allowing a few weeks’ worth of thin stubble to cover his chin and cheeks before he bothered to shave it off.
He’d never grow a full beard or anything that resembled more than blond fluff on his face—he’d tried during cold winters living on the streets—but sometimes shaving was a pain in the ass.
Plus, the Farm had insisted he stay clean-shaven.
Malori loved having a choice in his own grooming again.
His wardrobe was limited to sweatpants, a few pairs of jeans, assorted t-shirts and a hoodie he treasured, because King had given it to Malori out of his own closet.
Malori didn’t mind the simple clothing selection; he almost never left the penthouse.
Clothing existed because it was rude to walk around naked, and he also found the penthouse chilly compared to the Farm.
Last night, King had told him to wear comfortable clothes he could get sweaty in, which had made Malori smile inwardly. His entire wardrobe was comfortable and, except for the jeans, fine for getting sweaty in. And Malori had a pretty good idea what they were going to be doing this morning.
The familiar scent of brewed coffee filled the first level kitchen, and a half-full pot rested on its warmer.
Malori loved the rich aroma of coffee, but he’d never acquired the taste for it, so he went to the refrigerator for a canned protein shake.
King kept vanilla shakes stocked for himself, and he seemed to have added a few extra flavors, now that Malori showed a preference for them in the morning.
Breakfast had been his least favorite meal of the day at the Farm, because it was a constant rotation of overcooked scrambled eggs and cold toast, or bland oatmeal with soggy fruit.
Kensley had tried to extol the virtues of leftovers and cold pizza for breakfast, but Malori just wanted nutrition to wake him up and jumpstart his day. The canned shakes were perfect.
He grabbed a strawberry, gave it a couple of gentle shakes before popping the tab over the sink, and drank it down in a few long gulps.
Quick and simple, and it did nothing to settle his uneasy stomach.
But he needed the sustenance. He was still regaining his strength after being systematically beaten down and destroyed by his captors.
If he was going to slit a few throats in the future, he needed to be stronger than he was now.
Malori typically avoided going anywhere near King’s bedroom (or even the hallway that led to his bedroom), which was easy, given the sheer size of the penthouse.
It was easy to avoid being around people, if Malori so chose, without much fuss, because there was always an empty wing to settle in with a book and lose himself.
His prison at the Farm had a television with limited selections, and stacks of both old magazines and miscellaneous books that were infrequently changed out, which limited his entertainment choices.
Malori had sorely missed the ability to choose a book off a packed shelf, to select which adventure he’d be sharing next.
King had purchased a tablet for Malori, as well as unlimited access to a digital library, but Malori still coveted physical books.
He wanted to visit a library himself again, instead of relying on King’s messengers to get books for him, but it wasn’t safe.
When would it be safe to walk in the world again?
Maybe never.
King was waiting in the hallway outside his closed bedroom door, back against the wall, eyes shut like someone patiently waiting for the next bus to come along.
He was rarely at rest like this, often on his phone or typing away at his laptop, preoccupied with his business dealings.
Dealings of which Malori was curious but would never ask.
People in King’s line of work said things like, “I’d tell you but then I’d have to kill you,” for a reason.
Malori stopped several feet from King’s position and cleared his throat, not wanting to startle the older man.
King smiled before opening his eyes and straightening, and the brilliance of that smile warmed Malori deep inside.
It had been a long time since anyone had smiled at him like that. “Good morning,” Malori said.
“Morning.” King took a single long stride toward Malori, hands loose by his sides. “Did you sleep all right?”
“No.” Embarrassed by his blunt response, Malori broke eye contact. He took in King’s form-fitting running shorts and t- shirt, which left little to the imagination, and he forced his gaze back up to King’s face. “So, where are we going?”
“Have I mentioned lately that I love how direct you are?”
“No.” Malori picked at the hem of his own shirt. “You like that I blurt out whatever’s on my mind?”
“Why does that surprise you?”
“I don’t know. I guess I assume someone with your kind of power would want people to lie a lot and kiss his ass.”
King released a short bark of laughter that reddened his cheeks and left his dark eyes brighter. “People do like to kiss my ass and tell me what they think I want to hear, which is exactly why I admire directness in my friends. I like that you’re real with me, Malori.”
“I don’t have the energy to be anything except real. So, what are we doing today to redirect my anger? Isn’t that your plan?”
“It is. Right this way.” King led him six feet down the corridor to a frosted-glass door that Malori had never seen open.
Not that he was ever down this hallway. King pushed the handle and the door swung inward.
An automatic light hummed to life, and Malori followed King inside some sort of fitness studio.
Malori knew nothing about martial arts, beyond a few old movies he’d watched on television that were dubbed in English, and only a little about boxing and yoga for the same reasons.
The studio had blue mats on the floor, a few punching bags in different places, some sort of half-person mannequin thing in one corner, and two wood benches.
The air was cool, everything smelled faintly of bleach and rubber, and there wasn’t a single window.
So far, it was the only room he’d seen without one. Even the bathrooms had at least one small window, a connection to the outdoors.
“We aren’t going to meditate or anything goofy like that, are we?” Malori asked.
King shook his head as he strode to the center of the mat-covered floor. “Nope. How much do you know about self-defense?”
Shame washed over him like ice water. “Not as much as I should. I can fight when I need to, but it’s all offensive fighting. Not defensive.”
“Okay.” King turned to face him again, shoulders relaxed, hands dangling by his thighs. But even beneath the calm instructor face he was wearing, Malori recognized the calculating predator who ran a criminal empire with an iron first—or so Kensley said.
For having such a rumored iron fist, King had always been incredibly gentle with him.
King said, “Try to punch me.”
Malori startled. “Are you crazy?”
“Maybe a little but not about this. I want to see how you’d attack if you had to, so try and punch me. Don’t worry, Mal, you won’t hurt me.”
The inflection in those final four words slid under Malori’s skin like a piece of glass, irritating and loud.
Malori’s hands balled into fists and his temper roared as he stalked across the mats.
His target was King’s square jaw, and he wasn’t thinking as he pulled his right arm back and then hurled it forward.