Page 16 of Vicious Kingdom (Dynasty of Queens #3)

T he happy couple were both on their phones. They’d smiled as they cut the cake, simpered as they shared a first dance, but then went back to ignoring one another the moment the guests began to mingle during dinner.

Insects crawled under my skin.

Not from watching their apathy, but from the fact that I needed to escape. I was in danger of being trapped. The man who’d tormented me most my life was here, and I caught more than one secret, slimy smile directed at me.

To the world, it seemed completely normal that he hovered within my vicinity. He was popular, well-liked. My parents adored him.

And I couldn’t tell anyone that the pretty smiles hid a hellish truth.

No one would believe me. The Tormentor hurt me in more ways than one. I was ashamed that I was fully grown and still at his mercy. It sickened me to know I was stuck whenever he was around. The people closest to me didn’t see what was going on right under their noses.

Especially my parents.

My uncle and my father were both occupied in tedious conversations with the throngs of businessmen vying for their attention.

While they were busy showing off their near celebrity status, my mother drank one too many cosmopolitans with her friends.

That left me alone with my cousin Jonatan to keep me company.

I shifted in my seat, counting the minutes until I could excuse myself from the Symphony Center.

Tapping his fingers in time to the music, my cousin watched the crowd, oblivious to my discomfort.

“It’s a nice wedding. Why aren’t you enjoying yourself?” he murmured, his voice carrying that slight Germanic accent that made women swoon.

Unlike me, he’d been born and raised in Germany before our fathers migrated to America, where mine met and married my mother. I didn’t enjoy his company. Older than me, Jonatan and I never got along.

I rolled my eyes. “Ten bucks says they divorce in three years.”

“Always betting on the misfortunes of others.” He straightened his bow tie, the movement drawing my attention to his scrawny arms perfectly encased in a custom Armani tuxedo. “But you could at least try to be cheery. It makes us look bad when you sulk.”

I’m not sulking, you idiot! I wanted to be miles and miles away.

“I don’t enjoy their bad luck. I’m just stating a fact,” I explained, hiding the shake in my fingers by reaching for my water.

Jonatan sighed. “These events are necessary, cousin. Connections are made here that benefit the business.”

Hertz Media operated under the veneer of legitimate business, but everyone in this glittering ballroom knew where their real power came from.

What we printed was gospel truth, even when facts proved it was a bold-faced lie.

That was the power of the written word.

“I understand the necessity,” I replied, running my finger along the rim of my champagne flute. “That doesn’t make it any less mind-numbing.”

Jonatan scoffed.

“Why aren’t you two dancing!” Kennedy, looped arm in arm with Callah, sauntered over. They flanked my cousin, leaning over to offer him a tantalizing look at their tits.

“My feet are tired,” Jonatan protested.

“Party-pooper,” Callah whined.

Kennedy swiveled to me. “You come dance, gorgeous!”

I felt another lingering look shot in my direction.

Focusing on the girls draping themselves on my cousin, I smiled and pretended this was just a normal outing with my family. “I’m tired too. The other night was a lot.”

“You were on fire!” Kennedy gushed. “Jonatan, you should have been there.”

That German accent, thick and mysterious that girls craved, came out as a purr. “No one said. Or I would have come.”

“We texted you!” Callah insisted.

My skin crawled again. The trio didn’t notice my distress. But the Tormentor had his focus on me. His attention felt dirty—wrong! No one saw anything out of the ordinary. No one could stop this. I was done with this whole night. I came. I made the necessary social rounds. It was time to leave.

That was always my only option to escape.

“Make my excuses to the family,” I said to my cousin and tossed my napkin on the table. “I’m feeling sick, and I’m headed home.”

I had to make my escape before I was trapped by my nightmare against my will.

Rising from my seat, I swept one last glance at the crowd, careful to avoid meeting anyone's eyes.

I had to move fast; if I lingered, someone was bound to notice and pull me into another conversation about hedge funds, politics, or the latest gossip.

Under the sound of clinking glasses and forced laughter, my heart thumped louder with each step toward freedom.

Slipping through the clusters of people, I dropped my gaze to my shuffling feet, anxious to be anywhere but here.

The exit was just up ahead—my breath caught with relief.

I hated these obligatory events. They could be fun…if that disgusting presence wasn’t infecting the whole room.

I made my way to the hall. These shoes were killing me. My ankle screamed in protest, but I pushed through, desperate for escape. I could baby the poor joint elsewhere.

The relentless footsteps behind me sent a chill crawling up my spine, each echo a sinister omen.

No, no—no!

The Tormentor's voice slithered through the air, dripping with malice. “Going so soon, Pookie?”

I froze, my heartbeat thundering in my ears. In a flip of a switch, I went from a strong, confident woman to a scared little girl. I hated the traitorous reaction. Hated how he made me feel powerless.

“We’re in public,” I managed to whisper, desperation clawing at my throat.

“So come this way,” he beckoned, his words a venomous promise.

Before I could even form a protest, his scraggly fingers, like tendrils of pure evil, ensnared my arm, their grip cold and unyielding. The one person I wanted to avoid caught me easily, tugging me into the back rooms.

“I’m leaving!” I asserted.

But he was too strong.

I stumbled after him, my heels clinking on the marble floor as the fiend dragged me along the dimly lit corridor. The sounds of society faded with each step.

“Let go of me!” I insisted.

“Hush now,” he murmured.

The door slammed behind us, cutting off escape. His hands moved from my arm to my shoulders, shoving me backward until my spine collided with the cold plaster wall. The impact knocked the air from my lungs.

“You think you can just walk away when I’m speaking to you?” he snarled, his face inches from mine. The stench of wine and cigars wafted over me, making my stomach turn. “You forget your place, my little teddy bear.”

His breath was rancid, the smell of decay and expensive alcohol mingling together as he leaned closer. One hand moved to my shoulder, not squeezing, just resting there—a reminder of what he could do if he wanted.

“You’re my little bear,” he hissed, spittle landing on my cheek. “You think you can walk away without my permission?”

In his delusional mind, we were going to be married. Grow old together. Rule this city as a power couple, revered by all. He told me once he was saving himself for me.

Thank fuck he was that insane. It kept him from taking me against my will.

“I’m tired,” I countered. “Please, let me go. If anyone should find you here—”

“Who’s going to believe you?” he mocked.

No one—not a damn soul.

He was too admired. His charisma swirled around me like a bad perfume. If I talked, if I told anyone what happened to me, he would make my existence in this polished realm a living nightmare. It was me—the victim—who would take the fall. Not him. Never him.

“Please, I have a headache. Let me go,” I insisted.

“Pookie. You sat there, ignoring me the whole evening, and then you try to disappear.” His tongue tsked in warning. “You didn’t bother to spend time with me. That’s all I wanted. One look. One drop of your attention.”

The lie rolled off his tongue as easily as poison from a viper’s fangs. One look, one drop of attention—that was never all he wanted. His demands always escalated, always pushed further into territory that made my skin crawl.

“I’m looking at you now,” I whispered, forcing myself to meet his malicious gaze.

His grip on my arm tightened fractionally, thumb brushing against my pulse point. “Such a smart mouth. Always so defiant.” A twisted smile curved his lips. “I remember when you were sweet. Obedient.”

When I was a child and terrified. When I didn’t understand that his ‘games’ weren't normal. When I thought every girl had a demon who visited her room at night during social gatherings.

His free hand traced down my side.

“You’re hurting me,” I whispered, though his grip had loosened.

“Am I?” He tilted his head, studying my face in the dim light filtering through the crack beneath the door. “Or are you just being dramatic again?”

This familiar tug-of-war—him pushing boundaries while maintaining plausible deniability, me trapped between fear and the need to appear unaffected. In our world, showing weakness was a death sentence.

“My father will wonder where I am.”

“Your father is three drinks deep in conversation with the commissioner about city contracts.” His smile was all teeth and shadows. “He won’t miss you for another hour at least.”

The truth of it hit like a physical blow.

Demons preyed on children whose fathers were weak.

It was a proven fact.

“I need to get some air,” I insisted.

“Will you come back?” He cocked his head, studying me. “Or are you going to run into the arms of your boyfriend ?”

I shook my head. “I don’t have one.”

“That’s not what your mother was insinuating.” His touch dug into my flesh.

“I am single. I broke it off with the techy the other night,” I explained. While I didn’t owe this fiend a reason, it seemed to be what he needed to hear. “Mom doesn’t know it yet.”

His touch slid up and down my waist. “Good—so good. You knew what would happen to him if you persisted in this madness.”

Did I? The Tormentor never touched one of my boyfriends. Not that I’d dated anyone in public. But that look in his eye told me he was capable of destruction.