Chapter Thirteen: His Feisty Little Kitten

King's gaze lingered on Myra, who lounged on the couch with an air of disinterest. Her fingers lazily drummed against the armrest, her expression unreadable, but something about her presence unsettled him. His thoughts swirled, crashing against one another in an unrelenting storm.

Thomas and Winter Thorn.

It couldn't be the same Thomas and Winter Thorn. The names haunted his mind, whispering of a past long buried. Those two had perished twenty years ago—or had they? Could they have faked their deaths? If so, why? What could possibly drive them to vanish from the world?

Lost in thought, he barely registered Arielle's voice drifting through the room.

"Oh, that could never happen," she mused.

His eyes flickered to the TV screen. A horror movie played, its eerie glow casting shadows across the dimly lit living room. The scene unfolded in disjointed bursts—glimpses of a porcelain doll standing motionless in the hallway, its lifeless eyes glinting in the moonlight before vanishing. A deaf boy crept through his home, oblivious to the malevolent presence watching him.

"You can't burn a demon out of a doll," Arielle continued, shaking her head.

King parted his lips to respond, but a delicate sound made him freeze.

A yawn.

His head snapped toward Myra.

Had she just—yawned?

This was supposedly the scariest horror movie of the decade, a film so terrifying it had people sleeping with the lights on for weeks. Yet there she was, utterly unfazed, stretching her arms as if she were watching an afternoon soap opera.

His eyes flicked to the others. Nathan, Lisa, and even Arielle appeared bored. No tension in their shoulders, no widened eyes or hushed breaths. Just… indifference.

King swallowed.

Only psychopaths yawn during horror movies.

A smirk tugged at his lips as the thought crossed his mind.

Within minutes, one by one, they surrendered to exhaustion. Nathan slumped against the couch, mouth slightly open. Arielle curled into a ball, her steady breathing evidence of deep sleep. Even Lisa, who had been munching on popcorn, now rested with the empty bowl beside her.

But it was Myra that held his attention.

She lay on her side, her dark lashes fanned against her cheek, her chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. The soft glow of the television illuminated her face, highlighting the sharp angles of her cheekbones and the gentle curve of her lips. A strand of fiery red hair had slipped over her forehead, contrasting starkly against her pale skin.

King exhaled.

Carefully, he rose to his feet and turned off the TV. Silence enveloped the room, save for the occasional sound of steady breathing. As he made his way toward the staircase, he paused—his gaze drawn back to Myra.

She looked so… fragile in her sleep. So different from her usual sharp, unapproachable demeanor.

Something in him shifted. Without fully thinking it through, he stepped closer and, with careful movements, slipped his arms beneath her. She was surprisingly light, her body warm against his as he lifted her effortlessly. Her scent—a mix of something floral and wild, like rain-drenched roses—filled his senses, making his chest tighten.

Cradling her against him, he carried her up the stairs, each step slow and deliberate. His heart pounded harder than it should've as he nudged his bedroom door open with his foot and stepped inside. The scent of earth and cedar filled the room—his scent, his space.

Gently, he laid her onto the bed. The moment her body met the mattress, she sighed, shifting slightly, her fingers curling into the blanket. King knelt beside her, carefully removing her shoes before pulling the covers over her.

For a moment, he simply sat there, watching her.

She was beautiful.

Too beautiful.

Damn it.

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. Why did she have to look like that? Why did she have to affect him like this?

Just as he moved to stand, he felt it—a sudden, delicate pressure around his wrist.

He froze.

Myra's fingers had curled around him, her grip weak but firm enough to hold him in place.

"Don't leave, Alexander…" she mumbled, her voice laced with sleep.

His entire body went rigid.

Alexander?

The name sent a jolt through him, irritation creeping into his chest like a slow burn. His jaw clenched as he stared at her, his breath uneven. Who the hell was Alexander?

A muscle ticked in his jaw. He yanked his hand free, her fingers slipping away easily. She called another man's name in her sleep. Not his.

His lips pressed into a thin line. It made sense, he supposed. They weren't close. She didn't know him. Not really.

With a quiet sigh, he forced a small smile—one no one would ever see—and walked out, shutting the door behind him.

---

Morning came faster than Myra expected.

She groaned, squeezing her eyes shut as sunlight filtered through the curtains, warming her skin. The weight of sleep still clung to her, making her limbs feel heavy. She stretched, rolling onto her side, but something was off.

The air smelled different.

It was rich with the scent of earth, rain, and something undeniably masculine. The sheets beneath her felt softer than usual, the pillow fluffier. Her mind sluggishly tried to piece it together.

Then, realization hit her like a slap.

Her eyes snapped open.

This wasn't her room.

Bolting upright, she scanned her surroundings, heart pounding. The dark wooden furniture, the shelves lined with books, the faint scent of cologne clinging to the air—

King.

Her stomach twisted. What the hell was she doing in King's room?

Frowning, she yanked the blanket closer and inhaled. Her scent clung to it, but underneath it was the unmistakable fragrance of him. Her lips parted slightly as she pieced it together.

He had brought her here.

A growl rumbled in her throat.

Clenching her fists, she threw off the blanket and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Her bare feet met the cool floor, grounding her fury. Without bothering to check her appearance, she stormed out of the room and down the stairs, her steps quick and purposeful.

The scent of freshly cooked food wafted through the air, teasing her senses. As she entered the dining area, the sight of everyone gathered around the table greeted her. They were already eating, the sound of utensils clinking against plates filling the space.

Lisa glanced up and grinned. "Well, look who finally decided to wake up." She popped a piece of pancake into her mouth, chewing with a satisfied hum.

Myra rolled her eyes before snapping her gaze to King, fully expecting some smug remark.

But he merely sat there, calm and composed, lazily sipping his coffee.

No smirk. No teasing glint in his eye.

That was… odd.

Suppressing a scowl, she took a seat beside Arielle, exhaling sharply. She wasn't particularly hungry—not for human food, at least. The gnawing hunger for something richer, thicker, pulsed in the back of her mind. But there was no fresh supply of blood in King's house, so she settled for a glass of orange juice, gulping it down in one go.

A maid set a plate of pancakes in front of her.

She took a bite—

And nearly melted into the chair.

The texture was perfect, soft yet firm, with the right amount of sweetness. The taste lingered on her tongue, rich with butter and maple syrup.

"This is delicious," she murmured, caught off guard.

"Naturally," Nathan said with a grin. "King made them. He's a wizard in the kitchen."

Myra blinked.

Her gaze slid back to King. He made these?

"They're amazing," she admitted reluctantly.

He said nothing, merely taking another sip of coffee, an unreadable expression on his face.

Then, his voice cut through the air.

"We'll be leaving for London soon."

Myra nearly choked on her last bite. "Who is we?" she asked.

"We is me and you."

Her confusion deepened, "Why the fuck will I go anywhere with you?"

King smirk, "Becausr of our contract my dear minou"

Myra's eyes narrowed, "I thought it was null and void "

King rose up from his seat, "I don't remember saying that"

___

In London,

Myra stepped out of the bathroom, steam curling around her as she tightened the towel around her damp body. Her skin was still warm from the hot water, the scent of lavender soap lingering in the air. She sighed, rubbing her temples. Tonight had been exhausting, and she had no idea what King was dragging her into next.

It it weren't for that damn contract she would still be in Romania with her family!

Then, her eyes fell on the bed.

A neatly wrapped box sat on the silk sheets, a small note resting on top. Her brows knitted together as she cautiously approached it. She hadn't heard anyone enter while she was bathing. Picking up the note, she unfolded it, scanning the elegant handwriting.

I think this dress will suit you. Its color reminds me of your hair—midnight black and fiery red. Hope you like it.

—King

Myra exhaled sharply, shaking her head. Of course, it was him. Setting the note aside, she lifted the lid of the box and pulled out the dress. The fabric was smooth beneath her fingers, like liquid silk. Black with streaks of deep crimson that shimmered under the soft glow of the bedside lamp. She held it up, studying the design. It seemed simple enough.

With a sigh, she dropped the towel and slipped into the dress, the cool material sliding over her skin. The moment she looked in the mirror, she froze.

The dress was backless.

Her stomach dropped. Spinning around, she tried to catch a glimpse of herself over her shoulder. The deep cut exposed nearly the entirety of her back, leaving only the straps to keep the dress secured.

Damn it.

Her fingers instinctively reached for the birthmark between her shoulder blades—the Black Rose. A mark that had drawn countless questions and speculation. One she had never been comfortable revealing. And now… this dress.

Her first thought was to take it off and find something else, but before she could even move—

The door opened.

She turned sharply, heart hammering. "What the hell—?!"

King stepped inside, freezing mid-step. His usual cocky smirk faltered for just a moment before his eyes darkened with something unreadable.

Myra's cheeks burned. Why didn't he knock?!

King's gaze raked over her, lingering on the way the fabric hugged her form. He let out a low whistle. "Damn."

Her fists clenched. "Get out."

Instead of listening, he leaned casually against the doorframe, arms crossed. "You look amazing, Myra."

She scowled, refusing to acknowledge the warmth that crept up her neck. "I swear if you don't leave—"

He ignored her threat, stepping closer. Myra backed up instinctively, only for her spine to hit the wall. Trapped.

King smirked. "I knew this dress would suit you."

Her breath hitched as he reached for her, and before she could react, he plucked the pin from her hair. Her long locks cascaded down her back, the strands catching the dim light.

His smirk widened. "Finally."

Myra blinked, momentarily stunned. What… just happened?

King stepped back, admiring his handiwork. "You have really long hair, Myra."

She let out a frustrated breath. "You're so annoying."

He chuckled. "You love it."

She rolled her eyes, yanking the pin from his hand. "Where are we going, anyway?"

His smirk deepened, mischief glinting in his eyes. "You'll see."

And with that, he turned and walked away, leaving her standing there, still caught between wanting to strangle him and wondering why her heart was beating so damn fast.

__

The moment Myra stepped out of the hotel, the cool London air wrapped around her like an old friend. The streets were slick with the remnants of a passing rain, the scent of damp pavement mingling with the distant aroma of fresh-baked bread from a nearby café. Streetlights flickered against the misty evening, casting golden halos that reflected in the puddles along the sidewalk.

King stood by the sleek black limousine, his tall frame exuding an effortless confidence. His suit, tailored to perfection, was deep obsidian with silver accents that shimmered under the city lights. His dark eyes met hers, scanning her appearance with an unreadable expression.

Myra, on the other hand, felt anything but confident. The dress clung to her like a second skin, the smooth silk gliding against her body with every step. The cold air kissed her exposed back, sending an involuntary shiver up her spine.

He smirked, noticing her discomfort. "You look stunning," he murmured, offering his hand. His voice was velvet, rich with amusement, but there was something deeper beneath it—something unreadable.

She ignored his hand, lifting her chin in defiance. "I didn't wear this for you."

"Of course not," he replied, amusement lacing his tone.

The ride to the event was silent, save for the hum of the city outside. The limousine moved smoothly through the London streets, weaving past the glowing storefronts and historical buildings, their stone facades whispering stories of centuries past. Myra turned her gaze to the window, watching the world blur by, but she could feel King's eyes on her. Always watching. Always analyzing.

Upon arrival, the moment they stepped onto the plush crimson carpet leading into the grand event hall, a wave of flashing cameras assaulted them. The air buzzed with murmurs and gasps. Myra barely had a second to register the opulent surroundings—the grand chandeliers dripping with crystal, the golden filigree that adorned the towering walls—before the press descended.

"Mr. Lust! Mr. Lust! Who is your companion tonight?"

King's grip tightened slightly around her waist, the warmth of his palm pressing through the thin fabric of her dress. He turned to the cameras, his lips curling into that signature smirk of his.

"This is Myra," he announced smoothly. "My girlfriend."

A collective gasp rippled through the crowd, followed by a flurry of questions. Myra's body went rigid.

Girlfriend? What the hell was he playing at?

She turned to him sharply, but before she could protest, the press bombarded them with more questions.

"Ah… you're the girl who slapped our King!" someone in the crowd called out.

A hush fell over the crowd. Myra could feel the weight of their judgment, their scrutinizing eyes digging into her. The memory of that moment played in her mind—the satisfying sting of her palm meeting his cheek, the shocked silence that followed.

King only chuckled, completely unfazed. "Come on, don't do this to my queen. She was just… feeling a little emotional that day." His voice was smooth, teasing, effortlessly turning the crowd in his favor.

Myra clenched her jaw but said nothing. This wasn't the place to cause a scene.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of expensive cologne, fine wine, and fresh roses. The elite of London were gathered in clusters, their laughter a mixture of practiced charm and underlying competition. A waiter passed with a tray of crystal glasses filled with golden champagne.

King led her through the sea of elegantly dressed guests, his hand never leaving her waist. She could feel the weight of their stares, their whispered curiosity.

Then, a voice broke through the chatter.

"Hiro."

Myra turned her head at the same time King tensed beside her. Standing before them was a striking woman with delicate Asian features, her dark eyes glimmering with something between longing and regret.

The air between them shifted, growing thick and suffocating. Myra could practically taste the tension, sharp and bitter.

King's expression was unreadable, but his grip on her waist tightened. "Ren," he said, his voice devoid of warmth.

Ren's smile faltered, but she tried to recover. "Look how big you've grown," she murmured, reaching out to touch his cheek.

King caught her wrist midair. His fingers wrapped around her delicate bones, his grip firm but controlled. "Don't touch me."

The pain in Ren's eyes was unmistakable. Myra could feel it radiating off of her, a mother's pain, raw and unhealed.

"Why? Can't a mother see her son?"

King let out a hollow chuckle. "Mother?" He tilted his head, his lips curling in something that wasn't quite a smile. "I don't recall you having a son, Ren. From what I know, you have a daughter."

Ren's breath hitched.

Myra's heart clenched at the sheer coldness in his voice. This was different from his usual arrogance, his playful teasing. This was deep. This was pain wrapped in armor.

"Hiro, do—"

"It's Mr. Lust to you, Ren," he cut her off, his tone like a blade slicing through the air. "You and I will never be on those terms. Get it?"

Ren swallowed hard and nodded, her shoulders sinking with defeat.

The moment shattered. Myra barely had time to process before King turned sharply, his hand finding hers as he pulled her away from the suffocating room.

The balcony doors swung open, letting in the crisp London night air. Myra inhaled deeply, welcoming the fresh scent of rain and city life.

King leaned against the railing, his hands gripping the cool metal, his posture stiff.

"You're in pain, King," she whispered.

He turned his head slightly, dark eyes locking onto hers. There was something different in them now. Less arrogance. More exhaustion. More vulnerability.

Then, he gave her a small, bitter smile. "You're lucky, Myra. You had a loving mother."

Myra opened her mouth to respond, but a sudden sharp pain shot through her chest. King's pain. It was unbearable, unlike anything she had ever felt before

She gasped, clutching at her ribcage as dizziness washed over her. Her knees buckled.

"Myra?" King's voice was laced with alarm.

She barely registered him catching her before the darkness pulled her under.

King effortlessly caught her. He pushed aside her hair to see her face, he had no idea what had just happened. From what he knew Myra was healthy, so where did this come from?!

He sighed, carrying her in her arms as he navigated through the party, eyes on them but he didn't care.

All that mattered was getting his little kitty to a safe place.