Merciless King (Lawless Kings, #5) Read online

  I’d only hurt her if I got close, and she’d been through more than enough already.

  She blinked and a tear streaked down her cheek. She dashed it away quickly.

  And there it was. I was already causing her pain and I’d only been in the same room as her for fifteen minutes. “London…”

  “I’m going to go.”

  “Hang on—”

  “I won’t bother you again.” She turned and ran from my office.

  It took everything I had, but I stayed where I was. If I went after her, I’d bring her back in here and I wouldn’t let her back out.

  I’d make her mine.

  London

  I took an Uber home the next three nights. I used to enjoy my walk home, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Maybe the police and Van had been right, that this feeling I had was because of the time of year, the anniversary of that nightmare. That I was suffering from serious paranoia. But I couldn’t deny the fear that was still there. It felt chillingly real to me.

  My doctor had recently switched my anxiety medication. Could that be it? I sat heavily on the couch. God, was all this self-induced?

  I dragged my laptop onto my lap and spent the next hour googling the drugs I’d been put on and the symptoms people experienced when they switched. I’d done it under the guidance of my doctor. Still, could it be making me feel this way?

  I was starting to think I was losing my mind.

  Van standing in front of his desk, looking at me like he thought the same, popped back into my head. I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it the last few days. Why did it hurt so much? I barely knew the man, really. He’d saved my life, had made sure I wasn’t alone while I recovered in hospital. He’d done more than anyone would expect, especially for a total stranger.

  But I thought…I’d thought there was more to it, to his attention. I’d stupidly thought I saw more when he looked into my eyes. I’d been wrong, because he’d left and he’d stayed gone.

  I’d tried to fool myself that I didn’t care, but truth be told, I’d fantasized for the last two years about him, about when I’d see him again. I’d thought about a lot of other things when it came to Van King. Things that made my body ache and my skin feel hot and tight. Ridiculous things that would never come true.

  It was a blow letting those fantasies go, and a whole lot harder than I’d thought.

  There was a knock at the door, and I grabbed money off the side table for the pizza I’d ordered and rushed to answer it. I checked through the peephole. A youngish guy with a Pizza Heaven hat stood there holding my pizza, looking bored.

  I undid the locks and he smiled at me.

  I smiled back, handed him the money, and took the pizza from him. “Thanks.”

  He tilted his head to the side, his smile morphing into something else, the look on his face odd. “Bet it’s been weird here without that dog of yours, huh?”

  My heart seemed to pause in my chest then started to smack erratically against my ribs. “What?”

  “The guy across the hall got talking when I delivered his pizza the other day. Said your dog died.”

  I gripped the door handle tighter. “Um…yeah.”

  He frowned. “Are you all right? You look pale.” He took a step back. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to bring up something painful.”

  “It’s fine,” I said. “Keep the change.” I quickly shut the door and locked it.

  What the hell was wrong with me? He was just trying to make small talk, hoping for a decent tip, and I’d pegged the guy as a dog killer and possible stalker within seconds. I started to shake. After dumping the pizza on the coffee table, I walked to the window and stared out. I thought I’d put it all behind me, but it was obvious now that I hadn’t. I needed help. I needed to make an appointment with Dr. Garcia, the therapist I saw regularly after my attack, preferably before I completely lost my mind.

  The next day was thankfully busy. My little shop was overflowing with flowers and smelled amazing, and I had an appointment booked with Dr. Garcia for the next day. I wasn’t going to let this thing win.

  I’d finished going through the overnight orders and making up the arrangements to be delivered, which hadn’t been easy with several walk-ins wanting custom orders instead of the premade arrangements I had on display. Usually that would be fine, but Erin had called in sick. I was rushed off my feet. Though, that was kind of a good thing. No time to think.

  It was late afternoon by the time I sat down to eat. The small office in the back doubled as a break room, and since the store had been a jeweler’s many years ago and they’d used the room as a safe, the door was heavy steel. I used it the same way, locking up the day’s takings there each night for banking the following day.

  I could still see through to the front with the door open and ate the muffin I’d picked up on the way to work. I had a small TV back here and I flicked it on, again in an effort to keep my mind occupied.

  I usually avoided the news. I couldn’t handle all the horror stories reported every night, but Erin often watched it during her lunch break. I went to switch it over when I saw where the reporter in front of me stood. She was just down from my apartment building.

  “The body of a young man found stabbed and dumped in the alley has been identified as Mathew Langley, an employee of Pizza Heaven.”

  My pulse started to rush faster. Could it be him, the guy who was at my door last night? I sat stunned, not knowing what to do. What could I do? It was more than likely random. I mean, what else could it be?

  I called the police and let them know that I was possibly the last person to see him. They took my statement and said they’d be in touch if they had any more questions.

  There was no way I could finish my lunch after that, so I went back to work. There were already three new online orders since I sat down to eat. I closed down same-day delivery for the rest of the afternoon. This was more than enough for me to get done on my own before closing, and I got to work so I could catch the courier before I finished for the day.

  My feet ached by the time I was done and had handed the arrangements off to be delivered. My Uber would thankfully be there in thirty minutes and I planned on a long hot shower and a movie. Preferably a comedy. Something cheesy with a big mushy happily ever after.

  I topped up the water in some of the vases that looked a little low.

  I was by the door when it started to open. “Sorry, we’re just closing,” I said, and reached for it. Someone pushed and it glanced my shoulder. A cry escaped as a guy stepped inside. He wore a hooded sweatshirt, the hood pulled low, and when he flicked it back I saw he was wearing a mask—something you’d get from a costume shop. It was one of those red devil faces, sinister and terrifying. He reached back and locked the door behind him with a leather-gloved hand.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Alone at last,” he said.

  I scrambled back, knocking over vases of flowers and a couple of card stands as I went. “W-who are you? W-what do you want?”

  He stepped closer and I had nowhere to go. My tiny shop only had one door in and out, and he was blocking it. I spun and ran for the back, but he grabbed me from behind, yanking me toward him. He pulled so sharply on my dress that I fell, taking him down with me, along with several more vases filled with flowers and water.

  I rolled away and scrambled to my feet, but he grabbed the back of my dress again, wrestling me to the floor. He leaned in close to my face. “Finally,” he said. “It’s just you and me.”

  No. Not again.

  Terror spiked through my body. I fisted his hair and shoved his head back, kicking out, fighting, hitting him with my fists, making contact with whatever I could. He snarled and lifted up to escape my blows. I somehow caught him in the throat, hard. He made a gagging sound, loosening his grip on me. I shoved at him instantly, rolled away and got back to my feet. He roared and came after me but slipped on the water on the floor and fell as I ran for the break room. I shoved the door cl
osed, throwing the lock.

  He pounded on it a moment later, cursing when he couldn’t get in.

  Oh God. My phone was out there, still under the counter where I’d left it. I spun around, searching for something, a weapon. Pruning shears. They were all I had, but they were sharp. I grabbed the chair I had in there and wedged it under the door handle, then clutched the shears in my sweaty hands.

  “Knock, knock. Let me in,” my nightmare called through the heavy door. His voice sounded high, excited.

  I said nothing, waiting for what he’d do next.

  He roared suddenly and kicked the door. I screamed and dropped the shears. It was happening again. Oh God, it was happening again. He shrieked in rage and kicked the door again several times. It was steel. Strong. Had a good lock, but I had no idea how well it would hold up to a mad man kicking it.

  The sound of smashing and things being thrown around came next.

  Suddenly, everything went quiet.

  I stood there waiting, trying to hear over the pounding of my heart, my own labored breaths. I moved closer to the door, straining to listen.

  “This door won’t stop me,” he said, right there, like he was pressed against the other side.

  I stumbled back.

  “Stuart Coombs was a genius and his work can’t end like this. You weren’t supposed to live, London Rivera.” My stomach lurched hearing that name, the name of the man who had murdered five women before he came after me and attempted to take my life. The door handle rattled and there was a scratching sound. He was trying to find a way to breach the lock, or maybe trying to shove something between the door and its frame.

  Tears streamed down my face, and I was shaking so hard my knees gave out. I slid to the floor. No. Please, God, no.

  “You were the crescendo and the finale all rolled into one,” he yelled. “You were the awe-inspiring ending that had his audience gasping for breath while they watched, hearts racing, trembling with the need for more, but knowing you were the last.” There was another thump against the door. “How did it feel, London? Knowing you were part of something so big, so profound. That he chose you.”

  I didn’t move, barely breathed, and prayed over and over for someone to save me, to stop this from happening again. For Van to rush in like he had back then.

  But that wasn’t going to happen, not this time.

  “How did it feel when his knife sliced through your body, London, over and over and over again?”

  He went silent once more, several long minutes stretching out. For a moment I thought he’d left, but then the door handle rattled, accompanied by the sound of him scratching with something between the door and the frame again.

  He roared and there was a loud crash.

  “You will feel it again, London. Only this time it will be my blade slicing into your body, shredding your organs, making you bleed.”

  It went silent again, an oppressing silence that seemed to crowd in and smother.

  My sight started to go fuzzy, and my body began shaking violently. This time there was no way to ground myself, no fighting the flashback that rushed me.

  I stayed where I was on the floor as the present and the past twisted together, paralyzing me.

  Breaking me.

  3

  Van

  Jude had convinced me to join him and one of his buddies for a drink. Jude had worked with Detective Connor Daniels before he left the force and came to work at the King Agency. The guy was still a homicide detective, but the two of them had stayed close. Having a reliable contact with the LAPD had been useful for us.

  The guy had also worked London’s case.

  I glanced around the bar while they talked. For the first time in a while I was on top of my own cases. Good thing, too, because I was in no mood to chase down skips or snap pics of some asshole fucking around on his wife. Nothing urgent needed taking care of. And thank fuck for that after the shitty sleep I’d had the last few nights.

  I was running on coffee and energy drinks. Still, I’d managed a workout that morning, and the main reason I was sitting in this dive bar instead of going a second round in the office gym or heading home was that I wasn’t exactly fired up to spend the evening on my own. Usually that wasn’t a problem for me. I didn’t mind solitude. But if I worked out or went home now I’d start thinking about London.

  Yeah, shit. Who was I kidding? I hadn’t stopped thinking about her since she walked into my office. Christ, my head was still spinning.

  The expression on her face when she looked at me—hope, so much hope, and, fuck, like she’d been happy to see me despite her reason for coming.

  But that sweet look on her face wasn’t what was keeping me awake. It was how she looked that fucking horrific night that had me waking in a cold sweat. Every time I closed my eyes I saw her lying there, bleeding out. And every damn time the urge to go to her would overtake me, twisting me in knots.

  I hated the pain I’d seen in her beautiful blue eyes when she’d run out of my office. All I’d wanted to do was wrap that thick dark hair around my hand, tilt her head back, and kiss her, promise her I’d make her feel safe again, that I’d take care of her. Her scent—citrus, oranges, mixed with something sweeter—had lingered in my office long after she’d gone.

  London Rivera was pure temptation. And I wasn’t sure I’d be able to resist if she was put in front of me again.

  You can’t have her.

  “Another beer?” Jude said, jarring me back to reality and the fact I was standing there staring into space, so deep in my own head I’d almost forgotten where the hell I was.

  I shook my head. I’d barely touched the one I had.

  “Connor?” Jude smirked. “Coke?”

  Connor shook his head and flipped Jude off. “No, you smug bastard.” The guy was on duty and jonesing for a cold one. Jude was enjoying his pain.

  They were still bickering when the guy’s phone started ringing.

  “Back to work for you, Detective,” Jude said, grinning, before he headed for the bar.

  Connor listened to whoever it was on the line for several seconds then cursed. “Where? She okay? On my way.”

  I glanced up. “Something wrong?”

  “Robbery. London Rivera’s store. Passerby called it in when they saw the door was open and the place was trashed. Looks like she was there when it happened.”

  My bottle halfway to my lips halted midair. Since the guy had worked her case, he knew what had happened and that I’d stuck around during her recovery. “I’m coming.”

  Connor pulled on his jacket. “I’ve got it.”

  I grabbed my own, ignoring him, and shoved it on. “She hurt?”

  “Don’t know.”

  I could tell he wasn’t thrilled when I followed him out of the bar, but nothing would stop me from going to her.

  There were several cop cars parked outside London’s store when I pulled up, their lights still flashing. I parked behind one of them and headed for the cordon tape. A uniformed officer tried to intercept me, like he fucking could, but thankfully, Connor had arrived the same time as me and told them to let me through.

  “Where is she?” Connor asked the officer.

  “Locked herself in the back we think. Heard a noise back there, but she’s not coming out. The thing’s reinforced steel, no getting through it. We’re waiting on a locksmith.”

  I didn’t wait for the rest and headed straight to the back of the shop. What the fuck had happened here? The place was a mess, flowers dumped out, water everywhere, shelves turned over.

  Every muscle in my body locked up, fear gripping me by the throat. She’d been scared, she’d come to me, and I hadn’t believed her. I’d told her she was imagining things. I felt fucking sick.

  If anything had happened to her…

  Another officer stood by the door in back, with a guy beside him wearing civilian clothes.

  Connor came up beside me.

  “Is she hurt?” I said to the officer.


  “She’s not talking,” he said.

  Fuck. “Who’s he?” I said motioning to the civilian.

  “Victim support.”

  I stared at the door. London was behind it, scared out of her mind, possibly hurt. “Get rid of them,” I said to Connor.

  Thankfully, Connor did as I asked, telling them to give us a few minutes. “London, honey,” Connor called. “It’s Connor. Detective Daniels.”

  Nothing.

  He tried again. Still nothing. Not a damned sound.

  Christ, what if she was bleeding, unconscious? I wanted to tear the door from its hinges.

  I placed my hand on the heavy steel. Shit. After the way I’d treated her, I hoped like hell having me here didn’t make it worse.

  I cleared my throat. “London?” Nothing. My heart was pounding, smacking against the back of my ribs. She was hurt. She had to be. Where was the fucking locksmith? “It’s me…it’s Van.”

  There was a scrape from the other side.

  “London?” I called again.

  Still no answer.

  “I need you to let me know you’re okay.”

  Silence a beat, then, “Van?”

  Her voice was tentative, so quiet I barely heard her.

  I had to clear my throat again because my vocal cords were suddenly tight as fuck. “Yeah, it’s me.” It took everything I had not to tell her to back up so I could try and kick the fucking door down. “You hurt, sweetheart?”

  “No…” More noises from the other side. “No, I’m okay.”

  “Can you open the door for me? Can you do that?”

  There was another scrape, then the sound of the lock clicking. The door opened a crack, and she peeked out. As soon as those baby-blue eyes landed on me, the door flew wide and she rushed at me, colliding with my chest, and wrapping herself around me.