The Dead King by Pamfiloff Mimi Jean

Author:Pamfiloff, Mimi Jean
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, New Adult
Publisher: Paper & Silver. Inc.
Published: 2021-01-21T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Holy shit. Holy shit. So that was King, the man hidden away inside Jack. And if what I’d just felt wasn’t my imagination, then he was a thousand times more powerful and dangerous.

The question was, would he harm me?

I plunked down on the bed and covered my face, whooshing out a slow breath. I didn’t want to believe that Jack would hurt me, but that man was not Jack.

Not anymore. I needed to get the hell out of San Francisco.

I grabbed my stuff and exited the room, hoping I’d find a way to get home to Florida. It might require taking a plane to somewhere cheap and then catching a bus the rest of the way. I didn’t know, but my instincts were screaming to run.

I pressed the elevator button and got in. By the time I reached the lobby and stepped outside, my heart was having an entirely different conversation with my brain.

Nothing had really changed. I was still trying to figure out what the deal was with my “gift,” and Jack—crap, I meant King—hadn’t told me what I was dealing with when it came to Blondie.

Bottom line, my wagon was hitched to King’s. I had no choice but to trust that the little bit of good inside him would keep me safe. It had so far.

A black Mercedes sedan with tinted windows pulled up. The window in the back lowered, revealing those silvery eyes.

“Thought I told you to stay the hell here, Jeni.”

King. What was he doing in the back of that car? “Where’d you go?”

“Went to get my kingdom back. Get in.”

Huh? I hesitated, still having that debate between my head and heart. Meanwhile, a group of tourists passed us, doing several takes at King. It was hard not to look at him. He exuded power, like a living god.

Do not make me ask twice, he said inside my head and pushed open the door.

Strange how I was getting used to him intruding in my head. It almost felt natural. On the other hand, that familiarity had been with Jack. I needed to be on my guard with King.

“Wise choice, Miss Arnold,” he said.

He slid over, and I got inside, placing my bag at my feet. I shut the door, cocooning us in a quiet bubble. In the driver’s seat was an older man, with gray curly hair and a husky build. “Who’s he?”

“Niko Spiros. He’s an old friend.”

“Okay. Mind telling me what’s going on?” I had no idea who King really was—what he did for a living, how he suddenly had a chauffeur and an expensive car, or what he remembered about the people or person responsible for putting him in that box.

“Yes. I do mind.” King turned his attention to the front. “Head to the warehouse. From there we’ll go straight to my plane.”

“Very good, sir.”

Plane? He had a plane? Not that I cared, but it was difficult to reconcile Jack—no money, no identity, no memory—to King, the man who used to live in that blue Victorian with a vibe so dark, it had literally given Jack second thoughts.

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