Can
she find a way to bring back the man he once was, or will she have to send him
back to hell?
The Ten Club
King Series #5
Mimi Jean Pamfiloff
Released Jan 31st, 2017
From
New York Times Bestseller Mimi Jean Pamfiloff…
Book #5 and the FINALE of the King Series
HE WANTS TO OWN HER. King doesn’t recall dying and he definitely doesn’t
recall this feisty woman Mia who claims to be his wife. But he’s happy to make
her his if she’ll be obedient and loyal. After all, a king needs a queen, and now
that he’s back from the dead, this evil billionaire has big plans.
SHE WANTS HIM DEAD. Mia Turner made painful sacrifices to save the love of
her life from his cursed hell. So when he promised to love and protect her
always, she believed him. But after he trades his life to save his brother,
she’s left all alone with a baby and a broken heart. Until he returns. Evil,
more powerful, and with absolutely no memory of her.
Can she find a way to bring back the man he once
was, or will she have to send him back to hell?
PROLOGUE
MIA
I rolled out of bed,
feeling unrested and sore and out of my mind with grief. It had been another
rough night for me, one of many to come, I assumed. But what else could I do?
You’ll find coffee. Then you’ll try to find a way
to keep breathing. Because that
was what widows did.
As I stumbled toward my
bedroom doorway to go check on the baby, the phone rang on my nightstand. The
caller ID said Mack.
“Hello?”
“Mia, I don’t know how to
say this, but he didn’t stay dead. He’s back, but he’s not him anymore.”
“What?” I blinked. “Could
you repeat that?”
“King is back, Mia. And he
made it clear he’s not letting me end 10 Club.”
“I’ll call you,” I started
hyperventilating, “back,” and passed out.
CHAPTER ONE
KING
Tonight calls for a
celebration. No, it is not a birthday nor an anniversary. Men like me do not
give a dark fuck about life’s shitty little milestones. We care only for power
or money—same fucking thing. And after tonight, I will have enough of both to
break the fucking world.
“Hey, baby,” says the
topless bleach blonde rubbing her ass on my cock over my black slacks to the
beat of the music, “I’m free after work.”
“Shut up and keep
dancing.” Women like her don’t come close to doing it for me, but she is the
hottest, most expensive stripper in this private bar. A thousand dollars a
minute. It’s pocket change to me; however, everyone here tonight now wonders
why I’m treating myself.
Just as I hoped.
My eyes sweep the smoky,
dimly lit bar filled with 10 Club members sitting at little tables, whispering
in the shadows, making their deals and bartering for whatever sadistic crap
will get them off tonight—sex slaves, drugs, torture, murder, whatever.
Anything goes. Of course, they’re all talking about me, as well.
I smile and take a long
victory drag off my cigar, ceremoniously blowing the smoke into the air above.
I want them all to see me gloating. I want them talking to the other degenerate
10 Club fucks and speculating what I am up to. Because regardless of what it
is, they’ll all want to steal it from me. They’ll all want a piece.
I’m counting on it.
“That’s enough.” I push
the blonde’s ass forward, rise from my seat, and straighten my blood red tie.
I’ve done what I came for and can already hear the phones vibrating with
speculation around the world at the hundred other 10 Club establishments like
this one. “King is here.” “Something’s
going down.” “What do you know and what’s the price?” they’re all saying.
They’ll never guess. Not
in a million years.
I toss a thick roll of
hundreds at the stripper, who goes on her hands and knees to fetch it from the
floor. I can feel her lust-filled eyes on me as I step over her like the dog
she is. After all, she’s 10 Club property, not even human in my eyes. But she
made her choice. We all have. No one is part of this debauchery by accident.
That’s not to say some aren’t backed into impossible corners, forced to choose
between things such as death or becoming part of our secret society comprised
of two levels—the powerful and the powerless.
Make that three levels. Because there’s me. At the top.
I stroll toward the set of
heavy iron doors and make my exit into the dark alley. It’s raining and windy.
Typical for a January in San Francisco. Personally, I like the somber feel of
this weather—fits my mood. Dark as fuck.
I am ten steps from my
sleek black Mercedes when I hear footsteps splashing through puddles behind me.
From the sound of the short strides, I know it’s a woman.
Fucking idiot. Doesn’t she know I despise desperation? And I definitely don’t pay
to fuck strippers who are owned by 10 Club. God
only knows where that pussy’s been.
I shake my head, pulling
my keys from my pocket, and hit the unlock button on the remote. “Sorry,
sweetheart. Not interested.”
“You’re King, right?”
The soft voice is
unfamiliar, so I turn my head. She’s petite, blonde, and mildly interesting to
look at; however, it’s hard to tell just how interesting since she’s wearing a
garish yellow raincoat.
“Who’s asking?” I say.
“Yes or no,” she replies
with a hint of a growl in her sweet voice.
My, my. Aren’t we a demanding little thing? I decide to play along. Of course, she has no clue
I can snap her neck with the twitch of my fingers.
“Let us pretend for a
moment that I have replied with a yes. What’s in it for me?” I ask.
She steps closer, which
definitely draws my attention. Most people fear me. They don’t know why, they
often don’t even realize it, but they definitely fear me. This one doesn’t seem
afraid.
Either that or she’s too desperate to notice she’s
in the presence of something black hearted.
“They say you are the man
who can find anything or anyone for a price,” she says.
I like the way this
conversation is moving. It means she wants something, and now that the
streetlamp above has given me a better look at her luscious little lips, I’m
fairly sure we can come to some sort of arrangement.
I cock a brow, silently
urging her to continue.
“I-I need help finding
someone.”
Someone very important, I hope. Because I think I
might like to add you to my collection.
I collect many things, including people, although usually not for sex. I can
get that without having to take on the responsibility of ownership. But for her, I might make an exception.
Her wavy, shoulder-length blonde hair and wide blue eyes are at the top of my
list when it comes to turn-ons, but what really gets me off are naivety and
fearlessness. She has plenty of both.
“Go on,” I say.
“I want you to help me
find my husband.”
Tonight just got a whole hell of a lot
more interesting. Because I love taking things that don’t belong to me, and
I sure as hell love breaking a person’s soul.
I dip my head to give her
a good look. She should see the face of the man who will be fucking her for the
next few years until I grow tired of her and trade her away to another club
member, likely one of those sick fuckers who enjoys making lampshades from women’s
legs and breasts. Like I said, anything goes in 10 Club, just as long as you’ve
got ten billion in the bank and money to pay your dues—one billion a year—which
buys you complete immunity from any government anywhere in the world. Of
course, we own all the governments. How do you think so many sadistic pricks
make it into office? Power and money are everything.
I lean down and let her
drink in my dark features. Yes, look into
my eyes, sweetheart. See the promise of suffering in their cold gray depths.
But as I stare back at her, there’s nothing. No fear in her eyes. No sadness or
desperation. She’s void of all emotion.
Tonight just got a whole hell of a lot
less interesting. It’s no fun for me
if they’re already broken.
“Sorry. I’m busy.” I turn
away and pop open the driver-side door.
“Wait. Aren’t you going to
help me?”
“I could,” I say blandly,
sliding into the cool leather of the driver’s seat, “however, as you’ve pointed
out, I am the man who can find anyone or anything for a price. You don’t have anything I want.”
She wedges herself between
me and the car door I’m about to close. “Name it. Name your price, King.” She
grabs my shoulder and my groin floods with heated lust. Is it because she’s not
the least bit afraid and should be? Probably. Like I said, fearlessness and
naivety make my dick hard.
I look up at her, deciding
to make an offer though I would probably be better off going home to enjoy a
bottle of expensive scotch and prepare for my dinner party. No. I won’t be
cooking or cleaning. I have slaves for such mundane bullcrap. This preparation
is something else entirely.
“My price is you,” I say,
thinking she might make an interesting toy.
She doesn’t bat an
eyelash, which is surprising. They usually look a little offended or shocked
when I tell them I’d like to own them.
“No deal,” she says.
I shrug and start the
engine. “Then I’m afraid we must part ways. Good luck finding him.”
“I have money. A lot of
money.”
“Not interested.” I’m
already obscenely wealthy and will soon have the kinds of funds that make or
break GDPs of first world countries. Whatever cash she’s got is a pittance.
I give her a push and send
her stumbling back so I can close the door.
“Wait!” She gets her
footing straightened out and comes at me again. I almost admire her persistence.
Almost.
“I have a ring,” she
announces. “I’m told it can keep a person from dying.”
I push back on the heavy
door to prevent it from slamming into her. She’s got my attention. A man like
me is always interested in items that bring back the dead or prevent people
from dying once I do. Especially now.
I turn off the engine,
slowly step from the car, and look down at her as she shrinks back a few feet.
That’s when I notice something’s different about her. The light doesn’t quite
touch her, but instead reflects off a nearly undetectable sheen of energy
surrounding her.
And we’re back to a very interesting evening,
indeed. People like her are rare.
In fact, they are nearly extinct. I might have had something to do with that,
but what can I say? In my younger years, I wasn’t a fan of her people.
“How did you come about
such an object?” I ask.
She lifts her delicate
chin defiantly. I fucking love it. She’s dancing with the devil and showing
such bravery.
“None of your business.”
Such bravado. I chuckle. “All right then, how do you know it works?”
“I just know. Do we have a
deal? Yes or no, King.”
That sounds like something
I might say, so I appreciate it. “I confess I am intrigued; therefore I will
say yes. However, I should warn you that welshers are shown no mercy. If you do
not deliver, for any reason, you will belong to me, and I won’t be kind.”
The woman freezes.
Ah, there it is. Fear. My black heart tingles with delight. Now we are getting somewhere.
“I won’t back out,” she
says. “And the ring will work.”
“Very good.” I slide a
card from the inside pocket of my coat and hand it over. “Be here tomorrow
night at eight. I’m throwing a dinner party.”
“I-I don’t understand.”
“I’m a busy man. You want
me to find your missing husband, then we work when and where I say. That’s the
deal. Take it or leave it.” Of course, that’s a complete lie. I have no
intention of helping her, but she will most certainly be useful to me. In fact,
she’s exactly what I’ve been needing. Saves
me the trouble of having to kill my brother’s woman. For now.
She nods in compliance.
“Very good. And don’t be
late. Ever.” I return to my car, close the door, and restart the engine,
realizing that she’s simply standing there staring at me and that I’ve
forgotten something.
I lower the window.
“What’s your name?”
She suddenly looks like
someone has punched her in the stomach—a pained stillness in her face, and
shoulders hunched forward like she wants to be sick. I’m guessing it’s all
sinking in. Yes, sweetheart, you’ve just
made a deal with the devil. Actually, I’m worse. A thousand times over.
There is no divine creation in my past. No possibility of regaining my wings. I
am the sort of man who makes this world a horrible place to live in.
Not even death dares to fuck with me.
I look at the little
woman, wondering what the hell she’s waiting for. “Well?”
“Mia. My name is Mia
Turner.”
Mimi Jean
Pamfiloff is
a USA Today and New York Times bestselling
romance author. Although she obtained her MBA and worked for more than fifteen
years in the corporate world, she believes that it’s never too late to come out
of the romance closet and follow your dream. Mimi lives with her Latin Lover
hubby, two pirates-in-training (their boys), and the rat terrier duo, Snowflake
and Mini Me, in Arizona. She hopes to make you laugh when you need it most and
continues to pray daily that leather pants will make a big comeback for men.
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