Page 56 of Claimed By the Ruthless King

“You’ll just make things worse,” says Ophelia, the wind picking up between us. “How do you expect to change if you refuse help?”

“I’m not interested in changing, Ophelia. I just don’t want this city to become any darker, snuffing out what little light there is left.”

“I can handle myself.”

“I’m sure,” I say, heading toward the exit. “But you cannot handle me.”

And she knows it.

I walk past her, heading back inside. “Come on. It’s cold out here.”

Ophelia considers it for a moment before flashing me a glare, walking inside.

I lead the way, calling an elevator when we make our way back through the corridor.

I sigh, stepping in when the doors slide open. A thick silence drifts between us. Not even a fucking machete could cut the tension.

I glance at her sidelong, my cock stirring in my pants as I zero in on her luscious lips. I want to kiss her hard. Slam her into the elevator and show her just how fucking much this hurts as I lose the only light in my life, the only thing that has ever felt fucking real. I can touch money, feel the dollar bills crinkle under my hands and remind myself that I have everything, but it will never be enough, not unless I can have her.

And I can’t.

One day, I’m going to fall, and I will not bring her down with me.

My thoughts branch off as I stare at the doors in front of us, envisioning a world where I let her down, where I see my precious Sunshine lose her life on my account. I will never let that happen.

A scream pierces my ears, the images growing stronger, becoming increasingly vivid.

Giving myself nightmares is the only way I can work up the courage to walk away.

“Did you hear that?” says Ophelia, breaking the silence between us.

“Hear what?”

Ophelia frowns, concentrating on the sound. “I thought I heard a⁠—”

The elevator doors slide open onto hell.

Ophelia shrieks, stumbling back into the wall when she sees blood dripping from a masked figure’s knife. A dead body thumps to the ground.

“Back up to the top,” I tell her, already unsheathing my knife in the elevator.

“You have a…?”

“It’s called a knife,” I say. “Back up to the fucking top, Ophelia,” I command, pressing the button for her since she seems to be paralyzed with fear. “Lock yourself away in the office. Hide under the desk. I’ll be up soon.”

I hop out of the elevator, trying to get a good understanding of the situation before I go in for the attack. Four masked figures have barged in here and ruined the peaceful evening. As far as I can see, five of my employees are lying on the ground, covered in their own blood.

“Ambulance!” shrieks a woman to my left, kneeling over one of the bodies. “Please! Hurry.”

I sheathe my knife under my belt for the time being, approaching the woman on the floor who is using her own clothes to soak up her friend’s blood.

“What the hell happened here?”

“They came out of nowhere.”

“Who?”

“Those people,” she says, pointing to one of the masked men at the far end of the lobby.