Broken king

The penthouse was a mausoleum.

I had spent the entire day wandering it like a ghost, dragging my aching, bruised body from room to room. I counted the steps from the bedroom to the kitchen (forty-two). I counted the windows in the living room (sixteen). I counted the seconds between the soft hum of the air conditioning and the distant wail of police sirens far below.

I was losing my mind.

I had eaten the lunch the maid left on the marble counter—a perfect filet mignon with roasted vegetables. I had taken my prenatal vitamin. I had showered, scrubbing the dried blood from my skin until the water ran cold.

And now, I was sitting on the floor of the living room, my back pressed against the cold glass of the floor-to-ceiling windows, staring at the heavy oak door.

He'll be back soon, I thought, my stomach twisting into knots. He'll come through that door, strip me naked, and fuck me raw until I scream.

I should have been terrified. I was terrified.

But beneath the terror was a sick, crawling anticipation. My body still ached from last night. There was a soreness between my thighs that I couldn't ignore. And as much as I hated myself for it, I wanted him to touch me again. I wanted to feel that heat, that overwhelming power, that moment where I ceased to be a broken street rat and became something—even if that something was just a hole for a monster to fill.

You're pathetic, I whispered to myself, pressing my palms to my swollen belly. He owns you. He doesn't love you. He's using you.

The door clicked.

I flinched, scrambling to my feet. My heart hammered against my bruised ribs.

The heavy oak door swung open, and Drake stepped inside.

And the moment I saw him, my breath caught in my throat.

He wasn't the polished, terrifying god who had left this morning.

His charcoal suit was torn at the sleeve, stained with something dark—blood. His black shirt was untucked, the collar ripped open. There was a gash on his cheekbone, fresh and gleaming red, and his left arm was hanging limply at his side, the sleeve drenched in crimson.

His grey eyes were glassy. Distant. He looked like a man who had walked through a warzone and left his soul behind.

"Drake?" I whispered, my voice trembling.

He didn't answer. He kicked the door shut behind him with his heel, stumbling slightly as he walked into the living room. He looked at me—really looked at me, his gold-flecked eyes scanning my face—and for a split second, the ice in them cracked.

But then, he looked away. He walked past me, heading for the bar.

"You're bleeding," I said, taking a hesitant step toward him. "Drake, you're hurt—"

"Don't," he said. His voice was a ragged, broken snarl. "Don't fucking look at me."

He reached the bar, grabbing a bottle of whiskey. He didn't use a glass. He just unscrewed the cap and tipped the bottle to his lips, drinking like a dying man.

I stood there, frozen. The monster who had broken Linda's neck, who had pinned me to a leather chair and fucked me until I screamed, was standing in front of me, bleeding, shaking, and looking utterly, terrifyingly human.

"Let me help you," I whispered, taking another step. "Please. You're losing blood."

"I said don't fucking look at me!" he roared, throwing the whiskey bottle against the wall.

It shattered, glass and amber liquid spraying across the marble floor. I jumped back, my hands flying to my belly protectively.

Drake's chest heaved. He stared at the shattered glass, his shoulders trembling. And then, his knees buckled.

He collapsed.

Not with a dramatic crash, but with a heavy, defeated slump. He fell to his knees on the marble floor, surrounded by broken glass, his head hanging low.

"Five of them," he whispered, his voice cracking. "Five of them came for me tonight. My own men. Traitors. They wanted to take my empire. They wanted to take you."

I stared at him. A cold, horrifying realization washed over me.

He had fought for me. He was bleeding because someone had tried to hurt him—and he had killed them to keep them away from me.

I don't know where the courage came from. Maybe it was the baby. Maybe it was the sheer, broken humanity in front of me. But I walked forward, stepping carefully around the broken glass, and knelt in front of him.

"Drake," I whispered. I reached out, my trembling fingers touching his chin. I gently lifted his face to mine.

His eyes were wet. Not crying—but glassy, exhausted, fighting back tears.

"Don't pity me," he snarled, but his voice had no venom. It was a weak, desperate whisper. "I don't deserve your pity. I'm a monster. I ruined your life. I fucking ruined you."

"Maybe," I whispered. "But you're bleeding. And I don't know how to stitch wounds, but I know how to clean them. Let me help you. Please."

He stared at me. For a long, agonizing moment, I thought he was going to shove me away.

Then, his eyes dropped to my swollen belly. He reached out his good hand, the one stained with blood, and placed it gently on my bump.

He didn't speak. He just held me, his forehead falling to rest against my stomach.

I felt it—a tiny kick. The baby moved, pressing against Drake's palm.

Drake let out a shaky breath. A sound that was half-laugh, half-sob.

"He knows," Drake whispered, his voice hoarse. "He knows his father is here."

My heart shattered into a million pieces.

I wrapped my arms around his head, pulling him closer to my belly. I ran my fingers through his slick, dark hair. He didn't resist. He just leaned into my touch, breathing heavily.

"I hate you," I whispered, tears streaming down my face. "I hate you for what you did to me. I hate you for locking me in this cage. I hate you for making me feel safe when you're a monster."

"I know," he breathed against my skin.

"But I'm going to clean your wounds anyway." I pulled back, wiping my eyes. "Stand up. Take off your shirt. Let me take care of you."

He looked up at me. The predator was gone. In his place was a broken, haunted man.

"Thank you," he whispered.

He stood up, hissing in pain. He shrugged off his ruined jacket, then unbuttoned his blood-soaked shirt. He pulled it off, revealing a torso covered in scars—old ones, jagged and white, mixed with fresh, angry cuts.

I led him to the bathroom. I made him sit on the closed toilet lid. I ran a washcloth under warm water, and I began to clean the gash on his cheek.

He watched me the entire time. His grey eyes, heavy and tired, never left my face.

"You're beautiful," he murmured. It wasn't a degrading slur. It was a raw confession. "Do you know that? Even battered, even scared, you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

I stopped cleaning. My heart raced.

"Don't say that," I whispered. "Don't be kind to me. It makes it worse."

"Worse?" he asked, catching my wrist. His grip was soft—so soft compared to last night. "How could this be worse?"

"Because I'm going to fall in love with you," I sobbed, the words spilling out before I could stop them. "And loving a monster is the most dangerous thing in the world."

He pulled my wrist, gently, pulling me onto his lap. I straddled his thighs, my belly pressing against his abs.

He looked up at me, his hands resting on my waist.

"I'm not going to fuck you tonight," he said.

I blinked. "What?"

"I'm going to worship you." He leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to my collarbone. "I'm going to show you that I'm not just a monster. I'm going to take care of you. Because you took care of me."

He kissed my neck. My jaw. My lips. It was tender, devastatingly tender.

And when his hands slid down to the hem of my shirt, pushing it up to expose my swollen belly, he didn't grab me roughly. He knelt down on the bathroom floor—this terrifying king, this bloody murderer—and he pressed his lips to my pregnant belly.

"Thank you," he whispered to my bump. "Thank you for saving her for me."

I cried. I cried silent, hot tears, my hands fisted in his hair.

He was an abyss. He was a monster. He had orchestrated my downfall.

But tonight, in this cold, marble bathroom, bleeding and broken, he was making love to me with his lips, his tongue, his gentle hands.

And I was falling.

Falling hard, falling fast, falling straight into the golden, bloody abyss of Drake's broken soul.