King of Envy: Chapter 4

I’d endured torture before.

Knives, burns, shackles—I’d survived it all.

But this? This was actual fucking torture, and I had no one to blame but myself.

I glared at my laptop, willing myself to focus on my head of security’s debrief instead of the closed bathroom door.

From where I sat in the living room, I had a direct view of that door, as well as the open suitcase filled with silks and lace in the bedroom. It was like she’d left it there on purpose to torment me.

The shower squeaked, followed by the sound of running water.

A muscle jumped in my jaw.

“…beef up our office security measures…” Sean’s voice cut in and out of my thoughts.

I should’ve never agreed to accompany Ayana out here. Being near her in public was bad enough. Now we had to share not only the same room but the same fucking bed.

Due to its full capacity, the Winchester didn’t have an extra cot to spare, so I was left to suffer for the night.

If only I’d found us another hotel earlier.

If only the greedy, selfish part of me—the one that’d foolishly wanted to be closer to her—hadn’t won out.

If only.

“I didn’t want to say anything until it’s confirmed, but we have a lead on the person who started the Vault fire.” Sean’s update finally snapped me out of my escalating spiral.

I straightened, my pulse quickening. The fire was the only thing that could take my mind off Ayana these days, and Sean had just handed me a big fat distraction on a silver platter.

“We found traces of fiber that didn’t belong to any of the workers or logged visitors at the site,” he said. Sean was former Special Ops and had been one of Harper Security’s top employees before I hired him for my personal team five years ago. He had the exact direct, no-nonsense attitude that I valued in my employees. “Given the state of the site after the fire and the bureaucratic red tape, it took us a while to dig through the evidence. Our guys didn’t find the fibers until this morning.”

I typed my reply in the chat. When we couldn’t meet in person, we communicated via a secure encrypted network.

“No. However, we tracked down this photo from someone who was in the area around the time of the fire.”

A picture popped up onscreen. A twenty-something blonde in a Northwestern sweatshirt grinned into the camera. She was obviously a tourist, but I wasn’t interested in her.

I was interested in the man in the background.

She’d captured her selfie right as he walked by. To the untrained eye, he looked like any other man going for a stroll.

To me, he looked like a man hiding something. The nondescript clothing, the relaxed yet alert body language, the angling of his face away from surveillance cameras—this was a professional.

A plain blue cap obscured half his features. He was around six foot two, Caucasian with a muscular build and dark hair. Black T-shirt, no identifiable logos.

Sean read my mind. “The shirt he’s wearing is a potential match for the fibers,” he said. “We pieced together the surveillance footage from surrounding businesses. We don’t have a direct shot of his face, but when you take timing, clothing, and other relevant factors into account, he’s the most likely suspect.”

I examined the photo again and caught something I’d missed the first time—a hint of a tattoo peeking out from the sleeve of his shirt. He was too blurry and far away for me to make out the details, but that was nothing a good enhancer couldn’t fix.

Once again, Sean picked up on what I was thinking. “We’ve enhanced the image and are analyzing the tattoo. It’s difficult since we only see a quarter of it, but once we have the specs, we’ll run it through our database.”

I sent my reply. Good. Chase it as far as you can. Money and time aren’t an issue.

I didn’t care how many months or years it took; I was going to find the bastard who’d tried to kill me.

Earlier this year, during a walkthrough of the now-famous Vault nightclub where I was a silent partner, I’d nearly died during a “freak” fire. If the Vault’s owner, Xavier Castillo, hadn’t risked his life and dragged me out in time, I would be a pile of ashes.

Official sources chalked it up to old, faulty wiring, but the timing and method had been too coincidental.

I didn’t believe in coincidences, and I definitely didn’t trust the city investigators. I’d ordered my team to look into the fire themselves.

It was a testament to their loyalty that they’d never questioned me despite half a year of dead ends.

But we were getting closer. Like Sean said, the tattoo wasn’t much, but it was something, and that was all I needed.

The bathroom door opened.

I exited out of the video call without another word and shut my laptop before Ayana even stepped foot in the bedroom.

“Sorry for hogging the shower,” she called out. “It’s all yours if you want it.”

I glanced over. My teeth clenched as a visceral bolt of heat streaked through my blood.

Fuck.

She wore a gold silk robe that flowed past her knees. It was perfectly modest, but it didn’t matter.

Makeup-free face.

Bare feet.

Glistening skin.

The sight of her fresh out of the shower was so goddamn intimate, it hit me like a punch in the gut.

I could handle her in a fancy gown or a swimsuit, but not like this. Not when the only thing that separated us was an expanse of carpet and my own fraying self-control.

She was my friend’s fiancée. I had no business noticing the lush curve of her lips, or fixating on the bead of water dripping down her neck.

And I certainly had no business imagining my mouth following that water—down, down the slender column of her throat and into the shadow of her neckline.

But I’d always done things I had no business doing. No one had ever stopped me.

No one had ever dared.

I leaned back, my face impassive as Ayana walked over to grab her phone off the table. The sleeve of her robe grazed my arm when she reached across me.

An electric current ran the length of my body, intensifying my loathing, and I turned my head so I didn’t have to breathe her in.

Some women had a signature scent, but Ayana wore a different fragrance every time. Sweet one day, sultry the next.

Tonight, there was no perfume—just the soft whiff of coconut from her shampoo and the natural scent of her skin.

I craved it as much as I hated it.

“Sorry,” she apologized again. “I forgot I left my phone out here.”

Stop apologizing.

Her eyes flew up to mine.

Two sorrys in two minutes is a bit much when you don’t have anything to apologize for.

I didn’t like the restrained, obsequious version of Ayana. It wasn’t her. I wanted to see the version that’d bitten my head off back at the bakery—and who was glaring at me now like she wasn’t sure whether she should agree with me or slap me.

Satisfaction leaked into my chest. That’s more like it.

Granted, I could’ve worded it less like an asshole, but the more I kept her at arm’s length, the better.

Why do you have to be back in New York by Monday morning?

I switched subjects, hoping the conversation would distract me.

Long legs, high cheekbones, rich brown skin, and dark eyes that gleamed with a mixture of intelligence and playfulness—even if she weren’t a well-known model, Ayana would turn heads walking down the street.

But the majority of her allure for me didn’t rest on her physical looks. It was the way she moved, with a natural grace that couldn’t be taught; it was the way she laughed, so whole-heartedly and joyously that it could chase away the darkest shadows. And it was the way she glowed, like there was a fire inside her that was just waiting to be unleashed.

Fame or not, Ayana Kidane was born to shine.

“I have a photoshoot for Delamonte Cosmetics.” She took the seat across from mine. Her midnight-black hair fell in waves past her shoulders, and her skin glowed beneath the suite’s dim lights. She appeared oblivious to my inner turmoil. “I’m their newest beauty ambassador and this is my first shoot with them, so it’s a big deal.”

A big enough deal that her agent would call her on a Saturday to harass her about it.

I couldn’t hear what he said, but I’d heard her end of the conversation. I remembered the way her nails dug into the seat and the tension underlying her voice.

It’d been more than stress; it’d been fear.

Hank Carson. I rolled the name over in my mind as I asked my next question.

Modeling. That was your childhood dream?

“Not exactly.” She traced an absentminded finger over the table. “I loved beauty and fashion. I even convinced my parents to get me a Vogue subscription when I was eleven. But I didn’t see myself as a model. I wanted to be…well, a lot of things. A pediatrician. A psychologist. An interpreter. I ended up studying chemistry and pre-med at Howard until I went to a friend of a friend’s party at Thayer. Hank was there and scouted me. The rest is history.”

I knew all this already. I’d watched every interview and read every article she’d ever been mentioned in.

But I relished hearing her share the details with me herself, though the trace of bitterness in her voice told me there was more to the story than she let on.

For a model who’d graced the cover of countless magazines and commanded the runways in New York, Paris, and Milan, she didn’t appear too thrilled.

“What about you?” Ayana’s eyes were bright with curiosity. “How did you get into the alcohol business?”

It was infuriating, the way my heartbeat thrummed at the faintest sign of interest from her.

I studied chemical engineering.

“That’s not exactly a direct pipeline to running a multinational empire.”

I also studied business on the side.

I didn’t give her my whole, boring backstory, which was that I’d worked for a small distillery in my Virginia hometown in high school. I’d hated how it was run, so I’d saved enough money to buy it outright after college. After I took it over, I’d used my knowledge of chemical engineering to revolutionize the vodka-making process. Markovic Holdings was born, and it kept growing until it became what it was today.

“You could’ve led with that.” Ayana’s expression turned thoughtful. “Vuk Markovic as an engineer. I don’t see it.”

I ignored the thrill of hearing my name leave her lips and raised a questioning brow instead.

“It’s hard to picture you as anything other than a leader. I can’t imagine you…” she trailed off.

Can’t imagine me what?

“I can’t imagine you hunched over in a cubicle, developing manufacturing processes. That’s all,” she finally said. There was an odd hitch in her voice. Embarrassed, maybe, but also a little breathless.

What can you imagine me doing?

On the surface, it was an innocent question, but my hand movements were deliberate, almost lazy. They dared her to answer.

I was treading a dangerous path.

Here, in this room, with nothing except a small table separating us…it would be so easy.

She was so close I could reach over and slide that robe down her shoulders. Run my hands over her skin and see if it was as soft as it looked. Slide my tongue into her mouth and see if she tasted as sweet as I imagined.

The silence stretched.

Ayana’s lips parted. There was no question she’d picked up on the subtle suggestiveness of my question—her eyes were wide, and I could see the wild flutter of her pulse at the base of her throat.

I expected her to walk away and end this charade once and for all. Women like her would never be attracted to monsters like me.

But she didn’t.

She stayed seated, and she looked at me…she looked at me in a way she had no right to when she was wearing another man’s ring—with awareness bordering on heat.

My blood burned hotter for an entirely different reason.

That fucking ring.

The diamond glittered in my peripheral vision and tossed a bucket of ice water over the moment.

She was engaged. I was the best man. And though I’d crossed many lines and twisted many morals in my life, loyalty was the one value I held fast to.

I stood abruptly, severing eye contact.

Ayana startled. “I⁠—”

I didn’t wait for her to finish.

I crossed into the bathroom and slammed the door behind me. My pulse rattled alongside the walls.

I was rock-hard, but I didn’t touch my engorged cock.

Instead, I cranked the water as cold as it would go and let the icy drops pelt my body.

Self-inflicted punishment, perhaps, or simply masochism, just like my inability to stay away from the woman in the other room.

I rested my forehead against the tile wall and released a long, controlled breath.

It didn’t help.

My mind still buzzed from whatever the hell happened out there. I was wound so tight, one more word from her would’ve made me snap.

If she were engaged to anyone except Jordan, I might’ve let it happen, consequences be damned.

But he was my friend, and once upon a time, he’d saved my life. That was the only reason I’d agreed to be his best man.

I was loyal to the people who were loyal to me.

Still, loyalty wasn’t enough to tame the ugly green beast inside me. I had more money and power than Jordan, but I envied his ability to create and maintain normal relationships. He could glide through life without others gawking at him like he was a zoo exhibit, and as much as I despised most human interactions, there were days when I craved a normality I’d never have.

I resented his privileged upbringing, with its silver spoons and easy access. He’d never been forced to trade in his soul for money. He’d never lost the people he loved.

Most of all, I resented the fact that he had her.

I gritted my teeth.

Between the fire investigation and running a multibillion-dollar corporation, I had better things to do than obsess over my friend’s fiancée. But like I said, my good judgment paled when it came to her.

Jordan and Ayana. The happy fucking couple.

Something unspooled in my gut—a slow, insidious poison that crawled into my throat and made me choke.

No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t dispel it because of them.

Because they were getting married.

Because I saw her first.

Because she was his when she should be mine.