The Goblin King (2 page)

Roan removed Dai’s hand. “She asked.”

“She didn’t know what she asked.”

“Too late.” Too bad. Eliza was his. A prize fit for a king.

“She is injured,” Anfri said, stopping Dai’s arguments.

Roan turned away, not wanting to see the judgment on his brother’s face. Instead he focused on the cuts on her feet, where blood stained her soles and spread to his sheets. His gut tightened as the magic of the Shadowlands ran through him, begging for use, urging his surrender. He hissed. He didn’t want anyone else touching Eliza, but her wounds weren’t life threatening, so no magic was required. He had to let Anfri tend to Eliza. He was the closest thing to a doctor they had, patching their injuries hundreds of times over the centuries.

“Get your kit,” he said to Anfri before turning to his brother. “I didn’t do it.” He knew exactly what his brother was thinking, the same way Dai knew his thoughts too well. “I’m not that close to succumbing.”

Dai nodded. They both knew. Not this time. Maybe not next time. But soon.

***

Milk dropped into Steven’s coffee like a turd. It splashed onto his hand and the cuff of his shirt. He swore and tipped the foul brew down the sink. Then he pulled out another carton, the low-fat, high-calcium crap Eliza liked, and gave it a trial sniff. He gagged. Every drop of milk in the house had soured overnight. It would have to be black coffee, the perfect end to the perfect night spent in the guest room after Eliza’s little temper tantrum.

He drank the coffee fast even though his stomach complained, still struggling with the after-effects of last night’s alcohol. Last night, what a nightmare that had turned out to be. He’d made excuses for her not being there to cut her cake. A migraine. His knuckles whitened. She was giving him a fucking migraine.

Steven left the cup in the sink and stalked upstairs. He’d break the door down to get in if he had to. He should’ve hauled her out last night. He shook his head. No. Better she acted the fool in private. In public they were perfect, the soon-to-be Mr. and Mrs. Slade, heirs to the Coulter legacy.

He twisted their bedroom door handle. The metal groaned and opened. Last night the handle hadn’t budged. He shrugged off the faint sense of unease gathering around him like whispered accusations. She must have jammed the door and then felt repentant this morning. Pity he wasn’t in the mood to forgive.

He stepped into the room, then reared back at the appalling stench. His bedroom smelled like a party of drunken rats had drowned and then dried under a relentless sun.

“Jesus.” It was worse than the milk.

His wardrobe door hung open. The rails where his suits and shirts had hung were gappy and grinning like an old man missing teeth.

“What the hell?” His face twisted with rage. Every suit was gone.

Steven turned. The bed was empty and un-slept in. Where was she? He spun. She wasn’t in the bathroom but the bath was full. Every one of his suits was stuffed into the tub.

“Fuck, no.”

The stink was wet Italian wool and wine. And was that wine or blood on the white tiles, pooling in the grout?

Steven snatched up the phone from his side of the bed and dialed Eliza’s cell phone. This little stunt was too much. She had no right to do this, after everything he’d done…

A chirp answered his call. Anger congealed into a sharp-edged brick that wedged in his gut. He stomped around the bed and flung open her wardrobe door, knowing what he’d find. Her handbag. He pulled the little black bag down from the shelf. Her phone lit up the interior. Keys. Wallet. Sunglasses. All still inside. His rage exploded. The phone slid out of his fingers and bounced in the soft burgundy carpet.

It could have been the hangover, or the smell of his ruined suits, or that Eliza was gone and he would have to involve the police. His stomach heaved and acid coffee scratched his throat. Steven ran for the bathroom, stepping on the smashed wine glass and slicing his foot. He didn’t have time to curse. He barely made it to the toilet.

If she ruined his plans, he’d kill her, he swore as he threw up.

Chapter 2

Eliza’s handbag sat on the table, small and neat and expensive. But then he’d bought it for her, and it perfectly suited his tastes. Steven had brought it downstairs and placed it in the cloakroom for the police to find. She may be missing, but he didn’t want the police in the bedroom. Not until he’d finished cleaning up. Partners were always the first suspect. Given the spat last night, a giant novelty neon-yellow sports finger was pointed his way, declaring him guilty of a crime he hadn’t committed.

He didn’t need the police uncovering the ones he had.

“So you had a fight at eleven,” the cop read from his notes.

“Approximately.” Steven folded his hands. He stopped short of wringing them; that would be too much.

“Then Ms. Coulter disappeared.”

Steven nodded. “I thought she’d gone upstairs to tidy up.”

“Tidy up?” The cop raised his eyebrow.

“Fix her makeup. She was upset.”

“Give her twenty-four hours.” The cop closed his notebook. “She’s probably at a friend’s.”

Which friend? He knew all her friends and none of them would hide her from him…except the bitch sister-in-law, but she wouldn’t involve her precious brat. Eliza should’ve been in the bedroom. How had she left the party without being seen by anyone? Without taking her car, or cell, or purse? Yet she’d vanished, leaving everything behind, but taking everything she knew about him and his business dealings. For all he knew she was having a chat with the Major Fraud Squad now. His throat constricted.

“I’m worried.” What if she’d planned this and faked her own disappearance just to get the police involved? “She’s never done anything like this before.”

And wouldn’t again, once he got his hands on her. His mind raced. If she didn’t turn up, maybe he could still use it to his advantage. The paperwork pointed at her…that alone gave her motive to vanish with the cash.

“It happens more often than you’d like to think.” The cop made to leave, then turned. “What was the fight about?”

Steven hid his frustration at the cop for lingering. Who cared what they fought about? He fabricated a lie around enough truth that it was plausible.

“She saw me talking to another woman. Got jealous. Women on their birthdays—they just don’t like getting older.” Steven walked toward the door.

He didn’t want to seem overly eager to get the cop out, but if the constable looked hard enough, there would be something that would earn a more detailed investigation of the house. He couldn’t afford that. He was working a balancing act. He wanted Eliza found
and
he wanted his privacy.

Did he want too much?

“She’ll be back by dinner,” the cop assured him.

She’d better be.
But already he was making a contingency plan. Eliza wouldn’t catch him with his pants down twice.

Steven opened the front door and winced. There was probably glass embedded in his hand. It had been everywhere else—in the bath, in his suits, on the floor. One glass in a hundred pieces.

The cop had noticed and paused. “What did you do to your hand?”

Steven held it up for inspection. “Broke a glass while I was cleaning up the lounge room.”

“Looks like you’ve got more to go.”

“I’ve got cleaners coming in to help.” He’d left enough mess to make sure he looked like the anxious fiancé. The bedroom he was going to have to finish himself. It was too much of a crime scene. Like Eliza was trying to frame him and make sure the police would search the house and office. Was she hoping they would find what she couldn’t?

Whatever Eliza was trying to pull would fail. He’d already bagged his suits and put bicarb on the stained grout. Getting rid of the stink was going to be harder. But by the time he was done, there would be no reason for the police to suspect him of any wrongdoing at home, or at work.

If she came back, he would be teaching her a lesson. He needed to pull her into line. And fast. A performance like this at the wedding wouldn’t fly. It would ruin his reputation.

Steven held the front door open. “Look, don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t want to see you again.”

If Eliza didn’t come back, he would have to file a missing persons report just to look the part. A flicker of doubt surfaced. What if she were really missing? He pushed the thought aside. Who abducted a woman from her own birthday party?

***

Roan watched the rise and fall of Eliza’s chest. Her lashes lay against her cheeks as if she were a doll waiting for life to return and reanimate her body. A purple bruise and patterned graze marred her forehead, and her feet were bandaged. Anfri had worked under his supervision, touching only where told, yet still it had been too much.

Now he waited, stretched out on the bed next to her. Over the span of two thousand years Roan had become very good at waiting. And watching.

Her black dress tightened then eased with each breath. Women hadn’t changed that much over his long and unnatural lifetime. The clothes, the jewelry, the makeup—of which she wore too much—were all irrelevant. And he was sure the blond of her hair was false. He smiled and ran his hand up her thigh, nudging the dress a little higher. He was looking forward to finding out.

He pushed the soft silk until it just covered her underwear. The beads in his hair whispered in his ear as he moved. Would she fight or submit?

Over time he’d learned how to avoid being commanded by his summoner; after answering their initial call, he simply left. Some tried again. Most laughed and had another drink. Yet, ignoring their demands hadn’t always been so easy. He wore the scars of being called by history’s worst—weak-willed commanders, paranoid rulers, men who didn’t deserve respect. He had committed atrocities in their names.

Decades had passed since anyone had offered him anything of value other than gold. The last summoner to give him something had been a child wanting to be a young woman. In helping her, he had remembered what it was like to be human again, something that happened far too rarely these days. For a while she’d thought of him, he’d felt her dreams on his skin, not quite a summons, more of a hope of seeing him again. He’d never responded. It was better to avoid temptation than fall headlong into something he knew he couldn’t resist.

He glanced at the woman in his bed. For a moment he almost considered taking her back to the Fixed Realm. But taking her back wouldn’t return his humanity. He might as well enjoy what he had left. She’d wished to be taken away. The words of the wish tugged at his soul like a half-forgotten dream. He pushed them aside. Her wish was granted and his would be too. Roan ran his palm down the woman’s leg; the touch of human skin warmed his hand but didn’t reach his heart.

“Silly, silly girl,” he murmured, wanting to hold on to the moment before she woke and the fantasy shattered.

Her eyelids flickered.

Expectation tightened every one of Roan’s nerves to battle ready. Starved for too long, he refused to rush. Anticipation was half the delight, half the torture.

Her eyes opened. She blinked and turned her head. Her eyes widened in fear when she saw him.

Roan placed a finger over her lips. He didn’t want to hear her scream. Not until he was deep in her, her legs around his shoulders. “I’ve been waiting, Eliza.”

Her lips parted for speech. Or was it a kiss? He took the latter, leaning over to brush his mouth against the red of her lips. She shoved away, denying him a taste in her scramble to escape. Power thumped through his body and his skin tingled.

A fighter. Always more entertaining than a simpering miss who’d cave to his every request.

Roan snapped into action, catching and trapping her beneath him. Eliza kicked her legs, trying to throw him off. One knee connected with his back. Roan grunted and shifted to sit on her thighs so she couldn’t repeat the blow. She bucked and wriggled, all without a sound, then she struck out with her nails. He leaned back, dodging the cat scratch, and grabbed her wrists. He pulled her hands to his chest.

Eliza became as still as a corpse. Realization spread over her face, stretching her features. She knew she was his for the taking.

Roan kissed her hand. He didn’t want fear. Without warning she lifted her hips, trying to throw him off. He hooked his feet around her legs and spread them. Her hands were trapped beneath his on the bed. Body to body. Hip to hip. The gold and amber beads in his hair danced above her skin. The clothing between them could be gone at his will, but he waited. What were minutes in the face of centuries?

The torment of being unable to taste her skin filled his thoughts. An eternity, that’s what it was. An eternity of flesh-hardening agony with no release. And he no longer had an eternity to wait.

Beneath him her heart raced, and the echo resonated in his body and reminded him of what he wasn’t. That he only pretended to be a man when it suited him. But he wouldn’t inflict the curse, or the goblin, on any woman.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Roan promised as his thumb stroked her skin. He lowered his head to take a kiss.

She turned her head away, the only movement his body allowed her. His gaze followed hers to her imprisoned hand. He froze.