The Fearless King (The Kings #2)(20)

He ran a single finger over her cheek, the soft touch taking what little strength was left in her legs. Elliott watched her sink to the ground, warmth bleeding into his blue eyes for the first time since he walked through her door. “You should know by now that you don’t have a say.” He crouched in front of her, too close, his sickly sweet breath choking her. “You’re mine, sweetheart. You and your precious little sister and your brothers. You’ve always been mine, and you’re always going to be mine. Don’t think for a second that any of you can keep me from what I want.” He smoothed his hand over her hair, a soft touch that heralded a closed fist or some kind of pain both more creative and horrifying.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Someone was at the door.

Elliott jerked back, and she collapsed the rest of the way to the floor. He pushed smoothly to his feet and disappeared. She lay there, her cheek against the cool wood floor, and listened to him open the door. He’ll get rid of them and then…

Then the nightmare would really begin.

A smooth voice saturated the dread pooling around her. “Everything good here? We had a complaint about someone trespassing.”

Frank.

*



Frank stared at Elliott Bancroft for several long seconds and then looked over the man’s shoulder and into Journey’s apartment. No sign of her. It might not be enough to put him on high alert…if he hadn’t seen security footage of Elliott bribing the guard at the security desk to get access to Journey’s place. The man hadn’t been inside her apartment for long, but Frank knew all too well how quickly things could get deadly. He’d gotten there in time. He refused to believe anything else.

But he might not have if he hadn’t quietly purchased this building months ago when Beckett first started having issues with his wayward family.

If Frank hadn’t tasked one of his men to keep an eye on the place a couple of days ago after he’d agreed to help Journey.

If, if, if.

He still couldn’t see her. Where the fuck are you, Duchess?

He smoothed out his anger and banished his concern, leaving no trace of it in his face or voice. “Where is the owner of this apartment?”

The man gave him a charming smile. “She stepped into the shower. I’m not sure what this business about a trespasser is, but there’s nothing wrong here.”

Frank studied his face, finding no evidence of lying. Which just went to show exactly how dangerous Elliott Bancroft was. He glanced behind the man. The open floor plan didn’t leave a lot of hiding places, and even if Journey was that willing to dodge Frank, she wouldn’t be doing it while her old man stood there chatting him up. Bedroom. Bathroom. That’s it. The shower wasn’t on. Not surprising since Frank doubted Journey would just casually get into the shower while the enemy was in her apartment.

He met Elliott’s gaze. The man hadn’t recognized him, which was just as well. He was like all the other old rich assholes in Texas—he assumed Frank was the hired help based on the color of his skin. That used to irritate Frank to the point where he wanted to shove his identity—his power—in their faces.

These days, he used their racism against them. Frank let his shoulders drop half an inch. “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“This is my daughter’s apartment.” He smiled, as if that answered everything. To anyone who didn’t know better, it might be enough. They would look at the charm and the familial connection and think nothing of a father dropping in on his daughter after a long absence.

Frank knew better.

Even if Journey hadn’t asked for his help, he still knew better.

He dropped the apologetic tone and crossed his arms over his chest. Still polite, so very polite. “You see, sir, I know for a fact that she didn’t buzz you up. As such, I’m going to have to ask you to leave. If she wants you here, she can always let you back in herself.” Over my dead body. He had no right to the protective feeling that made him want to bash this man’s face against the nearest wall to expel his rage. I would feel that way even if Journey was any other woman in danger. Journey being the injured party had nothing to do with the level of his anger.

Nothing at all.

Elliott seemed to weigh his odds of slamming the door in Frank’s face and must have realized that Frank would haul his ass out of that apartment, Bancroft or no, father or no. “I can reschedule.” He stepped around him and walked down the hallway as if going for a Sunday stroll.

Frank waited until the man entered the elevator to walk into the apartment and shut and lock the door behind him. “Journey?”

“Frank.” Her voice was so soft, he wouldn’t have heard it if the place wasn’t dead silent.

He strode around the kitchen island and dropped to his knees next to her prone body. “Where are you hurt?” There wasn’t any obvious damage, but her sweatshirt and leggings covered the majority of her body. A well-placed punch given by Elliott could do more than break bones. There could be internal bleeding or worse. He reached for her and hesitated. “Talk to me, Duchess.”

“I’m okay.” She pushed to a sitting position and leaned back against the cabinets, her eyes closed. “He didn’t hurt me.”

Her choppy breathing and the sheer lack of color in her face gave lie to her words. “You and I have a different definition of hurt.” Even if Elliott didn’t get a chance to do physical damage, there had been damage done. Her trying to downplay it only pissed Frank off.