The Fearless King (The Kings #2)(26)

Party girl. Spurned Duchess. Lydia King’s protégé. Brazen bitch who didn’t care what anyone thought of her. COO of Kingdom Corp. Independent woman.

Her father had been back in town for less than a week and it all crumbled around her in pieces. How strong was she when a single touch from him sent her to her knees instead of for a weapon to defend herself? How independent was she really if she needed someone to stand between her and her enemy?

First, Anderson had done what he could to protect her. And though their mother had never been loving or nurturing, Lydia hadn’t hesitated the second she realized her children were in danger.

Journey didn’t know how to fight her father when she couldn’t be in the same room as him without curling into a ball and waiting for the inevitable attack. I don’t have to fight alone. Asking for help is not weak.

She shoved the thought away and slicked back her hair. As tempting as it was to hide in the shower for the next hour or two, Frank wanted to talk about their plans, and the first step to kicking her father the hell out of Houston was getting dressed and having that conversation.

She had less than thirty-six hours to shore up her defenses so she was able to walk into Kingdom Corp on Monday as some semblance of the confident woman she’d shown herself to be over most of her adult life. It shouldn’t seem like a Herculean task but…

She didn’t know if she could pull it off.

One step at a time. Stop borrowing trouble.

Journey shut off the shower and used one of the big gray towels to dry off. It was fluffy and luxuriously soft, and she frowned at it as she hung it back up. Maybe it was nuts to expect Frank to have utilitarian towels and sheets and…

Warmth spread through her body at the thought of the sheets Frank had on his bed, warmth that chased away the tendrils of weakness still clinging to her beneath her skin. She already knew how good it felt to have his hands on her, his big body such a comfort. God, would you listen to yourself? Frank doesn’t comfort. He’s a deceptively deep river that carves his way through any obstacle in his path. He is dangerous. You can’t afford to forget that.

Journey walked to the bag Frank had tossed at the end of the bed and rifled through it. She wasn’t sure what to expect since Frank was the one who’d packed for her, but there was a totally reasonable number of leggings, shirts, and underwear. Her fingers brushed her thick wool socks, and something inside her relaxed. Bundling up made her feel safe and comforted, which was part of the reason she kept her apartment temperature just above frigid. Frank’s place wasn’t anywhere near as cold, but she still pulled on the socks after she got dressed.

She stopped, her hand on the doorknob. Leggings and an oversized sweatshirt and giant wool socks did nothing to support the impression that she’d always fought to present to the world. To present to Frank. If she went out there now…

What’s the alternative? Hiding in this room for the rest of your life?

Besides, that ship had already sailed when Frank found her in a huddled mess on her kitchen floor. There was no going back now.

She paused to pull her hair into a ponytail, squared her shoulders, and marched out of the bedroom. Journey considered snooping, but the last thing she needed was to piss off Frank, the one person capable of helping her out of her current predicament.

Besides, it’s not like I’m going to sleep tonight. I’ll wander after he’s in bed.

And less likely to catch her.

She headed downstairs and followed the faint strains of some classical melody she couldn’t quite place. It led her down a hallway with an arched ceiling and into what could only be Frank’s office. She stopped inside the doorway and took in the space.

Large windows overlooked the trees surrounding the house, their branches allowing filtered sunlight through to paint the hardwood floor with intricate designs. The walls were a pale gray that, combined with the high ceilings, made the space seem even larger than it already was. Frank sat behind a pale wood desk that might have been feminine if not for the heavy lines of the piece. A matching cabinet housed a docking system his phone was currently hooked up to and a small potted plant.

He glanced up, his dark gaze as clinical as that of a doctor checking on a patient. “You look better.”

It wasn’t a question, and she had no way to address it without flat-out lying—she wasn’t okay by a long shot—so she crossed to peer at his phone. Violin Concerto in D Major. “I didn’t take you for a Tchaikovsky fan.”

“It helps me focus.” He closed his laptop and leaned back, giving her his full attention. The weight of Frank’s gaze had her fighting not to fidget. She could feel it like a physical thing, tracing over her face and her shoulders, down her breasts and stomach, to her feet. And then back up again. It would have been easier to bear if it was sexual in nature, but he had the air of someone checking for wounds, rather than a man interested in ripping her clothes off and having her right there on the floor.

It didn’t matter if her current state didn’t drive Frank into a tizzy of lust. That wasn’t why she was there. Journey resquared her shoulders. “It’s time we talk about that plan of yours.”

“What did your father do to you?”

It took everything she had not to flinch at his soft question. Journey stared at a spot over his right shoulder. “That’s none of your damn business.”

“I’m working blind here, Duchess. It would be helpful to know that history so I can anticipate his next moves.”