Ruthless King (Mount Trilogy #1)

So, I will not be telling my parents, and I sure as hell won’t be telling my little sisters. Imogen is finishing her PhD, and Jury is partying it up somewhere exotic, working behind or on top of a bar somewhere, just enough to fund her playgirl lifestyle.

My decision is clear—my family can never know about any of this.

I drop my bag on the worn blue velvet chair in my living area and stride toward the kitchen, intent on finding another bottle of whiskey since I left the other with Magnolia.

I’m halfway across the tile floor when I freeze.

A copy of the promissory note is on the counter. I know it’s a copy because the original is in my bag.

He was here.

Torn between making a run for it, but remembering the car parked outside, I snatch the document off the chipped Formica. Something metal pings off the tile as another piece of paper floats to the floor.

I scan the faded tile and stained grout, not seeing anything but the note with two words written in a bold hand I recognize immediately.



* * *



Six days.





* * *



I leave the note where it is, fighting another shiver of fear as I drop to my knees to search for whatever else he left.

I crawl toward the coffee table and something glints in the afternoon sunlight near the edge of one leg. I dive for it, but my fingers shake so violently I can barely pick it up.

No way. Impossible. It can’t be.

I hold the circle of gold up to the light and read the inscription inside my dead husband’s wedding band. Ice water takes the place of blood in my veins.

How? Why?

I bolt for the chair, grab my bag, and lunge for the door. When I’ve finally unbolted it, it swings open and I’m ready to sprint for my car.

Until I crash into a solid male body.

I look up, expecting to see Mount, but it’s not. Why would he bother with such a menial task if he’s busy running an empire?

Instead, it’s my super, Phil.

“Everything okay, Keira?”

I want to scream nothing is okay, but I shake my head and mumble, “Fine. Great. Thought I forgot to lock my car. Gotta go check it.”

Phil nods. “Can’t be too careful in this neighborhood.”

He moves on down the hall and I lock my door behind me, although part of my brain is wondering why I do it when it’s clear locks aren’t a deterrent to Mount or whoever he sent.

When I burst out of the building, my gaze shoots across the street. The black BMW is gone, and in its spot is a silver Prius.

Was it Mount in the BMW? Or someone who reported to him?

The words on the note flash in my head.

Six days.

The only thing I’m going to figure out in six days is how to drive myself completely crazy.

Once I lock myself in my car and jam the key in the ignition, I inhale deeply and release the breath slowly, attempting to calm my hammering heart.

My instincts scream at me to run, but where the hell do I go?

Mount was in my office at the distillery. He was in my apartment. Nothing feels safe anymore.

Maybe that’s part of his plan? He wants me helpless, like I have no options. Weak. Powerless. Under his control.

You’ve underestimated me, Mount. You might get me, but I won’t come cowering before you.

In my shitty Honda Civic, I make a vow to myself.

I will not run. I will not hide. And I sure as hell won’t put anyone else I care about in danger by bringing that monster to their doorstep.

I yank the key out of the ignition and get out of my car and lock it again, retracing my steps, feeling steadier with each moment. Once I’m inside, I find a bottle of Seven Sinner’s single barrel in the cabinet and a glass. I set everything—both versions of the promissory note, Brett’s wedding band, and my six-day warning—out in front of me.

Tonight, I’m going to reread every word of my death sentence, and then I’m getting drunk.





Keira





Going to work with a hangover sucks, especially when you’re the boss. In this case, I had no option. Passing out was the only way I was getting any sleep last night. It took a bottle and a half of whiskey to do the trick. High tolerance and all.

As I go through the motions, my employees pretend not to notice that something’s off with me. Even Temperance gives me a wide berth and doesn’t mention anything about the fundraiser.

By lunchtime, I feel like I might finally be able to stomach food, and I climb the stairs to the top floor of the distillery where we have an incredible restaurant whose fare is surpassed only by the excellent 360-degree view of the city. I designed the remodel after I saw pictures of the Gravity Bar at the Guinness Storehouse in Dublin, not that I’ve had the pleasure to go there myself.

With Brett’s debt and Mount’s threats hanging over me, maybe now I never will.

The lunch crowd in the restaurant is light. I nod at a trio of businessmen, and make small talk for a few minutes with a couple of ladies who ask about my mom and how my folks are liking it in Florida.

“They say they’re never coming back, but we’ll see.”

“Living the good life. It’s so wonderful they were able to keep the business in the family and still retire. It’s tough to manage that these days.”

“It really is.” I force a smile onto my face. “Have a wonderful lunch.”

When I duck into the kitchen and smile at Odile, our head chef, she shakes her head.

“I’ll have someone run your regular down to your office. No reason for you to wait in my hot kitchen while I make it. You got me catering to whatever those fancy rich people want for their event; no reason I shouldn’t be catering to you too.”

“You are a goddess, and those fancy rich people keep us all employed.”

She responds with a pshhh. “You do that by force of will alone. It’s that stubborn Irish in you. Now, you need to learn how to use the phone and call up to place an order like I would expect the CEO to do.”

I can’t tell her I had to get out of my office because Mount’s scent still hangs in the air, and every time I close my eyes, I picture him sitting behind my desk or trapping me in the corner.

“Tomorrow. I swear.”

I skip the elevator again in favor of the stairs. It’s basically the only exercise I get, and the elevator takes me longer to get back to the basement.

I’m not sure about other distilleries, but in my family, the basement office signifies that the CEO learned the business from the bottom up, and serves as a reminder to always stay humble and grounded.

I’ve always loved the basement for that reason, down to the faint scent of mildew that clings to the old wooden beams. But now it feels foreign and forbidding.

When I reach my office, I feign my familiar confidence as I reach for the doorknob, telling myself there’s no reason to fear going inside. But as soon as I open the door, I’m proven wrong.

My desk lamp was off when I left, and now it’s on. In the pool of light is another note.



* * *



Five days.





* * *



Beneath it is the framed picture of my sisters and me that normally hangs on the wall behind the desk.

My instinct is to freeze in terror again, but instead I force out a declaration from between gritted teeth.

“You don’t scare me, Mount. I refuse to cower.”

This time, there’s no answer from the darkness.



* * *