Feral king, p.1
Feral King, page 1
FERAL KING
SARA FIELDS
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Epilogue
Afterword
Books of the Dragonborne Kings Series
Books of the Alpha Brotherhood Series
Books of the Omegaborn Trilogy
Books of the Wolf Kings Series
Books of the Vakarran Captives Series
Sci-Fi and Paranormal Romances by Sara Fields
Books of the Boston Kings Series
Books of the Kept as His Series
Mafia and Billionaire Romances by Sara Fields
Books of the Captive Brides Series
Books of the Terranovum Brides Series
More Stormy Night Books by Sara Fields
About the Author
Copyright © 2023 by Stormy Night Publications and Sara Fields
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Published by Stormy Night Publications and Design, LLC.
www.StormyNightPublications.com
Fields, Sara
Feral King
Cover Design by Korey Mae Johnson
This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults.
CHAPTER 1
Sophia White
“Don’t worry, sweetheart. You’ll be the prettiest one of all.”
My stepfather’s voice rang out in the oversized dressing room. He didn’t care that I was right there beside him. As per usual, he ignored me and smiled broadly with eyes only for my mother as he kissed her, sliding his hands around her waist as he pulled her closer against him.
He didn’t even glance my way. I was the ever-invisible daughter. Sometimes, it was like I didn’t even exist at all.
I don’t know why I was expecting anything different. We had never had any kind of relationship at all. For the most part, he pretended I wasn’t there. Things weren’t much better with my adoptive mother, either. The only time she gave me literally any attention at all was when she felt threatened by me.
No matter what I did or said, she was utterly obsessed with comparing her beauty to mine.
I’d lived in her shadow my whole life. Madison White was a world-famous top model and actress who had been photographed in nearly every fashion magazine in print and on the web. She’d made the top list time and time again for her high cheekbones and perfectly plump lips, not to mention her olive-green eyes, radiant dewy skin, and her sculpted, toned physique. Her work in charity made her a reigning queen in the New York socialite scene too, which meant she was invited to the top events in the city.
But it didn’t end there. Some time ago, she’d gotten the idea in her head that a family would make her look even better to the press, which was where I came in.
My adoption years ago had solidified her selflessness in the face of the public, just like she thought it would, but I knew it was all a front to reaffirm her own vanity.
She didn’t love me. She never had.
Sometimes I wondered what my real mother was like, but she’d disappeared right after I was born and left me at an orphanage in the countryside of eastern Europe. I didn’t know if she had died or just hadn’t wanted me, but there were no records left for me to find her. I lived there from the time I was a baby until I was adopted when I was four years old, and I had no memory of her. There wasn’t enough information to even begin to find her. I didn’t have very many positive memories of the orphanage as a child, aside from rich donors coming to visit us on occasion. Our house mother always made apple strudel on those days.
Madison had been one of those wealthy people. She’d come in with a large donation, saying she wanted an older child, and after she’d given every child in the place a once-over, she eventually settled on me. I recall her kneeling down in front of me with her hand reaching out, gently brushing a lock of my dark chestnut hair off my forehead. At the time, her touch had felt nice. I’d welcomed it back then.
“Her eyes are the color of honey. They’re so bright against her pretty black hair,” she’d said.
Her gaze had searched my face, assessing me with shrewd calculation. It was only much later in life that I’d realized she’d been deciding if I was cute enough to stand by her side in pictures that would show how charitable she was for helping a poor orphan in need, not if I was a child she wanted to love, care for, and make an actual member of her family.
That understanding would come much later.
My stepfather’s loud voice jarred me out of my thoughts.
“They’ll all be looking at you tonight, Madison,” he proclaimed, his words echoing throughout the room with his biased confidence.
I sighed. Tonight was going to be like every other night, where I would trail behind them with a smile plastered on my face, presenting as the perfect daughter in the perfectly happy White family at yet another charity ball.
Inwardly, I scowled. I really wanted nothing more than to curl up with a book.
All three of us were dressed to the nines. A bright red Valentino gown hugged my stepmother’s every curve, highlighting the timelessly perfect shape of her body. Her makeup was impeccably done to hide even the slightest wrinkle that hadn’t been corrected yet by Botox or plastic surgery.
Her birthday had been only yesterday, but no one had uttered her age, not even once. It was practically forbidden, so much so that I think she denied it herself.
She’d turned fifty.
She had only gotten meaner and more bitter with every passing day. Her eyes slinked over me like a viper ready to strike, and I quickly dropped my gaze so as not to instigate her ire. But I wasn’t fast enough, and she lashed out at me anyway.
“You think you’re more beautiful than me, don’t you?” she accused, sneering at me. Her vitriol was always hard to bear, especially like this.
“I don’t think that, not at all,” I whispered.
Her twisted scowl told me that she didn’t believe a word that came out of my mouth. I stared back down at the floor, and soon after that, the loud clicking of her heels against the marble tiles indicated that she’d turned her attention away from me and left the room. Only then did I hazard a glance in her direction. She didn’t look back at me, not even for a second. With a deflated sigh, I gazed at my own reflection in the mirror. I did feel quite beautiful tonight, but I’d never made the mistake of telling anyone that, especially her.
I fingered the side of my own fancy gown. It was a pretty slate blue color, much more subdued than that scarlet satin of Madison’s dress. It was some lesser-known designer than I’d already forgotten the name of, but it made me feel pretty anyway.
It was okay to feel pretty every once in a while, right?
Feeling a little defeated, I slid my feet into a pair of black and blue kitten heels and walked out of the dressing room into the front foyer. I caught a glimpse of the two of them walking out the door and stayed back, letting them climb into limo first before I followed and sat down in the seat across from them. They popped a bottle of champagne as the vehicle started but didn’t offer me any, even though it was technically the night before my twenty-first birthday.
They said nothing on the drive to the charity ball, choosing instead to chat between themselves instead of interacting with me.
To be honest, a part of me both loved and loathed the silence.
Eventually, the limo pulled up to the red carpet rolled out in front of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and a man in a suit opened the door. My stepfather climbed out and offered Madison a hand. As soon as she interlaced her fingers within his, the camera lights started flashing and people started screaming her name. Her face lit up in an instant. She was in her element. She loved this kind of attention more than anything in the world.
I waited until she was halfway down the red carpet, letting her soak up the spotlight. Eventually, I climbed out of the car and stepped into the light. I paused and took a deep breath, then continued onward, making sure I didn’t trip over my feet.
I didn’t belong here. I wanted nothing to do with the limelight. I’d much rather be camping in the woods, letting the quiet peace of nature surround me.
Tomorrow would make it seem like this had never happened. I’d already packed my car with supplies so that I could take off and celebrate on my own. I was going to drive up north to Adirondack Park and spend the day hiking and listening to my favorite music.
You only turn twenty-one once, after all.
Everything was all laid out. I had mapped out my route, planning to make a stop at a local liquor store to pick up a bottle of red wine to stuff in my pack along the way. Then, when the sun set, I’d have dinner under the stars with my first legal drink.
& nbsp; I’d been looking forward to the trip for weeks.
When I finally raised my head, knowing it was time to face the music, camera lights started flashing in my direction. Suddenly, it felt like there were a thousand of them all turned on me.
What the hell? They usually all focused on Madison, never me.
“Sophia! Miss Sophia White! Tell us how it feels to make Cosmo’s list of the most beautiful women in the world!” one reporter shrieked. A second followed up with something similar, and then the entire red carpet erupted in chaos.
What? I didn’t have a clue what they were talking about. This had to be some kind of mistake, right?
One of the cameramen rushed forward, leaping over the ropes with his camera flashing, and I took a step back. Another followed and then another, until a group of them were racing towards me. Soon, they were surrounding me, leaving me nowhere to run and nowhere to hide. In their hurry to get the best photo op, a man’s elbow knocked me in the chin, and I staggered backwards, almost tripping over my feet until a pair of secure arms wrapped around me and lifted me clean off the ground. My panic welled up from the bottoms of my feet, constricting my chest and making it hard to breathe.
I turned my head to see a friendly-looking security guard offering me a sympathetic smile. I didn’t struggle as he carried me backwards, finally placing me down on my feet once he’d managed to get some distance between me and the paparazzi.
Quickly, a group of security guards moved between me and the photographers. They escorted me safely down the red carpet until I managed to get inside. I pressed my hand to my chest and attempted to calm my frantically beating heart. When I lifted my head, I saw my stepmother standing in the entryway, her accusing, scornful gaze locked on me.
I could see her hatred for me written all over her face. The intensity of it made me feel sick.
By the time I climbed into my own bed and finally closed my eyes that night, I was exhausted. I slept hard, but in the middle of the night, I woke up with a shriek, startled when a massive hand clamped over my mouth. My eyes popped open to see a man in a black ski mask crouched over me, his dark eyes full of vicious intent.
I screamed again, but the sound was muted by the cloth he had pressed over my mouth. No one was going to hear me, not like this. My room was in the wing opposite that of my adoptive parents so they could interact with me as little as possible. I’d always liked that, but right now I wished it had been different.
The staff had long gone home and would only return in the morning. Even the ones that lived on the property were in the servants’ quarters beneath the kitchens. They wouldn’t hear a peep either.
My hope of rescue withered away.
A flowery scent assaulted my senses, and I tried not to breathe it in. All my efforts were thwarted though when he punched me in the stomach hard enough to force the air right out of my lungs. I wheezed, trying to catch my breath.
The edges of my vision danced with blackness, and I kept trying to fight as slivers of my consciousness began to fade. Gradually, my muscles grew exceedingly heavy, and my kicking and struggling started to slow until I wasn’t moving much at all. Eventually, everything went dark.
I didn’t know how long I was out.
When I finally came to, I was sitting in a chair with my hands tied behind my back. The rough, scratchy fibers dug into my wrists, and I stilled, trying to take stock of myself. My head pounded and a wave of nausea rattled through me. It took everything in me not to throw up all over myself. Once the sick feeling eventually passed, I focused on taking several deep, calming breaths. The events of last night slowly came back to me, and a fresh wave of panic washed over me. I didn’t dare open my eyes yet, not wanting to give away the fact that I was conscious to whoever had taken me, especially if they were close.
Keeping still, I just listened.
A bird chirped overheard, and the sounds of the gentle breeze cutting through the boughs of the trees met my ears. In the distance, I could hear the constant flow of rushing water, likely indicative of a river or a waterfall not too far off. In my immediate vicinity, I listened as a faucet dripped once, then twice off to the right, and someone drummed their fingers on what I assumed was likely a wooden table in front of me. The plank floor beneath my feet creaked, but I didn’t move. Not yet.
My stomach ached where I’d been punched, but the rest of me felt intact. My face felt a little sore, likely from how hard the person had held that cloth over my nose and mouth, but it wasn’t that bad. I doubted I had any bruises.
Small victories, I supposed.
I shifted my leg the tiniest bit, finding them bound just like my wrists. Rough, scratchy twine dug into my ankles too, and I gathered that whoever had taken me wasn’t interested in letting me go. If I wanted my freedom, I was going to have to fight my way out.
Resigned, I opened my eyes.
There was a lone man sitting across from me in a wooden chair. He leaned back so that only the two back legs were touching the floor, his expression cocky.
He’d taken his mask off.
My stomach roiled with bile, knowing that if he was letting me see his face, he was probably going to kill me. His dark brown eyes slid over me, pausing on my breasts.
I swallowed hard, knowing that nothing more than a pair of panties and the thin fabric of my white cotton nightgown were covering my body. In this light, he could probably see the dusky rose of my areolas right through it.
From what I could tell, we were in a small cabin in the woods somewhere. Maybe he’d brought me north, but there was no telling exactly where we were from the limited information at my disposal. The faucet leaked and there was a small fridge, which told me there was at least some power connected to this place. Most of the furniture seemed to be hewn by hand. I guessed that maybe this was a hunter’s cabin of sorts, or maybe just a place meant for camping.
My gaze locked with the man sitting at the table, his piercing brown eyes scanning me with an intense scrutiny that sent a shiver down my spine. He exuded an air of deadly confidence, his presence commanding the room. Dressed in sleek, black attire that clung to his lean frame, he seemed like a shadow given form. His dark hair framed a face chiseled with sharp angles. A subtle smirk played on his lips. Every movement he made was deliberate and controlled, betraying the lethal precision of an assassin honed by years of training.
He wasn’t as big as I had thought he was last night, but he still had at least fifty pounds of muscle on me. One on one, I probably couldn’t beat him in a fight. I’d taken some self-defense classes in the past, but the maneuvers were foggy, and none of them involved being tied to a chair.
In silence, I shifted my wrists, testing the tightness of my bonds. There was a little give in the rope, maybe just enough to slide my slim wrists out if I worked it enough. I started slipping my arms back and forth, trying to loosen the rope while keeping the rest of my body fully still.
“I must admit, you’re the youngest one I’ve ever been contracted to take care of. How old are you anyway?” he questioned thoughtfully. His voice carried with it a bit of unexpected warmth, not nearly as sinister as I imagined it would be.
“Twenty-one.”
The moment the words left my mouth, something else hit me.
“Christ. Old enough to drink.”
“It’s my birthday, actually,” I murmured miserably.
He shook his head in disgust. “I was offered a shitload of money for you,” he muttered, sounding awfully unsure of himself.
“You’re a hitman, aren’t you?” I asked, my voice sullen.
