jack kings

The cold silk of the sheets felt like ice against your skin as you shifted, a groan escaping your lips. Every muscle in your body throbbed with a dull, heavy ache, the kind that usually followed an intense sparring session in your father’s gym—but you hadn’t trained last night. you reached up, your fingers trembling as you pulled the sleeping mask from your eyes, expecting the familiar sunlight of your bedroom.

Instead, the world that came into focus was entirely foreign.

This wasn't your room. The ceiling was vaulted, dark mahogany beams crisscrossing over a space that felt more like a cathedral than a bedroom. The air was thick, saturated with a heavy, intoxicating blend of expensive oud, aged bourbon, and something metallic that reminded you exactly of who owned this place. your heart hammered against your ribs as you looked down. My cotton pajamas were gone. In their place, I was draped in a deep emerald silk robe, the fabric sliding dangerously smooth over the matching lace underneath.

"Hey, princess. Nice sleep?"

The voice was a low, gravelly vibration that seemed to come from the shadows right beside the bed. I bolted upright, ignoring the protest of my aching joints.

There he was. Jack Kings.

The man who occupied every headline my father hated and every subconscious thought I tried to bury. He was leaning against a heavy armchair, his powerful frame silhouetted by the dim morning light. He looked exactly like the "perfect body" the rumors—and my own traitorous eyes—had described: broad, immovable shoulders and a presence that commanded the very oxygen in the room.

He didn't look like a rival who had just received a rejection message. He looked like a hunter who had finally cornered his prize.