The Price of A Monster
976 Words
[KANG JIN-WOO]
"I can afford anything."
Her words hung in the freezing air, desperate and expensive. She was still on her knees in the slush, clutching my greasy apron like a lifeline. Her knuckles were white.
I looked down at her. A shivering mess of torn silk and terror. But beneath the fear, I saw that flash in her eyes again. That hunger.
A siren wailed in the distance.
Time to go. My cover at the BBQ place was blown to hell anyway. Three broken professionals in a dumpster tend to attract attention.
I reached down and peeled her frozen fingers off my apron, one by one. Her skin was shockingly soft against my calloused hands.
"Get up," I ordered. Not a request. A command.
She scrambled to her feet, wobbling on bare, frozen feet, clutching her useless high heels to her chest.
"My car," she chattered, her teeth clicking together. "It's... the driver is tracking my phone. He should be around the corner."
I grabbed her arm. No gentle escort. I gripped her bicep hard enough to bruise, propelling her toward the mouth of the alley.
"Move. If those three wake up, they'll have backup."
A sleek, black armored Maybach pulled up to the curb silently, crushing a cardboard box. The back door flew open. A panicked driver in a suit leaped out.
"CEO Park! Are you hurt? I lost the signal for two minutes, I—"
The driver stopped dead when he saw me. A giant in a blood-spattered apron towing one of the richest women in Korea. His hand went inside his jacket.
I didn't have time for amateurs.
I released Seo-Yeon and took one step toward the driver. I let a fraction of my killing intent leak out. Just a look.
The driver froze. His hand stalled inside his jacket. He looked like a rabbit staring down a barrel.
"Drive," I said.
I shoved Seo-Yeon into the back seat of the Maybach. The interior smelled of Connolly leather and distress.
I started to climb in after her.
She stopped me, her hand flying to my chest. "Wait. You can't... you smell like pork fat."
I looked at her. She had just almost been bagged and tagged by a snatch team, and she was worried about her upholstery.
Billionaires.
I ripped the greasy apron over my head, balling it up and tossing it onto the sidewalk. Underneath, I was wearing a faded black t-shirt that was two sizes too small.
"Better, Princess?"
I climbed in, slamming the heavy, armored door shut, sealing us inside the silent, luxurious capsule. The space immediately felt too small. My shoulders brushed against hers. The heat of my body, still amped from the fight, clashed with the icy chill radiating off her.
"Where to, CEO Park?" the driver’s shaky voice came over the intercom.
Seo-Yeon took a shuddering breath, trying to glue her corporate mask back onto her face.
"Home. Tower 90."
[PARK SEO-YEON]
The car was moving. The doors were locked. I was safe.
My heart rate should have been dropping. Instead, it was climbing.
The man—the dishwasher, the monster—was sitting inches from me. Without the apron, he was even more terrifying. The cheap t-shirt clung to him like a second skin, outlining biceps thick with corded muscle and veins.
The smell of pork was gone, replaced by something raw. Sweat, metal, and an overwhelming, masculine scent that made my mouth go dry.
I looked at his hands resting on his knees. The knuckles were split and bleeding from where he’d shattered the hitman’s face. He didn't seem to notice the pain at all.
Velvet was clawing at the inside of my ribcage. Touch him. See if he's real.
I clenched my fists to stop my hands from shaking. I needed to regain control. I was Park Seo-Yeon. I owned this city. He was just hired help.
"The price," I managed to say, my voice tighter than I wanted. "We need to discuss terms."
He didn't look at me. He was staring out the tinted window, his eyes scanning the street reflections.
"Room and board," he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the leather seat into my thigh. "Private wing. Nobody enters my space without permission. And a fiber optic internet connection dedicated solely to my room. Sub-1ms ping."
I blinked. I was ready to offer him millions.
"Internet? That's it?"
He finally turned to look at me. Those dead, black eyes bore into mine, stripping away my layers of silk and pretense.
"And complete operational authority," he added. "When the bullets start flying, I own you. You move when I say move. You drop when I say drop. If you question an order in the field, you die. Do you understand, CEO Park?"
The air in the car sucked out. His proximity was suffocating. Intoxicating.
The threat wasn't just outside the car anymore. It was right here, sitting next to me, bleeding onto my leather seats.
My breath hitched. A shameful jolt of heat pooled low in my belly at his dominant tone.
"I understand," I whispered.
The Maybach slowed, turning into the private underground entrance of the tallest residential spire in Gangnam. Park Tower. My fortress.
"Good," he grunted, turning back to the window. "Then welcome to your new job, dishwasher."
The car stopped. The driver opened the door.
I stepped out into the brightly lit, sterile private garage.
"Come," I said, regaining a shred of my dignity. "We need to get you cleaned up before the girls see you."
He stepped out of the car, towering over me.
"Girls?" he asked, his brow furrowing slightly.
The private elevator doors slid open. I stepped inside.
"My sisters," I said wearily, pressing the button for the penthouse. "You didn't just inherit me, Ghost. You inherited the whole circus."
- Writer
