The Gender War (The Gender Game #4) by Bella Forrest (read novel full TXT) 📗

Amber’s father looked back and forth between his approaching daughter and the king, as if he wasn’t sure which issue he should address first. He seemed to opt for the reunion, but his tone had gone from one of paternal concern to alarm in seconds. “What is this?” he demanded as Amber came to stand in front of him.

“Where’s Mother?” Amber asked, and the man was taken by surprise yet again, thrown off balance by her simple question.

“I… uh… well…” he stuttered, looking distraught. He took a deep breath and then sighed. “I’m sorry to have to tell you like this, Amberlynn, but your mother had an accident six months ago. She… she didn’t make it.”

I looked at Amber. Her lips pursed, and she said nothing as she stared at her father.

Then she reached down, pulled out her gun, and shot her father in the leg.

He screamed and dropped to the ground, his hands already clutching his leg, trying to stop the blood. I reeled back in shock as Amber moved closer to where her father was crying and demanding help, stared down at him for a few seconds, and then brought her gun in line with his head. He yelled, babbling incoherently as he tried to move away from her, both hands raised in surrender.

“Amber! Stand down!” cried Owen, racing up the stairs. She half-turned to look at him, her eyes narrowing, and then turned back to her father. I wasn’t close, but I could see her jaw tighten in disgust. Then, she tossed her gun to a man who was racing out the front door. He caught it in surprise, his eyes wide in alarm as he took her in.

“Hello, Jeff,” she said, her voice surprisingly calm and even after just shooting her own father. “See to him, will you? Then please show my guests around—we will be here for a bit.”

Then she marched past him into the house, leaving the rest of us standing there in shock. Owen and the man “Jeff”—who looked to be in his fifties, with unassuming clothing and a carefully tailored moustache—were already tending to her father’s wound.

“That stupid cow,” the auburn-haired man spluttered, all his fatherly affection apparently gone. “She’s an ill-bred bitch of a woman! I should’ve known better than to marry her mother, stupid cow that she was! Nothing but an ungrateful slut! I’ll kill her! ”

“Shut. Up,” Owen spat from between clenched teeth, his face murderous. Violet, who’d gotten out of the truck before Amber but stood back, holding Samuel, looked at me, alarm on her face. It was all I could do to stop myself from dusting my hands and walking away.

“Everybody calm down,” I shouted. “Owen, you and Jeff take him into a front room.”

“The—uh—sitting room is available, sir,” said the older man, his voice rich and strong. “Would that be acceptable?”

“Jeffries! How dare you invite these people in? They came here with my tramp of a daughter! Phone the—AH!” I grinned as Owen tightened the makeshift bandage on the man’s knee, cutting off his rant mid-statement.

“So sorry, Mr. Ashabee,” Jeff—or Jefferies?—replied, patting Ashabee on the arm in a soft, conciliatory manner. “But it seems, for the time being, we must play nice with the unexpected guests. Especially considering they have the king with them.”

King Maxen regally inclined his head, and I rolled my eyes as I climbed the stairs to the porch. “Yeah, he’s our ‘guest of honor,’” I announced, trying not to go too heavy on the sarcasm. “I assume you are Mr. Ashabee’s butler or manservant?”

“His valet,” the older man replied, somehow managing an indignant sort of humility as he said it. I blinked and shook my head.

“Excellent. If Mr. Ashabee has any other servants, bring them out now, before they do something stupid.”

The valet bowed and scurried into the house. I was impressed by how cool and collected he remained in the face of his boss being shot. He returned a moment later with several people in tow—two maids, a cook, and a man who could’ve been a gardener or maintenance man. “This is the staff,” he announced, and they collectively bowed or curtsied, looking very afraid.

“You have nothing to fear from us,” I said before he could give me their names—I would learn them later. “However, given the events in the city, we need to impose on your hospitality for a few days. And, because we can’t trust you not to talk—nothing personal, just a precaution—you will need to remain here indefinitely. You are not to call anyone. The king is under my protection. Your Majesty, would you kindly let them know we are friends?”

I turned to where Violet and Ms. Dale had brought the king up to the base of the porch and stood on either side of him. Maxen arched an imperious eyebrow at me. “I do not talk to the help,” he announced, his voice uncompromisingly firm.

I scowled at him and then turned back to the confused faces of the staff. The valet, for his part, seemed unruffled by the king’s behavior. “All right, I guess you’re just going to have to take my word for it. But I can’t stress this enough—if you let anyone know that he’s here, you will not only be putting his life in jeopardy, but also the life of your employer. Do you understand?”

“I will make sure that they do,” replied the valet, bowing stiffly.

In the few moments since I’d met him, I hadn’t expected to like the valet, who seemed more like a butler. But the man had a way of keeping calm in the face of violence and confusion that I had to respect. I looked over in time to see Owen and Henrik disappear into the house, Ashabee supported between the two of them, Quinn hot on their heels.

“Excellent,” I told the valet. “Take the time you need to explain it to them, and then meet me in the sitting room or… whatever. We need to discuss a