Sadistic King Read Online Aria Cole

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Angst, Contemporary, Dark, Romance Tags Authors:

Total pages in book: 31
Estimated words: 29349 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 147(@200wpm)___ 117(@250wpm)___ 98(@300wpm)

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Sadistic King

Author/Writer of Book/Novel:

Aria Cole

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This is it. My last chance saloon. Go undercover, find evidence on one of the worst men I’ve ever heard of, take him down and get my unsteady career back on track.
Nothing could be easier, right? I’m an FBI agent. Taking down bad guys is what I’m sworn to do.
Only, the first time I meet Apollo Volos he’s not the bad guy I’m expecting. On the contrary: he’s my savior, stepping out of the shadows to rescue me from a man who wants me dead. Or worse. At first, he treats me like a queen, then he treats me like…something else. This isn’t sweet, poetic love. It’s dark, tainted, sadistic and demanding. And I’m responding to it in a way I never expected.
My boss told me Apollo was a monster, that even his kids hate him, but all I see is a man who’s played the cards life dealt him, doing the best for his family and his community. And as for my boss? Well, I’m learning some things about him that are making me wonder exactly who the good guys and bad guys are after all.
But can I ignore my duty and follow my heart? What would that mean for the life I thought I wanted?
And can I ever really put my trust in a man like Apollo?
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Aria Cole

Chapter One


Camilo enters the room quietly, reluctant to disturb my carefully-curated silence. A small piece of me regrets that he fears my wrath. Of all my children, he’s the only one that’s remained loyal to the end, and how do I repay him? With surliness and a sharp tongue?

“There’s no need for stealth, Camilo, I know you’re there.” I try to make the words kind, but they come out harsh. I pick up my whiskey glass and drain off the last of the amber liquid.

And don’t bother to apologize.

It’s little wonder my other children have all left me. Amira, Roman, Samos, Odysseus, even little Penelope. Only Camilo remains, and he’s not even the fruit of my own loins. Perhaps that’s the secret. Perhaps my DNA is tainted.

“What is it?” I ask, finally swiveling around in my chair to face the doorway where he stands, waiting, with a file folder clutched in his hand.

Daylight illuminates the side of his face through the enormous plate glass window of my office, showing up the silver scar from where his natural father tried to beat him straight, embarrassed that his fourteen year old son had been caught kissing another boy. Anger flashes through me as I remember the look of shame on Camilo’s face when I pulled him out of there. The way he wouldn’t look me in the eye and kept calling me Mr. Volos. Not Uncle, not Apollo. Begging me to let him go, as if I was about to add to the beating his piece-of-shit father had already given him.

Motherfucker. That man had no business raising a child.

I beckon him over and pour him a glass, and another for myself.

He sits and takes it, but doesn’t bring it to his lips. “You look like shit.”

“Memories,” I say with a snort of regret that I try to disguise as laughter. “And too much work. Have I ever mistreated you, son?”

For a moment, he doesn’t answer. He stares into my eyes, as if assessing the situation, then he shakes his head. “Nothing I couldn’t handle or didn’t deserve. We need to talk.”


Instead of responding, he lays the file folder on the desk, tapping it with the tip of a finger. I raise an eyebrow, but when he doesn’t flinch I pull the folder closer and flip it open.

The pretty face of a woman in her mid-thirties stares back at me from the photograph inside. Long, dark hair cascading in waves. Dark, almond eyes, sharp and focused but with a hint of vulnerability. Eyes that call to me in some primal way. I shake it off and move the portrait aside, and my mouth goes dry at the sight of the second photograph. It’s been taken through a long lens, probably from a building opposite hers. It’s clearly the same woman, undressing now. Standing there in her plain white bra and panties, dark round nipples showing through the thin cotton, unaware that she’s being spied on.

Her hourglass curves are classic. Erotic and alluring. I want to see red welts against her pure skin. I want to hear her gasping for breath.

Fuck, she’s something else.

I slide the photograph closer, dropping my hand to my lap to adjust my suddenly stiff cock beneath the desk, then open a drawer and put the photograph inside. I’m not even sure why I do it, but I don’t want anyone else looking at her like that. Not even Camilo.

“Who is she?” I ask, drawing a deep breath, trying to put the memory of her out of my mind.

“Agent Cassandra Divine of the FBI’s Detroit Field Office.” Camilo finally brings his glass to his mouth and takes a gulp, grimacing as the sharp sweetness hits his throat. Then he chokes out, “She’s going to try to seduce you. Or try to get you to seduce her. I’m not clear on the details.”

I look down again at the portrait.

She’s pretty. Very pretty. I can imagine that mouth wrapped around my cock, those eyes glinting with tears as she glances up at me, standing over her, pulling her hair taut, thrusting myself between her lips. Her voice, soft and feminine, begging me for more as I use her and abuse her.


I’ve had dozens of women in my lifetime. Maybe hundreds. I talk myself down, tell myself she isn’t so special. Just some broad. Pretty. Sexy. Alluring. But nothing I couldn’t find elsewhere.

“Why?” I ask, closing my eyes, trying to regain some control.

“Fishing expedition by the sound of it. She’s supposed to get you to trust her, then find any evidence she can on your business dealings. Something they can hang you with.”

“Who brought us this information?” I look down at the folder, moving the portrait aside to glance at the dossier beneath. “Are there more photographs?” I ask as I read the clinical report on Agent Divine. Address, case history, height, weight, parents’ names.