The Billionaire s Virgin Mistress

That Prince Is A Girl: The Vicious King's Captive Slave Mate.

Kiss Leilani

They don't know I'm a girl. They all look at me and see a boy. A prince. Their kind purchase humans like me for their lustful desires. And, when they stormed into our kingdom to buy my sister, I intervened to protect her. I made them take me too. The plan was to escape with my sister whenever we found a chance. How was I to know our prison would be the most fortified place in their kingdom? I was supposed to be on the sidelines. The one they had no real use for. The one they never meant to buy. But then, the most important person in their savage land-their ruthless beast king-took an interest in the "pretty little prince." How do we survive in this brutal kingdom, where everyone hates our kind and shows us no mercy? And how does someone, with a secret like mine, become a lust slave? . AUTHOR'S NOTE. This is a dark romance-dark, mature content. Highly rated 18+ Expect triggers, expect hardcore. If you're a seasoned reader of this genre, looking for something different, prepared to go in blindly not knowing what to expect at every turn, but eager to know more anyway, then dive in! . From the author of the international bestselling book: "The Alpha King's Hated Slave."

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Isla Monroe didn't believe in fairy tales. Not after her third unpaid internship, not after being ghosted by her ex and fired by her editor in the same damn week.

So when the offer hit her inbox-"$10,000 for a one-week freelance profile. NDA required. Subject: Julian Cross."-she assumed it was a scam.

Until she Googled the name.

Julian Cross. Billionaire. Tech mogul. Reclusive genius. A man with no social media, no public appearances in over five years, and a reputation more encrypted than the source code that made him rich.

"Subject prefers in-person engagement only," the email continued. "No photos. No recordings. Just words."

Isla stared at the screen in her shoebox apartment, the New York skyline flickering behind her like a promise she could never afford. Her stomach twisted with a cocktail of suspicion, curiosity-and something she hadn't felt in weeks.

Hope.

---

The elevator in Cross Tower rose silently. Velvet walls, soft lighting, no buttons-because, of course, you didn't choose your floor in Julian Cross's world. The elevator already knew where you were going.

Isla smoothed her black skirt, adjusted the neckline of her fitted blouse, and inhaled sharply. This was insane. She was here to write a profile, not sell her soul. But the NDA was airtight. Her only weapon was her pen.

The doors opened into silence.

His penthouse wasn't what she expected. No cold tech-chic or sterile glass walls. Instead, it was warm-dark wood, navy velvet, old books lining the walls. It felt more like an old-world library than a billionaire's fortress.

Then she saw him.

Standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, hands in his pockets, dressed in a tailored black shirt that hugged his frame like it had been stitched there, Julian Cross turned around.

And damn.

His jaw was sharp enough to cut glass. Slate-gray eyes watched her like he was analyzing a code string. His dark hair was tousled just enough to suggest he didn't care-and yet somehow made it look devastatingly intentional.

"Ms. Monroe," he said, his voice a low rasp. "You're late."

She swallowed. "The elevator didn't give me an option."

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