Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Killian
1 year ago
S he’s bleeding again.
She thinks I don’t see it, all of it, but I do.
Her lip is split, her eye bruised. I see the blood seeping through the thin white shirt. Her lacy black bra underneath catches my attention, but I focus on the red.
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were in an underground fight club.”
My words startle her, but she tenses when we meet eyes in the mirror—big, swimming green eyes that could double as uncut emeralds. Breathtaking, haunted.
I smirk, leaning against the doorway. “Tell me you at least won.”
She throws the discolored rag into the sink. I see blood still coating her chin, her chest. Someone got her nose good.
This isn’t the first time I’ve seen her bleeding and broken. Certainly not the second, either.
Dozens of times, I’ve seen this: Maeve injured from something she won’t tell me about. It’s always when I’m leaving. Tonight, I went looking for her, just to make sure she was still alive. She stopped caring for her wounds in the common areas leaving me to chase her.
Much like her, the bedroom is a dark fortress of gothic books, pictures, and taxidermized bugs. She’s always had this beautifully dark, poetic side, a part of her where I somehow felt oddly at home. Her darkness is like mine; there, under the surface, ready to take us under if allowed.
But we fight it back, give it just a little taste with every heinous act in this life, enough to keep it happy. Enough to let us live without succumbing to it entirely.
“Get out,” she demands, throwing her hair over her head. A few dark strands cup her sharp jaw.
Ignoring her, I grab the rag. “Here. Sit.” I push her toward the toilet.
She stares at me, glaring. Maeve isn’t the most trusting, and she’s injured. She’ll strike out like a scared, cornered animal if I push too much. Something she’s done on more than one occasion.
Oh, well, I’ve always been a little off. Her fight is as intoxicating as the drugs her father pushes.
“Get the fuck out of my room, Killian.”
I cross my arms, eyes daring her. “No.”
She turns, readying a punch. I see it coming. Before she can make contact, my hand goes to her throat and the other locks her arms down at her sides.
“Easy, Maeve. I’m not here to fight.”
“Could have fooled me,” she spits. She is all hellfire and rage and I lap it up. She is a sight.
Shoving her onto the toilet, I narrow my eyes.
“Shirt. Off,” I command. She snorts, crossing her arms defiantly.
I see the wince. Her back is soaked red, damaged flesh pulling with each movement. How much more of this can she endure? If she doesn’t listen, she’ll get an infection.
“So you can see me in my bra?” She shakes her head. “Not happening.”
Lowering to my knees, I part her thighs, positioning between them.
She tries to bar my entrance, but we both know I’m stronger. My fingers dig into her legs, and she hisses out a curse, relenting.
She’s nineteen and I’m barely twenty. This isn’t exactly the best position to be caught in. Hell, I should really hit up a few of the clan cousins who are so keen to share my bed. Keith has always been willing, and Angie has been begging for just one night. At least it’d kill some of this coiled tension inside me whenever Maeve is around.
But I’m drawn to her, always have been. Even when I thought of her only as a rival.
“I could take it off you myself, Princess.” My voice has dropped, and I see the reaction—the goosebumps, licking her bottom lip, the intrigue in her eyes even as the pain masks it. “I thought I’d at least give you the chance.”
“You wouldn’t…” Her eyes narrow.
My smirk grows into something sinister. “Oh, I most certainly would.” Gladly. Anything to help her.
Biting her bottom lip, she wrestles with her decision. It’s a brief moment, and then she whips the shirt off, tossing it over my head. Better to get it done and over with. “Happy?”
Exceedingly so. The lacy black bra is a bare scrap of fabric holding her full chest. Her dusty nipples pucker just out of reach.
For being so petite, Maeve’s body is meant for sin.
Gulping, I focus on my task. She’s the heir and I’m a reaper, I have to remind myself. This isn’t my place. Looking at her would be just wrong.
Even if a pretty blush has covered her cheeks and her green eyes are bleeding black with desire.
Clearing my throat, I start cleaning the blood around her collarbone.
“So. Did you win?” I ask, voice tight. I keep my fingers from touching her skin. If I do, I won’t be able to stop.
A simple touch, and I’d be a goner—if I wasn’t already.
I’m here to heal her, that’s all, I remind myself. Anything more wouldn’t be fair, not in her current condition.
“Win what?” She’s looking over my shoulder, avoiding my eyes.
“The fight.” There’s a lot of blood.
I love how it paints her skin, makes her seem dangerous and forbidden, the bright red against the pale white of her skin, like a blemished rose in the snow. It’s beautiful.
She’s beautiful.
It’s been a long time since Maeve has only been my rival. A very long time.
She shoots me a glare. “I’m alive, aren’t I?”
I chuckle darkly. “A good standard to judge winning by, Princess.” I move her to the side, cleaning her back. It’s sliced to hell. “Someone use a knife?”
Her body stills just long enough for me to look back at her.
She tries to play it off, but her foot taps. A sure sign she’s uncomfortable. She’s done it since we were kids.
“Yes.”
“Did you disarm them?”
She glares. “Don’t patronize me.”
The marks on her back are long, superficial, as if they just wanted to see her skin break. Someone wanted to hurt her, make her suffer.
Dark fury rolls through me, but I focus on cleaning her wounds. There’s only one person who should be allowed to mark her skin and that someone is me . As dark as the thought is, it feels right.
When the blood stops, I put on creams and gauzes, intent on covering her as much as possible. It’s my way of making sure no one else sees her like I have.
I am a reaper, but I am also the one person allowed to heal the great Maeve O’Brien.
When she’s done, she pointedly sits back, letting me have my fill of her. She’s all pale skin, body covered in various bruises and cuts from a hard life running drugs, from beating men three times her size, from torture and mayhem.
Old scars, lines that have been broken into her body, glow under the harsh bathroom lights.
Yet, she is the most incredible creature I’ve ever seen.
Her eyebrow raises. “Need something, Killian?”
This vixen is going to be the death of me.
Standing to my full height, I swipe something from the floor, running the opposite hand through my roguish hair.
“You should rest.” I throw the rag into her trash, ignoring the jerking at my crotch. She’s not the one for me. What can I offer the heir to an Irish clan?
Nothing.
Tell that to my body.
Because who wouldn’t want her? She’s a warrior goddess meant for slaying and loving under bloodred skies.
I exit her private suite, inhaling her dark violet and juniper scent.
I shove the bloody shirt into the bag I left in the hall, knowing that this obsession with her wasn’t going to end any time soon.