Relentless Knight (Dangerous Gambit #2)

1. Quinn

1

QUINN

M y brain feels like scrambled eggs as I pour over my NCLEX study materials for the fourth hour in a row. I know I won’t take the exam until after graduation, but I want to get a head start on preparing for it so I ace it.

The massive modern grandfather clock that hangs on the foyer wall ticks with religious predictability, grating on my nerves. And though I could go back to my wing of Killian’s massive Seagate mansion for some peace and quiet, my snack of dry roasted edamame compels me to stay. Eating the crunchy snack straight from the bag as I stand at the kitchen island is about the only thing keeping me awake.

That’s what happens after a week straight of clinicals followed by hours upon hours of studying from a dry textbook—even if the subject of medicine does fascinate me. Thankfully, this is my last semester of school. Then I’m off to a real nursing job, where I can put my education to practical use rather than pouring over tomes and sitting in class until my brain feels like it’s made of cotton.

I want to be an ER nurse—a decision I made after floundering around in a general studies major for a year— because I’ve spent so much of my life helping patch up my brother and his men. I know I have an interest in it. Though I would prefer it if I only had to patch up strangers.

The bag of edamame crinkles as I reach in for another handful of my salty snack.

Then I jerk my fingers back as the front door slams open with such force I nearly jump out of my skin. The soft tick of the clock is drowned out by the urgent voices of several men, one of which is unmistakably my brother Killian’s.

“Quinny!” he calls even as I let my textbook fall closed so I can go to the entry to see what the commotion is all about.

“I’m here,” I answer, rounding the corner a moment later.

His green eyes—the same bright shade as mine—are sharp with intensity, his blond curls tousled as if he’s been in another fight, and immediately, I start searching for signs of injury.

Natasha, my new sister-in-law and Killian’s wife of less than two weeks, is halfway down the stairs by the time I step into the foyer. And it never ceases to surprise me how quick and quiet she is. But she’s impossible to miss, as her striking features reflect the same concern as mine. Her pale skin, even whiter in her anxiety, juxtaposes her burgundy hair.

I don’t think she’s any happier about the tension in my brother’s voice than I am.

And with this Italian conflict Killian refuses to tell me about getting uglier by the day, I’ve come to expect the worst. Since the day he came home covered in his own blood and stabbed so badly I genuinely thought he might die, I feel like I haven’t been able to take a full breath.

Since then, the fighting has only gotten more violent, the men more in need of my medical attention than they ever have in the past. And each time that front door bursts open, I dread the possibility that I won’t be able to help.

“I’m fine,” Killian assures Natasha as she runs into his arms.

And she rises onto her toes to kiss him. I’m happy for my oldest brother, who seems completely in love with his new wife. It’s impossible to overlook their intense connection. It’s practically magnetic when they’re in a room together.

I like my new sister-in-law a lot. And at the same time, seeing how happy they are together makes my heart twinge. Because I’ve started to wonder if I’ll ever find that kind of love. Not because I’m too old for that or anything, but the man I’ve had a crush on since I first started even thinking about boys is completely off-limits.

My gaze shifts automatically to Lance, our foster brother and Killian’s right-hand man, as my thoughts turn to him.

And my stomach plummets.

He’s as agonizingly gorgeous as ever with his thick head of walnut-colored locks that fall into his blue eyes as deep as the sea. And he towers above every other man in the room. But his shirt is torn and covered in blood, and his palm is pressed to his chest as if to staunch the crimson flow.

Thankfully, he’s still standing on his own two feet. Which means the wound is probably less lethal than the one Killian sustained. Then again, knowing Lance, he could be at death’s door, and he would continue to suffer silently.

“What happened?” I demand, pointing to the office-turned-medical room I insisted Killian let me have after my fifth impromptu operation in the kitchen last month.

Since then, he’s helped me turn it into a proper infirmary with a foot-pedal treatment table, a stainless-steel roller tray for my tools, and a bright ceiling-mounted medical light on an adjustable spring arm to make my work more manageable. I’ve made a practice of keeping my first-aid space stocked with the essentials for pain relief, anesthesia, disinfecting, and stitching up wounds.

And I’m intensely grateful for that now as I follow Lance down the hall.

“Knife fight,” is all Killian gives me as he joins us, his arm still wrapped around Natasha’s shoulders.

My heart flutters at the memory of how deep Killian was stabbed with a blade, and I hope I’m not in for another one of those today. Not with Lance. Stitching up ugly wounds? Now that, I can do all day long. But treating the injuries of the men I care so much about? Let’s just say the hands-on experience is not worth the anxiety of my loved ones being hurt.

I hate that they risk their lives like they do.

Not that anyone asks me.

Or tells me much of anything, for that matter.

It’s no surprise that Killian’s explanation lacks any useful information.

And of course, Lance doesn’t say a word as he leads the way to my infirmary, his broad shoulders swaggering despite his injury. No one personifies the word masculine better than Lance. Even his surly silences and dangerous scowls make him seem more manly and tough in the sexiest way.

It wouldn’t surprise me if he could kill a man with his pinky finger alone.

That combined with the fact that he’s considerably older than me—thirty-six compared to my twenty-three years of age—not to mention, Killian is hell-bent on carving a less violent path for me considering our family’s history of dying young, should be enough to remind me of why my foster brother is off-limits.

Never mind the fact that he’s practically family.

Killian might hope that putting me through college will help me find a nice young man to settle down with, who will make money through legal means and won’t bring me deeper into our family’s mafia ways.

But to me, other men are like distant stars in the night sky—and Lance is the sun.

When he reaches for the nape of his neck to tug his T-shirt over his head, my mouth goes dry. He tosses the soiled fabric into the trash without even looking at his target. And though I know he took it off so I can get a better look at his injury, I can’t help but admire the rest of him while I’m at it.

Every last inch of him is rippling with muscle, from his powerful shoulders and thickly muscled chest to the washboard eight-pack that tapers into a V before vanishing into his low-slung jeans. God, he’s so gorgeous, it makes my chest ache and my cheeks flame.

And though the rest of Killian’s men remained in the foyer, the room still suddenly feels crowded as my brother and Natasha step inside behind me.

“Sit,” I order Lance, gesturing to the treatment table before I turn to wash my hands. That will give me the time I need to collect my unruly emotions as I sanitize.

It’s honestly mortifying how much I like Lance. Because, as my brother’s best friend and practically family himself, Lance no doubt sees me just like Killian does—as an annoying kid sister. At least, that’s what my brother calls me.

But my relationship with Lance has never involved the familiar snarky back-and-forth I have with the rest of my brothers. Probably because I can barely look Lance in the eye without blushing over how hot he is. And his propensity toward silence makes our conversations brief more often than not.

I don’t mind it, though. Even if it’s a contrast to my four rowdy and typically carefree older brothers. Lance has always been quiet—or at least, he has ever since our parents picked him up off the streets when he was thirteen. My mother told me once that his tendency to brood is because he had a troubled past, though they never told me exactly what that means. And if they knew, they took his secret to the grave.

Unlike my three other brothers—Jamie, Finn, and Henry—who have all flown the nest and left the family business in Killian’s hands in order to pursue their own interests, Lance has stayed close to home. As Killian’s right-hand man, he’s the one my brother calls when he needs a dirty job done right. In short, he’s invaluable to the King family.

He’s invaluable to me.

But in a much different way.

Taking a deep breath, I snap my latex gloves into place and turn back to Lance. And immediately, my cheeks start to flame once again.

His bloody hands are resting palms up in his lap, and he’s not bothering to put pressure on the wound anymore. Which means his impressive pecs and the canvas of tattoos that cover his chest and shoulders are on full display.

Focus, Quinn, I scold myself, and I step between his knees to get a better look at his cut.

Several thick rivulets of blood trickle down his abs from the diagonal slash. A laceration that must be seven inches long and over a quarter inch deep. It definitely needs stitches.

My stress skyrockets when I see just how deep it is. Whoever he was fighting fully intended to kill him. And the thought of losing Lance is almost more painful than I can bear. Setting my jaw to stop myself from calling him a slew of names, the least of which would be idiot, I get to work thoroughly disinfecting the wound.

I know better than to offer him any form of local anesthetic. In the numerous times I’ve had to stitch Lance up, he’s turned the offer down for every single one of them. He did when he broke his clavicle during a football game and the doctor had to set it. And I suspect it’s for the same reason he doesn’t drink or do drugs—though why he’s so set against even painkillers for serious injuries, I’ll likely never find out.

“Are you going to tell me why you’re bleeding all over my table?” I ask softly as I work. “Who did this?”

“The Italians,” Killian says, speaking for Lance because we both know our foster brother won’t say it himself.

I’ve listened in on enough conversations between Killian and Lance to know the Italians are responsible for my brother’s lethal stab wound a few months back—and the death of Natasha’s parents. That’s why my brother has allied with the Russians to fight the Italian don. But I don’t know much more than that because Killian prefers to keep me in the dark.

“We should have barricaded the back door and kept more reinforcements at the front,” Killian adds, this time to Lance.

“The plan worked, didn’t it?” Lance counters, succinct as always.

“I did love seeing the look on that bastard’s face when he realized you were waiting for him…” My brother smirks, his expression cocky as I catch it from the corner of my eye.

And I have to bite my tongue as I thread my needle because no one wants to hear how little I like that they’re risking their lives for a battle that’s not technically theirs to fight. Sure, the Italians hurt Killian. But that’s only because he was protecting Natasha—not because they have a feud with our family.

And from what I understand, that’s still the case.

I just hate the danger my brother and Lance are always putting themselves in.

To calm my growing temper, I focus on the task at hand, sliding the curved needle into Lance’s ink-stained flesh. And he doesn’t even flinch. Like he’s made of granite, he sits perfectly still as they continue to discuss what happened. Killian in his devil-may-care fashion, while Lance answers with curt yet insightful observations.

Then, as I tie off my fourth stitch, the infirmary door slams open. I grind my teeth, ready to strangle the beautiful dark-haired woman that stalks in because she nearly made me stab Lance with the needle by accident.

But Natasha’s older sister, Tatiana, hardly seems to notice my presence as she sweeps into the room to demand, “What happened? That wasn’t the plan we agreed upon at all.”

And the temperature in the room drops ten degrees as she stares my brother down with a cold fury that could shatter stone.