Chapter Twenty-Two
Lyra
The first sign of disturbance is the main elevator opening, only to spit out an additional six security guards. As if the four already here aren’t enough.
I look at Mateo, who’s standing guard at the entry to the living room. He’s one of the two guards that follow me almost everywhere, even in the safety of the penthouse. “What’s going on?”
He doesn’t respond, instead turning and consulting with the new guys. Then, he comes back. “You need to go to the bedroom.”
I tense. “Don’t tell me what I do and don’t need to do.” I won’t tolerate orders from fucking hired guns. I’m barely learning to tolerate them from Killian.
Didn’t you take a bath when he told you to?
I ignore the voice in my head.
“What’s going on?” I repeat.
“Bedroom, now.” He walks forward until he’s hovering above me, arms crossed over his chest. “Boss’s orders.”
“The boss can fucking tell me himself—”
The elevator opens again, and my heart drops all the way to my toes, missing at least four beats.
Killian is there, held up by Locke. His crisp white button-up is saturated in his blood, and he’s listing heavily to one side. Dear god…
I’m on my feet in an instant, but Mateo stops me from rushing forward with a steely hand wrapped around my arm.
“Get your fucking hand off her!” Killian roars. “Nobody touches her unless its life-or-death.”
Mateo releases me instantly, and I run up to Killian, just as another guard helps carry him towards the dining room.
“What the hell happened?” I cry. And why the hell do I care?
Why is the sight of him like this, teetering on the edge of unconsciousness, enough to make me feel terrified? What is wrong with me?
But I can’t help my instincts, and my instincts drive me over to Killian’s side.
“Lyra, go to your room,” he hisses.
“Go fuck yourself,” I volley back. “I’m staying right here.”
“Little bird, you can’t—”
“I can and I will. The next person who tells me to go to my room like I’m a teenager is getting slapped.”
Killian’s lips twitch, but I can’t tell if it’s from pain or genuine amusement.
A man wearing a suit and carrying a clunky bag rushes in, rounding Killian. He sets the bag on the dining table by Killian’s side and opens it, immediately setting to work examining him. Of course Killian has an in-house doctor; why wouldn’t he?
I round on Locke. “What happened?”
Locke narrows his eyes at me. “Can’t you see we’re a little fucking busy—”
“What happened?” I demand, louder. “How could you let something happen to him? Are you fucking insane?”
“Jesus Christ. If you’re going to be hysterical about it, do it over here.” Locke reaches for me, but a growl from Killian makes his hand pause mid-air. He hides an eye roll and gestures for me to follow him.
In the living room, I demand, “Why is he bleeding and swaying? What the fuck happened?”
“An assassin came for him,” Locke responds, folding his arms over his chest.
My breath catches in my throat, and I go still. “What?”
“He lives in a dangerous world, and he’s making dangerous moves,” Locke grunts. “I should’ve seen this coming.”
I’m still trying to wrap my head around an assassin nearly killing Killian. “I don’t understand… What did he do to warrant an assassination?”
“He exists as a billionaire connected to a web of the most powerful people in the world,” Locke says drily. “And he came into conflict with one of those people.”
The organization Killian told me about. The Eyes.
“Silas Cornell did this,” I say. He’s the only other member of The Eyes I know by name, though I suspect I saw many other members at that dinner party a while ago. “Right?”
Locke casts me a sharp look. “How much has Killian told you?”
“Everything,” I lie, then list off the picture I’ve pieced together based on tidbits Killian’s fed me. “He told me about They Eyes, and his rivalry with Silas.” I swallow. “He told me Silas leaked the tape, and that he made Silas… mutilate himself.”
“He should’ve killed Silas then and there,” Locke mutters. “Now it’s The Eyes who’ll decide if Silas or Killian come out of this alive—and that’s if Killian lives to the tribunal.”
I briefly squeeze my eyes shut, fighting the wave of nausea that arises at the rush of new information. Tribunal. The Eyes deciding if Killian or Silas dies? Has their rivalry escalated into an all-out war? Obviously, but why the fuck does the organization they belong to choose who wins?
The answer is simple: the rituals amongst the rich are fucking insane. I touch a hand to my forehead, processing.
If Silas went after Killian, and The Eyes are set on deciding who wins, isn’t that cheating? Wouldn’t The Eyes punish Silas?
“The… tribunal.” I swallow. “Where The Eyes decide who live and who die. If they knew Silas tried to have Killian killed tonight, wouldn’t they side with Killian?”
Locke works his jaw for a while. “Almost certainly. Members are forbidden from going after each other at all times, but especially when a decision as severe as which member to keep and which to kill is forthcoming. If the judges saw concrete evidence that Silas did this, they’d have to order his death.
Killian requested to have him killed months ago, but the request was held up in committee—a more senior ally of his had to sponsor his request to force the tribunal.
In response, Silas is now demanding not only Killian’s head, but yours by association.
” He lets out a deep sigh. “The problem is actually finding proof that Silas did this, but we’re working on it. ”
Dead god. This goes much deeper than I imagined, and it’s much, much worse than I possibly could’ve fathomed. A tribunal? Requests to kill? Counter requests to kill that can be likened to counter-suits?
Whatever this organization is, it’s far more advanced than I initially imagined. It sounds like its own political bubble, complete with courts and judges. Judges that can hand out death penalties freely.
“I… see,” I murmur, attempting to keep a straight face. I don’t want Locke to figure out that he’s just given me lots of new information to go on. I clear my throat. “Killian’s wound—how bad is it?”
“Biggest concern is blood loss,” Locke says. “Doc will probably have to give him a transfusion. Once he’s sewn up, he should be fine.”
I swallow. “Is his world… always like this? So violent?” With assassins coming after him, death threats against his loved ones, and more?”
“No.” Locke shakes his head. “His world only became like this after you entered it.” He gazes at me meaningfully. “But if you asked him, he’d accept all the danger and turmoil, so long as it meant keeping you.”
A few hours pass as the doctor works on Killian, who’s either passed out or pretending to be, eyes closed, body still. He’s still on the dining room table—I tucked a pillow under his head when I returned, so he should at least be comfortable.
I still can’t reconcile how much seeing him like this bothers me after everything he’s done to me. But I can try to unfuck that later. For now, I need to just go with the flow.
When the doctor finally strips off his gloves and packs up his bag, discarding all the used medical supplies in a plastic trash bag, Killian’s eyes slowly open. His gaze finds mine almost instantly. “You’re still here,” he says gruffly.
It takes me several beats to respond. “Yeah.”
“Why?”
That’s the question of the century. I should be praying for Killian’s death, not sitting beside him like a fiancée who fears for his life. “I don’t know,” I finally say.
A long silence ensues. Finally, Killian murmurs, “I’m glad you’re here.”
“Yeah,” I say again, quieter.
“Bed rest for at least three days,” the doctor says, coming back.
“I put a waterproof bandage on the wound so you can bathe; it’ll need to be taken off, aired out, then switched tomorrow.
Plenty of fluids, and foods that are gentle on the system.
You can walk after that, but no exercise for at least a week.
The stitches will dissolve over the course of a few weeks.
No strenuous activity for the first week.
After that, take it easy. If something hurts, don’t push too hard.
” He gives a pointed look between me and Killian.
“I’m not going to stop fucking my fiancée,” Killian mutters.
I feel my entire face heat, and promptly hide it in my hands.
The doctor sighs. “Nothing that tugs on the wound too much, then. Take it easy, Mr. King. That’s a nasty gash.
I’m afraid it’ll scar.” He looks at me. “Monitor him for spikes in temperature. I’ll leave a list of antibiotics for him to take.
No alcohol while he completes the five-day course. ” With a nod at Killian, he leaves.
The doctor’s assuming I’m here of my own volition and want to look after Killian. And I haven’t really given him any reason to think otherwise, have I? I’ve sat here for the last three hours, watching and worrying, staring at Killian.
There’s something deeply, deeply wrong with me.
I don’t love him—that much I’m certain of. But I must… care for him on some level.
It’s because of self-interest, I decide. Yes, that has to be it. My fate is closely tied with his, so I’m ensuring he stays safe and alive for the sake of my own survival.
No matter how many times I try to tell myself that, my thoughts still have the ring of deception.
After the doctor leaves, Killian slowly steps off the table. Locke helps him upstairs and to the bathroom.
“I’ll take it from here,” I say, shooing Locke out.
Putting my turmoil on the back burner, I help Killian undress and run a bath for him. He did this so many times for me, whether or not I wanted him to, when I was still on crutches from my sprained ankle. It seems like some twisted form of… not retribution. Again, I don’t know what any of this is.
“Going to bathe me, Little Bird?” Killian arches an eyebrow at me.
“Of course not.” I straighten. “I’m sure you’ll manage more than sufficiently on your own. I’ll just leave you to it, then.”