Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Maeve
2 years ago
I whimper against the grinding of my aching ribs.
Ribs I’m pretty sure Michael broke earlier that day.
I’m eighteen, far from the stubborn thirteen-year-old my father gave to his best friend. Now I’m considered a woman, and forced to endure unspeakable acts as is my place in this world.
Unfortunately for my future husband, I don’t go without a fight.
Today is just another endless day where Michael acts like he owns my body. For my refusal, he stomped my ribs and crushed my left hand. I’m right-handed, but I shoot better with my left so this is an annoyance at best.
He knew what he was doing when he aimed. It’s not enough to take my body, he’s trying to break my soul.
Leaning back on the white suede couch, I pull my black shirt up over my stomach, seeing the first signs of bruising around my sides. If they’re not broken, they are certainly bruised.
Fuck, it hurts. I can barely breathe.
“We have to stop meeting like this.”
I groan, even though I don’t want to. Any bit of movement kills.
Killian leans against the doorway, a black bag at his feet.
I shoot him a dark look. “Don’t you have a flight to catch?” I’m not bitter about his ability to leave the house. His freedom to go about his life, killing in far off exotic locations.
Because that’s what Killian was trained to do. He’s a reaper, a hitman, and he’s damn good at it.
I am desperately, terribly bitter.
After my decree, my father forbade me from leaving the state. I was expected to be a good, obedient wife to Michael. That meant serving him in ways only a wife should and not traveling like Killian.
Killian, the boy who my father took off the street, who he allowed into our home. The boy who took my spot. Once Killian was here, I became obsolete.
I try turning to ignore the reaper but I wince, pain radiating through my torso. Definitely bruised.
Dropping to the spot next to me, Killian tugs at the hem of my shirt. “Let me see.”
“Fuck you,” I growl. This is a dance we’ve done before; Killian finds me broken and heals me. It’s not something I particularly like.
This means vulnerability. And I can't be vulnerable in this life.
I lean away from his touch, but I don’t get far. Everything hurts too much for me to actually do anything. Black spots dance in my vision and the world turns on its side.
Killian is on me before I can argue, yanking my shirt high.
He sucks in a deep breath.
Those cold black eyes shift from my face to my bandaged hand, then to my exposed ribs.
I see the flash of anger before he smothers it.
“What happened?”
I shake my head. “Nothing.” I lie.
Killian is my rival for my father’s affection, the son he wished he had with his first—the son he wishes he still had.
He’d use this against me. Tell my father. Tease me for it. Hell, he might even judge me.
I carry enough shame; I don’t need Killian Linwood adding to it.
He sits next to me, ignoring my protest as he lifts my shirt to inspect me closer. He pokes my side, and I yelp in pain before I can control it.
Probably cracked. Dammit.
“Someone used you as a punching bag, Princess.”
Glaring, I kick out with my boot-covered foot. The reaper easily bats it away with his shin. “Don’t fucking call me that.”
Leveling me a bored look, Killian pokes my ribs, earning a harsh shriek of pain for his effort. He smirks. “No.”
Digging into his bag, the reaper pulls out wraps and metal clasps.
He doesn’t look remorseful as he gestures to my ribs. “I’ll need to wrap them.”
Lifting my chin, I glare at him. “I can handle it.”
“I have no doubt about that, Princess.”
Adjusting my shirt under my bra, Killian begins to tightly wrap my ribs, keeping me stable with the other. I bite my bottom lip to keep from screaming. The pain is torture.
Killian works in silence, his eyes trained on my torso. Gone is the boy from his youth, emancipated and scrappy. Now, Kilian is nineteen, tall and strong. He reminds me of a sitting viper, with his raven-colored messy locks and almond black eyes. No light enters them; they’re as soulless as the night.
Right now, though, he looks downright murderous as he finishes my ribs.
“Going to tell me what happened?”
“No,” I snap, earning a harsh chuckle from the man in front of me.
“Of course not.” His smirk is hollow. I never tell him where the wounds come from, but he always asks.
It annoys him. Years of being in the same house as him and I know him better than I know myself.
Once he’s done, he clasps the ends, pulling my shirt down with a harder touch than necessary. My body jerks forward, and pain flares along my ribs.
Fucking prick.
“Simon will need to see these.”
Swallowing, I nod. The clan doctor won’t be able to do anything. Michael will just break me again and again. This is the decree I decided to take at thirteen.
I plan on getting out of this arrangement soon. Killian doesn’t need to know about it, though.
Standing, I feel his hand whip out, grabbing my wrist.
In that simple act, I know a few things for certain.
One, Killian is powerful. His touch is enough to keep me incapacitated. No matter that I am his equal, that I have a knife strapped to my thigh and can slice his throat, I know he could easily overpower me.
And two, the look in his eyes makes my stomach drop.
Fear, pain, and rage all simmer in those cold eyes turning them into burning coals.
“Tell me who did this, Maeve.”
Licking my lips, I shrug. “Why? It’s already done. Let it go, Killian.” I twist out of his hold, relief singing through me as I put distance between me and the reaper. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Princess.” Those emotions are gone from his face and all that stares back at me is the face of a killer.
And strangely, I feel comforted by it.