Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Killian
M aeve didn’t want me.
Maybe whoever she was going to see, dressed like that , was someone she loved.
I had half a mind to follow her and slice the fucker’s neck to rid me of the competition.
How dare someone have what is mine ?
Maeve is mine.
Since we were kids, I was drawn to her. Since I saw the marks on her body, healed her wounds. She was mine .
And seeing her in that outfit? Hell.
That outfit looked better on the floor next to my jacket. Her moans would drift over it as I went back to her, time and time again, making her forget whoever she was going to see. I’d have her begging, wishing for me to stop, but I wouldn’t be able to.
Because once I had her, I’d lose myself completely in her.
Fuck. My cock twitches against my zipper.
The idea that someone gets that, gets her, and it’s not me, is unfathomable.
Spinning on my heel, I dart back upstairs. No way in fucking hell was I going to let her go to someone else like that. I don’t care if she’s in love. She belongs with me and only me. She’ll love me too. Eventually. Even if I have to force her.
The landing is empty, but a light down the hall pulls my attention. Voices drift out and I know Michael is there.
When I get close enough, I hear his words, fury lining my hands.
“You’re almost twenty-one. I’ll admit, I do miss that young body of yours, but this version certainly comes with perks.”
My vision narrows, chest heavy as ruthless rage boils up, tasting of black tar and promises of retribution.
All the cuts. All the broken bones. Everything slips into place.
I’ll slice him into tiny pieces for ever thinking he had a right to Maeve.
I dart into the bedroom, ready to do whatever it takes to end this now .
I stop short, momentarily shocked at what I see.
Maeve straddles the man, towel pooled under her. If not for the knife hanging in the air, I might have shot the man dead and dragged Maeve away by her hair, consequences be damned.
She plunges and stabs relentlessly, with a ferocity that can only be described as religious. She’s expunging her demons, making Michael take them to hell. Blood sprays around her in a holy arc, flowing over the entire room. It hits lampshades and curtains, covering walls and the clock by the mantle.
It’s fucking poetic.
Her barely clothed body is painted with it.
She looks absolutely breathtaking.
When she stops, she stumbles off him. She sobs once, but it’s a broken laugh of relief more than one of sorrow, relief that her tormentor, the man who used her, defiled her, is dead.
How did I not see it until now?
How could I? I was never here. She never told me. But I should have seen it. I should have known. Because I know her .
“Maeve.”
She spins, her wide green eyes wavering as she looks at me in fright. Her bottom lip trembles, and her hands shake as she drops the knife.
“Killian, I—” Her words fail. She tries again, voice hoarse, as if the words are being forced out. “I won’t apologize for what I did.”
Why should she? It was justified.
I grab her, pulling her body close. With the adrenaline spiking and dropping, she’s a shaky mess of limbs, and I hold her face between my palms. She smells like vengeance and wrath and, fuck , if that doesn’t make me want to drop to my knees for her.
“You don’t need to apologize.” I shoot the dead body a glare that I hope his soul feels in the fires of Hell. “He deserved so much worse than this.”
“He deserved to suffer,” she agrees. Her words are brutal, much like the small woman in my arms. “But I needed to end it. All of it. Before my birthday.”
I nod once, rubbing my thumbs over the blood quickly drying on her skin. Of course. The decree. I was lucky enough not to be born into the clan and therefore missed the tradition.
That meant Ferguson knows.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Her green eyes flash. Shame. Embarrassment. Everything she hides behind her tough girl exterior shines there, if only anyone looked long enough to see.
“Everyone knew,” she whispers, broken. “No one cared. I thought you knew and just?—”
“Didn’t care?” I pinch her chin, making her look at me as I say the next part. I need her to understand. “No, Maeve. I didn’t know. If I did, his head would have been cut off and nailed to the front fucking door for ever daring to touch you .”
I watch as she glances back at the body, shoulders sagging. “Do you think I'm a monster?” In my silence, she turns back. “After what he did to me, what I did to him... I feel broken.”
I wrap my arms around her gently, not caring if the blood stains my clothes. Blood never scared me.
“We’re all broken, Maeve, every single one of us. But this? This doesn’t make you broken. You did exactly what you needed to do to take back your power. You avenged yourself. You saved yourself. And you’re fucking magnificent.”
She’s a force of nature, a fury sent to destroy those who would hurt women. This isn’t revenge, it’s justice.
Tenderly, I brush my nose to hers. I need to comfort her even if it’s a small touch of skin.
She shakes her head. “No.” Watery eyes blink at me. “No, don’t be gentle with me.”
A pained laugh leaves my lips. “Trust me, Princess, I would like nothing more than to fuck you until you forgot everything, but I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Not after years of abuse. Not after killing her abuser. Not after this.
Fuck, Ferguson will notice his second-hand being gone. I’ll have to clean this up.
Fisting my shirt in her small, deadly hands, she glares at me darkly.
“You said I’m not broken, so don’t treat me like I am.” She presses her entire body against mine, and I groan. She feels good like this—thick curves, fuckable breasts, strong legs. “Please, Killian. Make me forget. Replace his hands with yours.”
I wanted to help her forget all the hurt he caused, all the ways he used sex to control her, twisting something meant to be good and pleasurable into something dark and painful.
She wants me to replace those memories with us.
My heart pounds loudly in my ears. This is everything I’ve ever wanted.
Grabbing her throat, I hold her with enough pressure to stutter her breath.
“I need a safe word, Maeve.” Before I go too hard and hurt her. I’ll never forgive myself if I do. “When you say it, this stops. Everything stops.”
She nods, watching me under thick eyelashes. “ Mors .”
Latin for death, the word inked onto my knuckles holding her tight.
The grin I give her would make a nun sin.
“Against the wall, Princess. Let me see those pretty panties so I can take them off with my teeth.”