2. Lance
2
LANCE
“ H ey, when shit hits the fan, sometimes, you need to improvise,” Killian says, giving his signature smirk as he takes Tatiana on.
Tucked beneath his arm, Natasha stiffens, her delicate features drawing into a line of tension, and I suspect it’s because Killian’s new wife doesn’t like him arguing with her older sister—even if our alliance is rather fresh on the coattails of an extended feud.
But that’s the Kings for you. Always brazenly making their opinions known. It’s a family trait—stirring things up with controversial statements and to see where things stand once the dust settles. And while I don’t mind it, as his right-hand man, it does make my job of protecting Killian a hell of a lot harder sometimes.
It’s also partly what makes Killian such a force to be reckoned with.
No one can predict him.
Which often leaves his opponents unsteady on their feet. And apparently, his allies as well.
“You weren’t where you said you’d be, and that nearly cost us the mission!” Tatiana insists, crossing her arms and making her already impressive amount of cleavage even more prominent over her flattering peacock-blue silk wrap dress.
The Sokolov girls might be known for their beauty and feminine charms, but since they came bursting into our lives like a wrecking ball, I’ve learned that their public appearance is little more than a thin veneer to hide their true intellect and lethal skills. Still, I can see why they’re considered the most stunning sisters in New York. They’re true Russian beauties—even if neither of the distinctly different sisters are particularly my type of woman.
“Hey, it was your guys who missed the shot,” Killian says. “You should be thanking us for coming in to clean up the mess…” he insists, gesturing to me since I’m the one who technically stepped in and took a knife for the trouble.
Tatiana counters with her own perspective on what went wrong, but I’ve lost interest in the conversation. We got the job done with minimal injuries and no casualties on our side—Russian or Irish. That’s all that matters.
As soon as Quinn is done stitching me, we’ll be up and running once again.
The slight tug on my skin reminds me of her progress. Not the most pleasant sensation, but one I’ve grown accustomed to over the years.
I glance down to see how far along she is in sewing me back together, and I catch a glimpse of her intent face. A smattering of freckles colors her button nose, contrasting the crease between her strawberry-blond brows that appears whenever she’s concentrating.
Her lips thin slightly as she maintains intense focus. They’ve always been a soft peach color and create a perfectly feminine bow shape even now. Her green eyes darken from jade to emerald when she frowns—a detail I’ve picked up on over the lifetime I’ve known her. It fascinates me the way her eyes change color, and something about it draws me in, giving me something to think about when the pain threatens to take control.
Sometime between entering the foyer and following me into the infirmary, Quinn took the time to pull her thick head of blond curls back into a messy bun—a sanitary practice she no doubt acquired during her time in nursing school. But a few strands have slipped free to fall around her face. She ignores them studiously as she works, and I follow her gaze as I turn my attention to her hands.
Hands that never cease to amaze me. Even in the chaos of the situation, they’re steady and confident. She stitches me up with deft precision, each knot perfectly spaced and tied with the right tension, the needle sliding in and out of my skin so smoothly it’s almost painless.
And still, Quinn’s touch remains incredibly tender. One gloved hand stabilizes the two separated pieces of my chest as the other guides the curved sliver of stainless steel. She’s turned sewing flesh into an art form.
She didn’t bother trying to convince me to use local anesthetic this time, and that makes a smile tug at my lips. She’s probably given up because I’ve refused it every time she’s offered.
It’s not that I wouldn’t trust her to numb me properly. I trust her completely—even concerning Killian’s survival. After all, I brought him here when he was on death’s door, not to a hospital, because I knew Quinn wouldn’t let him die.
But I like to be in control of every aspect of my life. After the childhood I endured—being abandoned by my parents when I was eight—I spent years living on the street, just trying to stay alive.
I’ve known extreme hunger, had everything taken from me countless times at knifepoint, gunpoint, or worse. I’ve had the snot beat out of me for the comfort of a tattered, flea-infested, filthy mattress. As a child, I survived countless situations that proved just how helpless and weak I was—how vulnerable that left me.
Never again.
I won’t let my strength fail me anymore.
I would rather die than survive like that.
The Kings rescued me, after five years of fighting tooth and nail to live as a gutter rat. For that, I will be forever grateful to their family. Indebted really. And now that I’ve learned what it means to take life by the balls, I will never be a victim of it again. Not even to something as trivial as the pain of stitches.
“You’re not the only one with men to think of here!” Tatiana shouts, her commanding voice slicing through my errant thoughts and bringing me back to their argument.
I glance in her direction to ensure she’s not demonstrating any violent tendencies before turning my eyes back to Quinn’s talented hands. Not that I really expect Natasha’s sister to get physical. Natasha might know how to handle herself in a fight—I’ve seen the younger Sokolov sister throw knives with lethal precision. But Tatiana’s skill is in her intellect.
And though I would follow Killian into any battle, I can’t deny that Tatiana’s tactical intelligence is unparalleled. She’s not wrong. If her men had held up their end of the plan she put in place, I wouldn’t have had to step in at the end and we all could have made it out without a scratch. But strategy and planning wasn’t where the scheme fell short.
“Well, maybe that’s the problem,” Killian counters, voicing my opinion. “You’re so focused on your men, you haven’t taken into account what happens when my men have to finish the job you can’t. You need better men. Reliable men.”
“I’m sorry. Are you blaming this on me?” Tatiana asks, waving in my direction. “Because it kind of sounded like that when you’re the one who jumped the gun. I told you to hang back, and look what happened because you can’t listen?—”
“Enough!” Natasha insists, cutting her sister off as she steps out of Killian’s arms. “We’re on the same side here. Remember? And let’s not forget that the mission was successful—even if it didn’t go off without a hitch. The only way we’re going to work together is if we stop squabbling and find a way to do it better next time.”
“I’m fine,” I insist because I know Killian’s going to bat for me as much as he is to antagonize Tatiana. And while he might enjoy razzing the young pakhansha , I can tell she’s stressed over her new reign.
I suspect it’s because she’s having a hard time keeping her father’s men in line. They seem less inclined to respect her command since she’s a woman—even if she’s clearly more intelligent than the majority of the men I’ve seen in charge. But I recognize the dissent in her ranks that wasn’t there under her father’s rule.
It’s not a surprise in our male-dominant world.
They probably don’t like taking orders from a woman. And though I would have no issue with it, especially considering how spot-on her strategies have been, I don’t doubt they consider it emasculating. Typical Bratva men.
As far as I’m aware, she’s the first female mafia boss of any kind in New York.
And her ascension happened both unexpectedly and after the brutal murder of her parents, without her father announcing her succession. None of which has helped her claim.
Quinn casts me a look that says she disagrees with my assessment that I’m fine. But I’ve had worse and survived. It was a clean cut. The guy didn’t pierce any vital organs, and with her expertise, I’ll be as good as new in no time.
“All I’m saying is Lance wouldn’t have been hurt at all if you’d let me manage my men,” Tatiana gripes.
“And all I’m saying is we handled it so Lucian’s captain couldn’t slip through our fingers. Again. You’re welcome.” Killian flashes a wolfish grin.
As they fall into another bout of bickering, I roll my eyes and turn my attention to Quinn as a distraction. “How’s school going?” I ask.
It’s my default question for her because if there’s one subject I know will get her talking, it’s nursing. And I enjoy hearing about her passion. No one talks quite like Quinn—it’s as if her cup is brimming with enthusiasm, and whenever someone takes the time to share in her interest, that zeal overflows until the room is bursting with vibrant energy.
“This last semester just might kill me,” she admits, her hands never pausing their work. But her lips curl into a smile that tells me she loves it all the same. “Between the hours doing clinicals and studying for the NCLEX, I think the term ‘exhaustion’ has taken on a whole new meaning. But the information is fascinating, and I’m enjoying the NICU a lot more than I thought I would. I’m excited to graduate, though, and start putting my degree to use.”
“Aren’t you doing that already?” I ask, glancing pointedly at her hands.
Quinn laughs, the bubbly sound effortless and melodic. And it fills the room with a levity that breaks the growing tension in Tatiana’s corner.
“You have a point,” Quinn says, her smile radiant as she ties off her final knot and snips the thread.
“What’s funny?” Killian asks, turning his attention to us and ending the squabble.
“Lance was just pointing out that I’m already putting my nursing degree to use.” Quinn applies antiseptic ointment to my wound with a light, delicate touch that sends a shiver down my spine. Then she follows it up by applying a square of gauze that she tapes over my perfectly symmetrical stitches.
“You better not be trying to convince her to stay on after she graduates,” Killian warns.
Color pools in Quinn’s cheeks, and she glances up through her thick lashes to meet my eyes momentarily. Then she drops her gaze back to the bandage she’s taking extra care to secure.
I just shake my head. I wouldn’t dare ask that of her.
“Good,” Killian says, pulling Natasha back into his arms.
And I turn my gaze back to my nurse. I realize Quinn was meant for greater things than patching up our sorry lot. Though, I’ll miss having her around when she does get a full-time job. Knowing she’s here to put us back together has made it much easier to take risks because she’s been doing it for so many years now. She was doing it even before she graduated high school.
And I’ll never trust my life in anyone else’s hands quite like I do Quinn’s. Something about her presence makes the King household feel that much safer, more dependable—like a home, really.
She’ll leave behind a sizable hole when she goes.
But that’s no excuse to hold her back.
Quinn deserves the world, and I sincerely want that for her. Even if it means we’ll be losing a guardian angel with a healer’s touch. I know Killian feels the same way about his little sister, regardless of how he teases her. That’s just his way of showing affection. He might refer to her as his annoying kid sister, but to be honest, she’s the most mature out of all of us.
And we’ve been blessed to have Quinn around for as long as we have.
There’s just something about her—something about her presence I can’t quite put my finger on. It’s been there from the very start.
When the Kings first picked me up off the streets—after my failed attempt to pickpocket Killian’s father—Quinn hadn’t even been born yet. But her entrance into the family brought a sense of joy and laughter that the four rough-housing King boys didn’t possess.
She made the family softer, more gentle. They were always kind. After all, they took in a filthy, ragged street urchin like me and gave me a warm bed and three square meals a day—all out of the goodness of their hearts.
But when Quinn arrived, it was like witnessing a miracle. Everything changed the day Mrs. King brought that tiny bundle home in her arms. And even now, Quinn brings sunshine with her into any room she enters.
She’ll make an incredible nurse because of it.
“There, you’re all set,” she says, her smile lighting her eyes as they rise to meet mine.
For one suspended moment, it almost feels like she can pluck my thoughts right from my mind. It’s probably the only way she’ll ever know them, because voicing my mind has always felt like a monumental task. I prefer to keep things close to the vest—to better protect myself, or so I learned on the streets.
But Quinn’s one of the few people I know I could trust completely.
Maybe someday I’ll tell her how I feel.
In the meantime, I suspect she knows more than she lets on. Because her cheeks color self-consciously, and her eyes drop, breaking our silent connection.