19. Lance
19
LANCE
T aking a deep breath, I knock lightly on Killian’s office door because, despite it being Sunday evening, he’s still hard at work.
“Yeah?”
Steeling myself, I turn the knob and enter his modern home office. With a wall of windows on one side, he has a great view out to the water and the beach the tide comes crashing onto. And his glass-top desk and spacious decor make the room feel open and light—even when it’s nearing ten o’clock.
He doesn’t usually use this room as his office. O’Laoghaire’s is the Irish pub whose back room we typically use as something of an unofficial headquarters. But he’s been working so many late nights the past week, this is where he works when he’s burning the midnight oil.
And I hate to see him at it again.
Especially after the week I’ve had.
My job has been a cakewalk. More than that. These past two weeks have been the best of my life. Guarding Quinn hardly feels like work at all, in truth. I’ve even started spending every night in Quinn’s room because she seems to sleep soundly when I hold her in my arms. And while that makes my feelings for her continue to grow stronger with each passing day, I still sneak out in the early morning hours because I don’t want Killian to find me in her bed.
There would be no worse way for him to find out about us.
To find me luxuriating in the pleasures of playing his sister’s bodyguard.
And all the while, the conflict with the Italians keeps heating up. Don Lucian is holding his ground against the King-Sokolov alliance better than we ever would have anticipated. Which is why I’m here. Because even if Quinn wants to wait to tell him about us, I can’t keep standing by and watching as the fight gets bloodier without me.
“You have a minute?” I ask, standing in the doorway, for once feeling like I might be intruding on my foster brother’s space.
Killian looks surprised, his eyebrows rising toward his head of blond curls. And those infamous green King eyes study me with far too much perception. “Of course.”
He gestures to a chair on the other side of his desk, and I step inside, letting the door swing closed. Coming to talk to Killian almost feels like a betrayal to Quinn. I know she wouldn’t like it if she knew why I was here. But if I continue to say nothing, I think my guilt might just eat me alive.
“What’s up?” Killian asks when I don’t dive right in.
That familiar hint of an Irish brogue tinges his tone. He picked it up from his father, who came to New York from the Emerald Isle as a first-generation immigrant. I’ve always envied it a little—the accent that all the King boys got from their father. He was a good man, and I would have liked to carry a little more of him along with me.
But I never really picked it up. By the time the family took me in, my way of speaking was set in stone. I’m a New Yorker. Nothing else. I do kind of like that Quinn’s accent is even less perceptible. It makes me feel oddly closer to her, even though I know it’s because she missed out on some meaningful time with her father.
“Lance?” Killian asks, drawing me from my thoughts, and I realize I never even took the chair he offered.
“Sorry,” I mutter, slumping into my seat. “I know you’ve got a lot on your mind. But I think it’s time you took me off babysitting duty.” It feels odd saying it that way, and I don’t like the taste of the words as soon as they leave my tongue. But that’s what Killian always calls what I’m doing for Quinn, so I know he’ll get my meaning. “I can make a bigger difference helping with your dirty work. I know how to find the Agostis’ weaknesses,” I insist, leaning forward on my elbows as I plead my case.
Killian sighs, closing his eyes as he rubs his temples. And I don’t know that I’ve ever seen him look this tired before. I don’t like it. And I like it even less that I haven’t been by his side to shoulder the burden.
“No,” Killian says finally. “I need to know Quinn’s safe. And you’re the only one I can trust with that task.” He holds up a hand to silence me as I tense, ready to argue. “I agree, you’re also the best man for the job when it comes to teaching people to respect the King name. And if this were our fight, believe me, I’d be putting your talents as the Mad Knight to full use.”
His lips quirk as he uses the nickname I’ve earned over the years—one that the Kings’ enemies gave me and it somehow stuck. I can’t say I mind it. And Killian always gets a kick out of it because, to him, it makes me sound like one of those armor-clad, sword-swinging warriors who’s gone on some kind of rampage. Not that far off, really—only I don’t wear metal, and I prefer knives.
“So use me,” I insist, feeling that familiar itch for bloodlust when I think of Lucian Agosti and his men. I still haven’t taken my pound of flesh for what they did.
“No. This is Tatiana’s fight. She’s right. We’re just here to back her up. That’s what I promised to do, and taking charge will only hurt her claim to Boris’s throne. She needs to prove she’s a leader in her own right, or her men will never respect her.”
Sighing, I slump back in my chair. I hate feeling so useless—especially when I’m riddled with guilt over the fact that I’m keeping secrets from my best friend.
“I promise, I’ll get you off babysitting duty as soon as I can,” Killian says. “But in the meantime, you’re the only one I can trust with Quinn’s life. So please don’t feel like it’s a demotion.”
Killian’s words gut me because he clearly doesn’t understand why I’m struggling. Protecting Quinn feels far from a demotion—it feels like a vacation from my reality. The best damn vacation I’ve ever been on. And in the meantime, I’ve left Killian stranded on an island all alone, fending for himself when he thought I had his back.
I’m a horrible friend.
And an abysmal excuse for a brother.
“I told my lab partner I would meet her for one drink,” Quinn says as we make our way toward the hospital parking lot.
“Tonight?” I ask, trying to keep the tension from my tone.
But the look she gives me says I failed miserably. “Jenny’s been asking for weeks, and I feel like I owe her a drink at the very least after she basically carried our group project while I was recovering.”
I get where she’s coming from. And normally, I wouldn’t mind staying out a little longer. I’m glad she feels comfortable going out in public, doing activities she always insisted upon doing before she was abducted. But her clinical tonight already ran late. And the near-empty parking garage is putting me on edge, raising the hairs along the nape of my neck.
I scan the cement lot once more, pulling Quinn closer to my side as I quicken our pace.
“Is something wrong?” she murmurs, suddenly tense. Her feet skip along the hard ground, keeping up with me as her eyes follow mine in the same rotating sweep.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I just have a feeling.”
“Screw it. I’ll text her on the way home and reschedule.”
Quinn’s conviction is both a relief and disheartening. Because I don’t like being the reason she wants to go home. And I don’t want to scare her unnecessarily.
Then the King’s Escalade comes into sight, as does the man leaning on the hood of it. I slow, grasping Quinn’s arm and pulling her behind me as I assess the situation.
“Well, look who it is. The Mad Knight himself,” the man quips, shoving off the black hood of the car to stand upright. “I heard rumors that you were dead. Looks like you just got a demotion. Probably after that stunt you pulled at the club. Babysitting the boss’s sister, eh?”
“Mmm, I wouldn’t mind taking care of her either,” a second man says as he rounds the far bumper of the SUV. “Come on. Be honest with us, you tapping that for a little extra compensation on the side?”
I bristle, my hackles rising immediately at the lewd way they talk about her, and my brows buckle into a deadly scowl as I reach for the gun tucked beneath my jacket. Only the hospital wouldn’t let me enter with a weapon. My fist clenches reflexively, my knuckles cracking as I take a moment to reassess. Just as a third man wolf whistles from behind us.
Quinn gasps, spinning to get him in her sights, and I grip her arm, holding her close so they can’t separate her from me. I can feel her quivering in my grasp, and my temper skyrockets. If these bastards think they’re going to lay a hand on Quinn, I’ll remove each one at the wrist and shove it down their throats.
“You didn’t really think Lucian Agosti makes threats idly, did you?” the first guy says, falling into step as they start to circle us.
The garage is quiet—empty aside from four or five other cars—and the Italians seem to think that makes them safe. But it won’t, not when I’m seeing red.
“Your boss ignored Lucian’s last message. You remember what it is, Goliath?” he taunts.
Not that his nickname bothers me in the slightest. Because not one of these men is lucky enough to be David. And after tonight, they’ll all be dead. That I can promise. Still, Lucian’s message rings in my ears. If we don’t want to lose Quinn for good, you’ll stay out of Agosti business. Looks like their back to make good on that promise.
Only they don’t know who they’re messing with. And suddenly, I’m intensely grateful that Killian refused to take me off the task of protecting Quinn. Because I know without a doubt that I couldn’t trust anyone else with the task.
“If you want her,” I say darkly. “You’re going to have to take her from me.”
“I was hoping you might say that,” the man behind me states.
Then, as one, the three Agosti men converge on me at once.
Thankfully, I don’t see a gun, and I wonder if that’s because they want the challenge or if their boss warned them not to use a weapon that might accidentally take Quinn’s life. It wouldn’t surprise me if Lucian had darker plans than to simply kill her tonight.
Flicking a butterfly knife from his pocket, the lanky dark-haired guy I first spotted leaning against the SUV’s hood sweeps forward, coming at me with impressive speed.
Quinn gasps. “Lance,” she breathes, grip tightening around my arm.
And the response tells me without looking that the guy behind me is coming at me at the same time. “Get to the car the first chance you get. Lock yourself in,” I command, shoving the key fob into her pocket.
Then I crouch forward, dipping low to avoid the slashing knife. And as I grasp his wrist, I yank the cocky leader of the trio forward, launching him into the man behind me. That one’s a bit burlier, with broad shoulders and an ugly scar on his lip. But no amount of battle scars are going to help him now. As his partner’s knife catches him unexpectedly in the kidney.
And he drops like a rock.
“ Bastardo, ” the second guy snarls, the one with a tattoo that says Pedro on his neck.
Whether that’s his name or his lover’s, I couldn’t care less. He just stepped within reach. And I throat punch him hard enough to stop him in his tracks. He stumbles backward, and I take a step toward him, intending to finish the job.
Then a searing pain rips across my ribs.
I snarl, my palm clamping down on my side as I whirl. And when I spot the ringleader smirking with satisfaction, I’m ready to slap that smug look right off his face.
“Don’t touch me!” Quinn screams, and my blood turns to ice when my head snaps in her direction.
Standing between her and the car is a fourth Italian—one I didn’t see before—and he’s coming at her far too quickly for me to intercept.