Prologue #3
A running car waits by the entrance, the warmth of the lush leather seats seeping into the cold night. He inclines his head. “This is what I’m offering. You come home with me, and I’ll give you a bed, clean clothes, and food. And a purpose.”
Rolling my eyes, I step away. “No thanks. You’re not my type.”
The man laughs, a loud, boisterous sound that rings out around us. “No, no, boy. I’d want to employ you. Be my reaper. I need someone like you in my clan.”
Clan?
My mind spins, trying to figure out where I’ve heard that before. It’s familiar, a niggling in the back of my head, like an old memory. Maybe something from my time back home, but I can’t place it.
But I agree. If he’s offering a bed and food, I can easily take advantage and run out in the morning.
The car ride is long, and the heat lulls me into safety. The man introduces himself as Ferguson O’Brien, and he talks about himself, the world he lives in, and where he sees me fitting in. It’s a grand plan—an assassin for hire, loyal only to him.
All I want is a meal.
Entering his home, I’m assaulted by the smell of whiskey, old oak, and stability.
It doesn’t smell sterile like the hospital, or of sewage like the camp, or cold and terrifying like my old home.
This is a kind of comfort I’ve never experienced before, and I exhale, shoulders dropping as something unwinds in my gut for the first time in my life.
“Who are you?” a feminine voice asks to my right, and I have to look down to see her. Dressed in an old jacket, worn jeans, and dirty sneakers, she’s a tiny thing with dark hair, an elfin chin, and big green eyes—too big for such a small face.
“Maeve,” Ferguson reprimands, the brogue in his voice turning on thick. She barely reacts. “Meet Killian. Our new guest.”
She raises an eyebrow, and I fight back the urge to laugh. She doesn’t like that.
“Help him get settled.”
Now her eyes narrow. Twin flames flicker in those deep emeralds, and I grin, amused. She’s going to be fun.
Turning on her heel without another word, she leads me through the mansion.
Old, like a fairytale castle, it’s decorated with suits of armor, old coats of arms, and large.
elegant canvases of detailed paintings. My eyes catch on those, taking in the details, drinking in the colors and brushstrokes.
I’ve always been drawn to art, but never given the chance to practice, so this is like my amusement park.
We stop at a door in the far back, down the hall from the kitchen. I’m sure it was meant to be a maid’s room, but it’s larger than the closet I used to sleep in. With a four-poster bed, soft, creamy linens, and a small fireplace, it’s grand. Clean. Homely.
“Here.”
“Thanks.” I walk past her, and she wrinkles her nose.
“You need to shower.”
My eyes rake over her face—the three freckles on her cheekbone, the cut in her lip that looks a day old, to the splatter of blood over her neck that soaks her hair. I smirk nastily. Flicking a strand over her shoulder, I wink. “So do you.”
She flips a knife from God knows where and levels it against my throat, her dainty hand grabbing my dark locks.
The bite of pain is refreshing as she pulls my neck taut, blade pressed deeply.
Grinning, I have to stop myself from gutting this little girl; the desire so thick it practically chokes me.
“Let’s make one thing clear,” she hisses, nose brushing my jaw. She’s a fucking tiny thing, barely thirteen, but with balls of steel. “I don’t like you. I don’t want you in my house. You’re only here because my father let you in.”
“What is this? A pissing contest?” I laugh as she tugs on my hair again. “You want Daddy all to yourself, Princess?”
“Don’t call me that,” she growls. “He might have let you in, but I don’t have to like it. Or be nice to you.”
“Like it or not, Princess, I’m here all the same. You’re going to have to just get used to it.”
She smiles, her eyes glinting the same way her father’s—mine do.
Oh, I’ve read this situation all wrong.
She’s not some meek princess stuck in the king’s palace. She’s a queen in waiting. A predator in a small body, with bruised knuckles and a smile that wants to rip my throat out.
She’s going to make this really fun.
“And you’re going to have to get used to me.” Her wrist twitches, and I gasp as she moves away. The gasp quickly turns into a dark laugh as I touch my throat, fingers stained red.
She fucking cut me.
“You get one warning: touch my siblings, do anything I don’t like, and I will kill you.”
She brushes past me, and I grin wider, enjoying this new development. I figured this gig would be one night to fill my belly and run. Get away from ever seeing my father again, and try to contain this darkness in my soul.
But this girl? She disrupts my plans. A teen girl wielding a knife who threatens an older kid after killing three men? Either she’s brave, or too stupid to know better.
Regardless, I plan on staying, if only to piss her off.
“Is that a threat, Princess?”
“It’s a promise.”
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
That smile drips with poison as she winks. “Oh, this is a promise I’ll certainly keep.”