1. Killian #2
“Just like a woman to suggest something so stupid,” he insults, draining his glass. Ire flickers in my gut at his dismissal. “What I wouldn’t give to have a capable heir like Nico.” Standing, he crosses to the bar cart, and I watch her jaw clench, audibly cracking in the quiet room.
As pissed off as I am, a sliver of sympathy hits me. No one would know it, but Ferguson’s comments cut Maeve deeply. They always have. Comes from being the unwanted eldest daughter.
That doesn’t mean she gets away with fucking ignoring me. Sliding from my chair, I block her gaze, my back to her father, who fiddles with pouring another glass. “Miss me?”
She looks away, focusing on the large ornate desk full of papers. Her finger circles the edge. “Leave me alone.”
“We need to talk.”
She finally looks up at me, the vibrant green of uncut emeralds bleeding away to black. A demon possesses her when she’s mad, and she’s barely fighting the temptation to gut me where I stand. Fuck, if it gets her close to me, I might let her.
Let her impale me, slice me, I don’t care. Just fucking look at me.
“We have nothing to discuss.”
“We have everything to discuss,” I argue, appalled. She swallows, but her face remains emotionless. She always tries to appear cold to the world, but I know differently. “We haven’t spoken in over a year. A fucking year, Maeve. You don’t think there are things to discuss?”
“Oh, is there?” She snorts, looking away. Biting her bottom lip, her white knuckles grip her elbows tight to her chest. “I don’t want to hear it, Linwood.”
Linwood. Not Killian, and not her special nickname for me. Only Linwood, like we’re kids again, trying to one-up the other and push the other one into a fit of rage. Linwood.
Running a hand through my dark locks, she leans forward, grabbing another stack of papers from the corner. I’m going to strangle this woman if she doesn’t let me explain.
“Maeve—”
“What’s this?” She waves the paper around, and I make out her youngest sister’s name: Sloane O’Brien. “Did you know about this?”
Snatching it from her grasp, I scan the contract. It’s a decree. Everyone in the clan gets their decree on the night before their twenty-first birthday, but Ferguson looked to have Sloane’s ready a few months early. Typical.
“It’s a marriage contract,” she whispers, eyes darting over my shoulder. “Did you know?”
I shake my head. “I didn’t. If I had, you would’ve known.”
She doesn’t believe me. Pushing me aside, she asks loudly, “What is this?”
He puffs his cigar, unfazed by her rage.
Not the first time I’ve seriously considered Ferguson stupid to ignore what his eldest is capable of.
“It’s my decree.”
“For Sloane.” She tosses the papers onto the desk. “You can’t give her away in marriage—not to Doyle.” Her voice cracks, and with it, my heart.
“What I decide for my clan is none of your concern,” he growls, slamming the tumbler to the bar.
“If I want to sell Sloane on the street, that’s my purgative.
I’m the captain—this is my clan. As my daughter, you should know your place.
” He glares down his nose at her, and I shift, subtly blocking her.
That’s my second mistake. Ferguson notices, and his eyes ignite with a cruel understanding. I tense as the wheels turn behind those brown eyes. Fuck. He’s figuring it out.
Maeve forces herself between me and her father, glaring at him as if she’s a six-foot-five man about to brawl with a tiny guy on the street. She has no awareness of her size, and fuck if it isn’t cute, but annoying as shit.
“My place is right here,” she mutters, body tight with rage. “Between you and my siblings. Call off the decree. She can’t marry Doyle—he’ll kill her.”
She’s not wrong. Doyle has killed his last few wives. It’s a poorly held secret by the Board.
“I’ll do no such thing?—”
She kicks her heel into his executive desk, sending the large piece inches back. I can’t help but smirk. “Call it fucking off. You’d rather give your daughter away to be killed than choose something else?”
He snaps. Ferguson’s large palm grabs Maeve’s neck, picking her up to slam her onto the desktop. Papers scatter, and pens flop to the sides. Her spiked heels kick out, missing their mark.
All I see are her pale pink lips pouting and the flash of fear in her eyes. The fear I know my mother had every night while she lived in that hellish house—the same fear Maeve must have shown whenever cornered by Michael. The fear I could never stop, could never keep from her.
I move—everything sharply focused. There’s no doubt, no uncertainty. Only understanding. Withdrawing my Glock, I level it against my mentor’s temple, body screaming in pain. I don’t feel it. I only see Maeve, pinned and powerless, and fire.
He drops to the ground with a loud thud, and the walls shake. Maeve scrambles up, her skirt lifted high, her dark hair tangled along her shoulders. Her pale face grows gray with shock.
I don’t look at him—I can’t. Forget the anger, the need—I focus entirely on this small woman shaking in terror. Gently, I lift her chin, cataloguing the red fingerprints along her throat and the wild beating of her pulse. Her wide eyes don’t leave the corpse, too surprised to fight me off.
My fingers ghost over her neck, and I curse under my breath. She’ll have a bruise. It’ll be hard to hide. And I want to bring him back, if only to kill him all over again. “Are you okay, Princess?”
There’s a slight tremble to her lips, and her chest heaves with a heavy breath. But her voice is strong as she says, “You killed him.”
“He hurt you.”
She nods absently, digesting my words. “You know what this means.”
“I do.”
I handed her the throne. No longer hidden or restrained, she’ll unleash everything on this city, and they’ll kneel for her. I’ll be the first in line.
“I’ll have to tell Simon. Get him to sign off on a heart attack.”
I don’t care. She could say he was killed in a car accident, left outside to be eaten by vultures.
I’ll agree to anything as long as I get to keep touching her.
My fingers soothe her throat, and I step between her legs.
Tilting her head back, I soak up her warmth, the feel of her legs around me again, ignoring the reality of what I did.
I killed the only man who gave a damn about me for a woman who won’t fucking look at me. There’s a special place in Hell for me.
After a moment, she swallows and withdraws from me. The loss of her is a physical slap, and I sink into my bomber jacket, looking for comfort.
She takes out her phone, and I light a cigarette. “You’ll also need to get rid of Twyla.” Ferguson’s whore, resides upstairs, only slinking out with the promise of drugs.
Maeve snorts. “That won’t be hard.” She’s never liked the woman, and I can’t blame her.
Blowing out a ring of smoke, I let the nicotine calm the nerves twisting in my gut. The burn of the smoke in my lungs is better than the ache in my heart. Instead, I salute Maeve and lick my lips. “All hail the queen.”