2. Maeve
MAEVE
Ascream rips free from my throat, burning my lungs, and tears dampen my cheeks.
Jumping up from my bed, I whip around, breathing fast and hard, searching the darkness for an enemy.
Michael. He was here—I smelled him. Old booze and cigar smoke suffocating me.
Dripping face like melted wax, gaping, bloody wounds in his chest, he held me down, laughing while he took. And took, and took…
I shudder, bile on my tongue, but the room stays silent. The shadows reach overhead, covering my walls, stacked bookcases, gothic skulls, and the taxidermized bugs. All my prized possessions, kept safe in my room, away from prying eyes.
The French doors leading out to the balcony are closed; the thin curtains hide the full moon from view. But the trees outside cast black claws along the drapes, and I swallow against the remnants of fear as I watch them twist.
Holding my breath, I push the hair out of my eyes, waiting, listening. Nothing stirs. No footsteps, no murmurs. Only silence.
It’s always silent. No one bothers with me on the third floor.
I pad to my bathroom, leaving the lights off and splash cold water on my heated face.
My heart pounds in my chest, and my ears stay alert, listening for an unwanted presence.
It’s hard to let go of old habits. The ingrained fear that seems to coil tight when things feel too right—it never goes away.
The abuse might end, but the effects last.
Gazing at my reflection in the mirror, I take in the purple bags under my dull eyes.
My lifeless hair falls in tangles around my shoulders, and my collarbone protrudes slightly under the black, silken cami nightdress.
My skin is covered in various scars, gray and stark, a blank canvas asking for a bit of color—a bit of life.
A life in the clan isn’t easy—it saps away youth and energy. I am the only female leader with a bounty on my head, and the stress is mounting. Quietly, I rub the knot at my neck, exhaling against the tension.
My only choice is to fight the nightmares and return to something close to sleep, or head to the office. I left only hours earlier, promising Hayes to see Reese to starve off the terrors.
I didn’t. The only thing that quiets the ghosts plaguing my mind is torturing the bastard, Dom, in my basement, who thought he could own my sister. Or sleeping in the arms of the only person I’ve trusted. That’s not an option.
Maybe I will see Dom again.
A flare of red catches the corner of my eye, flickering through the gauzy curtains. Grabbing my concealed knife—I keep one in every room—I head toward the balcony.
Rushing through the door, I level the blade toward the spy’s neck, stopping short of slicing the skin.
Killian Linwood stands there, bored.
Dressed in a band shirt, jacket, and combat boots, he’s the incarnation of Death in physical form. Most people think death comes silently—no. It comes with a deranged smirk, a black claw, and the promise of retribution.
The red of a cigarette hangs from his mouth, and I watch as it brightens, him inhaling a puff of smoke. I don’t lower my blade, but I don’t move away; his heat is a balm to the late spring chill.
Killian Linwood is the only man on this earth who can turn my indifference into fury, who can bring down all my shields and make a home inside their walls.
He’s the only man who can comfort me, see me weak, but also whom I would willingly kill and toss his body into a burn pit in the middle of the woods.
A breeze blows over us, and I shudder, Killian tilting his head. Those almond-dark eyes sweep over my body, a branding like none other, taking in the thin night outfit, down to my bare feet and black-painted toes.
“Real menacing,” he drawls, pushing the knife away from his neck with barely a blink. The urge to stab him whispers in my ear. “A burglar wouldn’t know if you’re going to fuck him or kill him in that getup.”
Glaring, I hold the knife to my chest like a shield.
It’s not like I planned it. After ignoring Hayes’ advice to call Reese—my boyfriend?
No, ew, that doesn’t sound right—I grabbed the first thing to slip into after a shower.
Slicing someone and listening to their muffled screams takes a lot of energy, and I was ready to drop.
“Does your boyfriend know you’re around men dressed like that?” He flicks ash away, soulless eyes watching my reaction.
I choose to keep my face neutral. “Why are you here?”
“I told you I was staying.”
I scoff. “You always say you’ll stay, but very rarely do you.”
It’s a dig, and it hits the mark. He swallows, glancing away to the blackened grounds, bathed in white moonlight.
A long time ago, Killian Linwood made beautiful promises of staying here, with me, while I looked for a way to take over the clan.
Then he left. No calls. No notes. He left and took my whole fucking soul with him, obliterated my trust and my heart, leaving me a pile of ground-up bones and broken sobs. If not for Hayes, my best friend, I would’ve ended things.
When he returned—unexpectedly, again—he thought I would fall to my knees for him.
Fucking. Pass.
As a young girl, fresh from abuse and looking for salvation, I put all my faith into Killian. I gave him every ounce of love I could find inside my tarnished soul, and I relied on him to never hurt me.
But he did. And I won’t fucking let that happen again.
“We know the Board is coming for you.” He flicks ash away again, inhaling on the butt as if it’ll rid a bitterness on his tongue. “We’re in this mess because of our impulse control issues.”
“Our impulse control issues?” I repeat. “We’re in this mess because you fucking shot Ferguson.”
I had a goddamn plan. One that I spent months putting in place without his help.
But then he fucked everything up. He killed my father, gave me the throne, and left me to deal with an enraged Board full of men who would rather burn my home—my family, my clan—to the ground than watch a woman lead.
“Weren’t you supposed to see your boyfriend?” He scans me again, ignoring my bite.
“Why? Keeping tabs on me?”
He grins, and it’s unpleasant. “Must have been riveting,” he drawls. “I can only imagine the mental stimulation he provides, Princess.”
“It’s not the mental stimulation I’m after,” I snap, digging my barbs as deep as I can get them. I’ve been broken, gushing blood because of him. I want to make him bleed, too. “He provides other stimulation I need.”
A muscle feathers by his ear, and I know my provocations are getting to him. Good.
Flicking the cigarette away, he chuckles, and the hair on the back of my neck rises. This isn’t his amused laugh or his sarcastic chuckle. This is laughter that strikes cold fear into his enemies, and it’s directed at me.
His hand snaps out, clawing into my neck, moving me like I’m a fucking doll for his entertainment. Slamming me into the brick wall, he roughly pins my back, digging into the exterior. Pain explodes along my spine, but I refuse to cry out.
I raise my knife, but he twists my wrist over my head, knocking it free. It falls to the ground at our feet, lost to the darkness over the edge. Shoving his knee between my legs, he cages me in.
For years, I was never the one with power. Forced to my knees for a man twice my age, I was made to submit because that’s what good, obedient wives do.
Never again.
I learned to strike first and kill. To never second-guess. To always end it.
Yet, all of that goes out the window with Linwood. He’s bigger, stronger, and smells like danger and mint. My body trembles in his hold, and pain radiates from my wrist as he grinds bones together. His eyes—black, deep, and furious—hold me hostage. I can’t move with him so close.
I can’t fight him—I can’t push him away.
Because the fucking bastard still feels like home.
“Let me go.”
“I wonder if he’d still want you after I’ve ruined you,” he murmurs, seemingly to himself. “Maybe I should paint your perfect creamy skin with blood and fuck you raw. See if he’ll still touch you when you’re dripping me from between your thighs. What do you think?”
“Try it.”
His smirk grows unhinged. “You’d let me, wouldn’t you, Princess?” He presses his cheek close to my temple and inhales. “I remember you fucking practically begging for my cock in the middle of a puddle of blood not too long ago. You looked magnificent and so very much mine.”
I knock my head into his, forcing him away. “I’d rather not remember the times when I made poor decisions.”
Killian grips my throat harder, and his sadistic side flashes.
“Poor decisions? Ouch. Tell me,” he says, lifting my chin, and his grip cuts off circulation to my hand.
“Does he like you the way I do? Dirty, messy—violent? Or does he only like the clean version you show him? The perfect doll, curated for his simple tastes?”
I rally myself to break free—to fight back, but he presses closer, and the hard bulge of his cock grows tight against my lower belly. And the worst of all, I’m damp because I remember exactly how he used to feel.
How he—only ever him—has ever owned my body. How it only ever wanted him.
Un-fucking-real.
“There is no clean version,” I sputter, denying him. “Reese?—”
“Say his fucking name again,” he threatens, breath ghosting my face. “I dare you.”
I know not to push this. “He gets the real me.” Blackness edges my vision. “He knows who I am.”
He laughs manically. “No, he doesn’t. He gets the perfectly manicured Maeve. The one who wears cute little heels and laughs at his stupid fucking jokes.”
My eyes widen. “Have you been following me?”
He just winks. Winks. Of course, he’s been following me. Because Killian cannot get it through to him that we’re finished—that he ended us. And he thinks if he comes back, I’ll take him back.
After all this time? After everything I’ve done on my own? Not fucking happening.
“He gets who you wish you were,” he whispers, lips daring to kiss me. “But only I know the real you.”
I swallow against his hold, warring against my body’s reaction to his closeness. I’m fighting a battle on three fronts—against the pain in my heart, the need between my thighs, and the logical part of my brain that is screaming at my lack of oxygen.
“You don’t know the real me,” I wheeze, fingers pulling at his grip.
“I do,” he reassures. “I know you, Princess. Every single horrible, terrible part of you. It’s my fucking curse to bear.”
He leans closer, his weight missed and familiar, and his nose brushes mine. A part of me wants him to kiss me, and a bigger part, the pissed-off, dying-for-air part, wants my knife to gut him.
He tosses me to the side abruptly, and I hold the wall, coughing as fresh, cold air enters my lungs. Leaning over me, his chest warms my sore back, and he nips at my ear.
“He’ll never love you the way I do,” he warns me before shoving off the wall, rage radiating with his stiff movements. “Go to bed, Maeve.”
He lights another cigarette, and I rub my neck, feeling his touch seared into my skin. He’s branded me against my will, a mark that I’ll have to hide. “This is my house?—”
“Go to bed,” he growls, ignoring me and my power. “Or next time you see your boyfriend, he’ll be a decapitated corpse floating in the harbor. I’m sure that would kill the mood.”
Every instinct tells me to stay and push back. To remind Killian of who runs this clan—who owns this house. But I’ve known Killian since we were children, and I know what line not to cross to bring out his psychotic nature. We’re toeing it right now.
Choosing to remain silent, I slam the door before moving my chair as a blockade. It won’t keep someone like Killian out, but it makes me feel better. That, and the extra knife under my pillow and mattress.
When I wake in the morning, the chair is still in front of the door, but a picture lies next to me, placed gently on my pillows.
In the harsh lines of black charcoal, I trace the design of an orchid.
It’s done with such precision and care that when I touch it, I expect to feel the velvet softness of the petals.
Killian.
It’s not a simple gift, though. It’s a warning—a threat.
That he’s not leaving. He’s staking his claim.
I’ll have to figure out a way to get the Reaper of souls to leave mine alone.