3. Maeve
MAEVE
PRESENT DAY
Iglare down at my plate as if it personally offended me. My date speaks, but all I can focus on is the bleeding steak, the charred lines, and the nausea threatening to take me under. The blood mars the porcelain plate, and my stomach twists.
It’s mocking me. The perfectly pure plate turned broken and dirty from spilled blood. Fitting, really. I’m the broken dish, left to take on the sins of the world, to be the shield that gets sullied from life. There’s not a part of me that’s considered pure anymore.
I glance around, lips curling. This whole place is a mockery. Fancy table settings, beautiful wax candles in glass hurricane holders, with dim lighting and soft words. I’m a jagged piece of iron, surrounded by so many polished silver pieces. It’s too much—and I’m not enough.
I don’t belong here.
“Everything alright?” Reese asks, his warm smile breaking into my troubled thoughts.
Reese Silva—dressed in a smart gray suit and white dress shirt—waits for my response. He’s always kind, always patient. Why does it feel so wrong?
“Maeve?”
Lifting the glass of red wine to my lips, my crimson lipstick smears the edges. I’m still getting used to wearing makeup. “Hm?”
His honey-colored eyes glance at my plate and back. “The food. Everything okay?”
Rolling my tongue over my teeth, I shrug. “Not really feeling steak tonight.”
I’m not feeling much of anything lately. The least of which is food. I’ve never had an appetite—but it’s certainly become worse since I rid myself of Michael and his control over my body.
He controlled what I did and where I did it.
I was never allowed to leave the house, never allowed to wear certain things.
In that way, he enjoyed breaking me, using me for his depravity, and I had no choice but to comply.
I fought every time—I have the scars to prove it—but ultimately, he would win.
I never controlled my pleasure, my limbs, my mouth—they were all to be used by him.
With his death, I gained that control back. I decided what to do, who to see, and what to experience.
Including when I ate and how often. It’s not healthy—I know this—but I can’t help holding on to this bit of control. I dictate when I eat—not my body, not someone else. Me.
“We can fix that,” he says, waving me off. Picking up his fork, he holds it out, Alfredo noodles drooping over the sides.
Bile rises up my throat, and I clamp my lips shut.
“Maybe pasta was what you wanted instead?”
He’s being sweet, but I’m going to lose what little contents are sloshing around in my stomach. The idea of someone feeding me is almost as embarrassing as running around naked. Call it pride, call it stubbornness, I don’t care; I don’t want it.
But he has those puppy eyes. Eyes that should make me feel something for him and want to appease him. Normal people would care about hurting his feelings. They would want to make him happy.
I don’t have those feelings. Not for him, and not for most people. I’m broken in the deepest ways, unable to feel empathy for simple sadness or happiness from life’s littlest joys. I’m numb.
He blinks, waiting. Shit. I’ll have to do something. Swallowing the nausea, I take a small bite and exaggerate my chewing. No use in hiding this.
He smiles brightly, and my lips twitch. Not a full smile—I don’t think I know how. Not after the life I’ve had, or what I’ve done. Smiling is a luxury I was never afforded.
Reese goes back to his plate, and I spit the noodles into my napkin, casually dropping it under the table. My heel kicks it to the back corner, hidden under the long tablecloth. There, at least I did my good deed for the day.
Sipping from the wineglass, I let it soak my tongue, ridding me of the taste. I look out through the large window panes, resting my lips on the rim of the glass.
At ground level, the burgundy awnings cover the wide windows, overlooking the busy downtown Little Italy section of Boston.
Snow swirls over the exposed bricks, and congested traffic lines the roads as cars roll over the bumps.
The undercarriages smack into the stones, grinding noises passing through the windows, along with shouts and yells of delight.
Only a weight sits on my chest, a rock I can’t throw away.
I know the Board is out there, watching me. I know they want me and will do everything possible to attack. The problem is, there has been nothing from them. Nothing but tension, waiting, and the promise of something lurking in the shadows.
Aren’t you a pretty thing?
A flicker of red pulls my eyes up, across the busy street, over the tops of bumper-to-bumper traffic. Against the post light, he leans there; the snow melting into his dark locks. The brutal wind blows across his jacket, but he is as immovable as a mountain and just as resolute.
The damn Reaper. He’s a ghost come to haunt me.
Killian lifts the cigarette to his lips and inhales, the smoke curling from his nose like a demon breathing fire. He doesn’t release it, and his eyes taunt me—dare me. A promise, a warning, of what he’d do if he were closer.
I gulp, sitting back.
His jealous vows are burned into my memory. We’ve rarely spoken since the Games I hosted to find a new second, but those words hang between us. They’re a mourning shroud that wants to comfort and capture me all at once.
The bastard winks, but a smirk doesn’t cover his face. Not that I expected it.
Since the night of my father’s death, he’s become my personal shadow. Following me around the city, always stalking the halls of my home. I can’t move without seeing him there, a black mass at the corner of my eye.
Three times I’ve banned him from the compound. It does little good. No one can keep Killian Linwood out.
Killian’s head tilts slightly, and I follow his eyes to my date, icy rage causing me to shiver. I should really tell Reese—hide him from the Reaper’s warpath, but I don’t.
Reese is a good man, maybe too good. He is for me. I only go on dates as an escape, to act normal, to enjoy a life I never had under Michael’s control. But there is as much attraction between us as an ice cube and a dead fish.
There’s only one person I’ve ever willingly given my body to—and he’s currently stalking me across the street. He’s the only man to see the scars, heal the wounds, and put me back together when it happened again.
A part of me remembers his touch, how I would sigh in relief when he’d patch me up. The other part wants to raise my gun and blow a bullet through his temple for daring to make me love him.
Loved. I loved him. I have to keep reminding myself of that.
“See anything interesting?”
“What?” I whip my head back to Reese. “No. Why?”
“You’ve been staring out that window for like twenty minutes.” His plate is empty, and mine has gone cold. I push it to the edge, sipping the last of my wine. “Is it the snow?”
“Yep,” I say, popping the p. “I was born in the middle of a snowstorm. It’s always my favorite time of year.”
That’s a bald-faced lie. My birthday brings up horrible memories of what if. What if I didn’t kill Michael and end the marriage contract? What if I let him chain me, breed me, and become his personal toy?
But I’m very good at lying to Reese.
“Really!” His eyes light up with wonder. “That means you’ve got a birthday coming up. Are you going to celebrate?”
Shaking my head, I sigh quietly. “There’s no one to celebrate me.”
“Aw.” He grins, patting my hand affectionately, and I cringe. “You have sisters, right?”
Sisters, sure. But they hate me.
I don’t blame them. I’ve let the horrors of the world melt into my soul, turn my bones into iron, and with it, my heart. I took on the ugliness of the world so it wouldn’t touch them. I paid with my blood, and it still somehow hurt them.
How can you bond with someone whom the rest of the world fears?
You’ll never lead.
I shrug. “Maybe. We’ll see.”
He pays the check and helps me into my long, black wool coat. The entire time, he tells me about his last birthday with his brothers, and how they surprised him with his favorite cake, which then turned into a food fight.
I listen, and the ache in my chest grows with each word. He sounds happy—his family sounds normal. I’ll bet they never had to worry about their father bringing home a new whore, or a nanny touching their little brother while no one was looking.
Selena. She was my first kill. It was sloppy, but that’s what you get for hurting my family.
There are days when I’m envious of normal, perfect families. Envious of their happy dinners, their bonds. Envious of their good memories, which overrule any bad ones.
Other days… my eyes find the Reaper across the street. Other days, I miss having the one person who understood. All the pain. All the trauma. Who withstood the storm and chose me over it all.
Linwood holds my gaze, and that rock feels heavier, crushing my sternum.
I always knew I was the broken one—covered in scars, battling demonic nightmares, fighting to keep a clan that didn’t want me. He made me feel like it was worth it—to hold on. To stay. He made me fucking believe in myself.
When he left, he proved my greatest fear real: Maybe I was too damaged to be loved.
I received my answer when I stood with him years ago.
He hasn’t moved, another cigarette in his fingers. Reese touches my waist, and those eyes narrow, tiny daggers scraping across my flesh.
“Ready?”
His car pulls up, and the valet hands over the keys.
The tightness in my chest nearly suffocates me. I’m suddenly not ready to go home—to the place that was once my prison, my sanctuary, and the holder of my trauma. I’m trapped in the past against my will within those walls, haunted by old ghosts, with a shadow who refuses to let me go.
I need something different—I need to feel alive and normal.
“No.” Turning, I blink against the snowflakes dusting my lashes. “Let’s go to your apartment.”
His eyes widen. “You don’t ever want to?—”
“Not like that,” I murmur. “Maybe to talk?”
His smile is kind and easy as he nods. “I would love that. We can watch a movie?”
I try to smile, but it comes across as a wince. I hate movies—well, new ones. But I don’t tell him that.
“Sounds perfect.”
As he helps me into the car, I feel the burn of the Reaper’s gaze on my shoulders. I don’t turn around, and I don’t let him see my face. Because if I want this to end, I’ll have to be the first to sever ties. Killian certainly won’t.