4. Killian
KILLIAN
Standing on the cold balcony, I watch her come into her bedroom. She’s a vision in her tight black dress and red fucking heels that feel like a sharp stab with each punctuated step.
My heart pangs deep inside my chest, a wrecked organ that only seems to be alive near her. Her, this wretched woman, who owns every bit of me.
Stubbing out my cigarette, I lean against my forearm, fogging up the window as she kicks those heels off and drops her bag onto her bed. I take in her appearance—mussed hair, smeared lipstick, and tired eyes.
Fury lights up my veins, a heated wickedness that demands retribution in the form of slicing that fucking prick’s lips off for daring to touch her.
It’s not hard to imagine what they did for two hours at his place.
Two. Fucking. Hours.
I stood in the cold, waiting for her, like I do every time she leaves the house. It’s getting obsessive at this point, but I don’t care. She’s my heart, walking this world without protection, and I’ll be damned to let her go off while people hunt for her.
The damn woman doesn’t even think about the assassins. I found two outside her boyfriend’s apartment. One tried entering the front, but I was in the shadows, waiting. It was easy to slide up behind him and snap his neck before he could touch the handle.
The second was an hour later, sulking through the backyard. I would’ve missed him, too engrossed with trying to see into her boyfriend’s place, but he was loud. Fucking amateur. Who steps on patches of broken ice and frozen twigs? Whoever is training these dickheads needs a better curriculum.
A silent bullet to the head was an easy fix.
I called her second, Hayes, for a clean-up crew.
I wasn’t leaving my post to get rid of some fuckers.
It took a bit of convincing—he wanted to know why I was at Reese’s home—but after I threatened to come into his bedroom in the middle of the night, he agreed.
He didn’t need to know I was following Maeve.
Unfortunately, the fucking pricks are getting bold.
Last week, I grabbed one before he entered the small boutique shop she stopped at to buy a pair of black boots.
Dragging him off into the alley, I sliced his neck, let his blood spray the wall, and then tossed him in the dumpster for the trash collectors.
No longer hiding, they are actively seeking her out whenever she leaves the compound.
The Board made its threats—and they aren’t backing down.
The fucking problem was, this five-foot-nothing vixen, whom I want to throw onto the bed and fuck until her pussy was sculpted to only fit my cock, and strangle her until her lips turned purple, was walking the streets of Boston, alone. Without guards.
She wasn’t taking this seriously. Or if she was, she has a death wish. And I’ll be fucking damned if I let her die.
She flitters around her room like the moths she loves, and I track her movements, compelled to watch. The worry in my chest, the hissing snake of dread, eases with her back at the mansion. She’s safe here—protected. I can protect her here behind thick walls and security cameras.
This is also where I watched her slay her abuser and fucked her in a puddle of his blood.
She begged me to do it. Begged. Me. That was the first nail in the coffin of how completely, utterly owned I was by her. If she asked me to live my life on my knees at her side, I would happily—gleefully—do it.
She turns toward her table and finally sees my latest drawing.
As a kid, I’d doodle. Sketches of birds.
A few drawings of flowers. Painting and drawing were an easy escape when I couldn’t kill something.
My mother embraced it—often bringing me to museums before we went on the run.
She thought it would be a better outlet than the rage I inherited from my father.
For some reason, I started leaving them for Maeve.
We would hold knives to each other’s necks all day, but at night, under the cover of shadows and secrets, I’d leave her a picture. I always waited, spying on her as she looked at it. It became my new hobby, garnering her approval based on her reactions.
A soft squint of her eyes—not very good.
Raised eyebrows—pleasantly surprised.
A small smile—the highest compliment. It became my nightly goal.
If I knew then how rare her smile was, I would’ve done more. Tried harder. Enjoyed them more.
Picking up the paper, she scans the garden, the ravens in flight overhead. It’s our secret place behind the house. She traces one flower carefully, lips twitching, before shoving it into her bedside drawer. I see all the papers sticking up—all my love notes there, kept close.
Dangerous hope flares in my heart. She’s kept all my pictures, hidden from view. Which means, try as she might to ignore me, hate me, my girl still wants me.
Maeve is mine—only mine. No one else is going to have her.
I might want to fucking wring her neck first. Hold her down and make her listen—make her understand. I know it’s like fighting a wall—a stubborn wall, with thick barbs ready to draw blood out of self-preservation. But I’m willing to try.
Because in the last year, we haven’t spoken. Not after I came back, bruised and broken. Not after I killed her father—my mentor—for her. Not after Sloane was married to Alessio De Luca. Not after we put on the Games to find her a second, and her best friend won.
I know if I can break down those boundaries, hack through the walls, make her listen, she’ll be mine again.
Luckily, I’m a patient man. I’ll wait for Maeve until my dying breath.
She glides to her bathroom, stripping her black dress as she goes. I stifle the urge to groan as the fabric slides down her pale skin, the red bra and matching panties causing my cock to jerk to attention. All over are old scars—dark deeds manifested on her body.
She’s the most beautiful woman to ever grace this fucking earth.
I wait until the water starts before entering her domain, keeping my steps light. Heat hits my cheeks, my nose burning from the sudden lack of cold. Picking up her dress, I inhale, catching notes of her subtle violet perfume. But under that is the spicy scent of another.
My jaw clenches, and fury, the most foul of its kind, submerges my heart.
Throwing the dress across the room, I move to the far corner where her armchair sits. Stationed between her two full bookcases, I lean back, feet outstretched, as I wait for the only woman I’ve ever loved.
It doesn’t take long. Maeve knows showers are a vulnerability in our world, and she never wastes time. As she exits, wrapped in a tiny purple towel, dark brown strands dripping around her collarbone, I see the light red mark on her throat from an overzealous lover.
Clenching my fist, I still under her gaze, her green eyes widening slightly. She doesn’t yell, doesn’t shout. Only stares.
“Linwood.”
“Maeve.”
“You shouldn’t be in here.” She crosses to her dresser, yanking out dark clothing. She rarely wears anything else.
“How was your date?” I can’t keep the bitterness out of my tone.
Seeing her out with another man fucking hurts. Not in the cry my eyes out like some douche in a rom-com, but the kind when a serial killer loses his shit and takes the whole town down for touching one hair on the person he loves.
“Fine,” she responds quickly, avoiding my eyes.
“I know you saw me, Princess,” I drawl, leaning forward to dig my elbows into my knees. Anything to keep from grabbing her. “Very touching how he fed you.” I snort, rolling my eyes. “He must think you’re incapable of feeding yourself.”
She glares at me, cold green eyes freezing me to the bone. There she is.
“Is there a reason you’re in my room, Linwood?” Ouch. Linwood. “I specifically forbade you from entering my home.”
I shrug casually. “Tell that to your guards. They don’t stop me from entering.”
“Because they’re afraid of you.”
A lazy smile drifts across my face. “Then I guess you have your answer.”
“And the stalking throughout town?”
“You’re off in the city without guards,” I explain, eyeing her creamy pale legs. Fuck, did he have them wrapped around his head, the way I want? The way I used to? “You need protection.”
“I am my protection,” she scoffs. I can’t help but smile at her confidence.
Maeve has never doubted her ability to fight. Neither have I.
“Regardless,” I say lightly. She keeps her back to me, drying her body. I practically weep, eyes trailing over her spine and the cigar burns there. “You need eyes on you. What if an assassin came for you?”
“Then I’d be dead,” she quips.
“This isn’t a fucking joke, Maeve.”
She looks over her shoulder at me. “Do I sound like I’m joking?” She shakes her head, dropping the towel. Somehow, she put on a pair of black panties without me noticing. “I know they’re coming. But I’m not going to stop living while I wait for them.”
“God forbid you not see your boyfriend for one night,” I growl, nails digging into my palms. Seeing her change, knowing what she feels like, and not being able to go to her is fucking torture. “You need to pick better guys if Reese can’t fight off an assassin.”
She slips on an oversized band shirt, and my heart stills. It’s one of mine.
“Most people can’t fight off an assassin.”
“Most people don’t deserve to be in your orbit,” I counter, black eyes narrowed.
She turns, the shirt barely reaching the top of her thigh, and I exhale. Fuck.
“Linwood—”
“How is he, by the way?” I taunt, standing abruptly. I need something to soothe this ball of rage that wants to break something. Preferably him.
Stalking over to her, I inhale her scent and groan. “Did he fuck you the way you like?”
Jealousy rises like an ugly wave, clawing up my throat. I don’t fight it, I won’t. There’s no point. It can’t burn me worse than the ignored love searing my heart.
Her cheeks flush, and she snorts. “How is that any of your concern?”
I tsk, moving so close our chests brush. This close, I can see the gold flecks in her eyes. The ones that remind me of the fires of Hell—where this fucking love will take me.
For her, I’d go.