8. Maeve
MAEVE
PRESENT DAY
The heat of the coffee mug sears my bottom lip as I inhale the rich aroma.
Another sleepless night. Another night lost to nightmares.
Such a pretty thing.
A useless woman.
My shoulders bunch, and I mentally push the taunts away. Doyle’s threat didn’t help. But fuck him and his perverse sense of ownership over my sister. It’s the same consuming need Bruno Senior had when Pops offered Collins to him in that clandestine meeting.
It’s the same shit Michael tried to hold over me.
I’ll never regret the choices I’ve made on behalf of my siblings. It’s kept them alive. And if that gets me killed, so be it.
“You need to eat something,” Killian drawls from the counter. Glaring up at the Reaper, I stubbornly take a long sip of the black coffee, enjoying the way the heat scalds my throat.
“Why are you here?” I ask, hunkering into my day-old clothes. “I wasn’t happy with being stalked, but at least you didn’t talk to me.”
“That was before Doyle showed up.” Leaning against the custom-made kitchen island—white, with polished quartz countertops and brass handles that Pops spent too much on when it was built—he’s a menacing presence in the bright room. Dark jeans, black band shirt, ebony boots. He’s Death come to rage.
I ignore him and sit at the kitchen table. Usually, it’s only me here—in a cold kitchen, sitting in front of the three large windows that face the west side of the property. I can see the woods in the distance, and in the spring, the wild violets crop up at the edges.
Right now, it’s expanses of white snow and barren trees. Just me, my thoughts, a book, and coffee. I hate the silence, but it’s all I have.
Of course, Linwood would show up to ruin it.
I haven’t forgotten the kiss or how his hands felt. How my body burned with fury and desire, mixed with the sickening realization that I wanted more.
Of how that ember of love I tried to kill years ago still smolders.
But the bastard isn’t getting anything from me. Not after everything he did.
“Eat something,” he demands, gesturing to the croissants our chef made.
I stare, bored. “Not hungry.”
He smirks as my stomach growls. Just to spite him, I sip from my coffee. “Right. It’s someone else’s stomach that sounds like it’s digesting itself.”
I refuse to answer. Mostly because he’s right. The prick.
Opening my book, Emma by Jane Austen, I pointedly ignore him. The cover is worn and the pages bent from constantly turning them, but it’s my comfort read. It’s the book I reach for when I need to escape. I have bookshelves full of classics, but I always return to this one.
The Reaper moves behind me, and I settle into it, the mug steaming by my elbow. The sun’s rays shine through the large windows, and I exhale, the warmth a calming balm to the darkness inside my mind.
It banishes the ugly and brightens my resolve. It pushes away the bad thoughts, and I roll my shoulders, imbuing myself with the light.
A plate appears in front of me. It’s a few pieces of buttered toast, a sliced banana, and scrambled eggs. Frowning, I’m about to tell Killian to shove it when he pushes it away from me, and he sits with a fork.
At my look, he steals my coffee, sipping from it. “What? I’m not allowed to eat breakfast here?”
“I’d rather you not be here at all. And give me that,” I grumble, taking back my mug.
The Reaper winks, shoveling a bite of eggs into his perfectly shaped mouth.
With a full bottom lip, a delicate arch, and laugh lines around the corners, it’s not fair how sexy he makes eating.
Surrounded by the barest five-o’clock shadow, it only heightens his attractiveness and adds to my need to stab him.
He chews, and I watch, mesmerized. As he swallows, the tip of his pink tongue darts out, catching traces of food, and I gulp, averting my gaze. I remember vividly what his tongue can do.
“You alright there, Princess?” he asks, fork moving around the food absently. “Are you getting sick?”
“What?” I clear my throat, tugging at my collar. “No. Why?”
He smirks, like he knows a secret I don’t. “You look flushed.”
Fucking traitorous body. I know what he did—what he’s doing, but apparently, my body hasn’t gotten the memo.
Angrily, I snatch his food, if not to wipe the smirk off his face. I pluck the fork and barely resist the urge to stick my tongue out at him, and bite into the toast.
Flavor explodes over my tongue, and I whimper. Jesus, I didn’t realize how hungry I was. It’s bad when I can’t remember the last time I ate—I could blame the nightmares keeping me away, but I know it’s this insane need to be in control. Control, I desperately need.
Killian leans back, crossing his arms. His triceps bulge under his tight shirt, and the ACDC faded lettering catches the morning’s rays. “You had your chance. Give me my plate back.” But he doesn’t move to take it.
I scoop more into my mouth and shrug. “Try to take it.”
It’s reminiscent of our fights as children. Last time I stole his food, it was a cupcake he had teased me with all night. He took one bite out of it, so I cut his forearm and stole it right out from under him. It was probably the sweetest thing I’ve ever eaten—all because Killian couldn’t have it.
His hand darts out, but crumbs are all that’s left. Take that. Smiling smugly, he rolls his eyes, annoyed. “Thanks for sharing.”
“Any time.”
The swinging door opens as Hayes walks into the room with Collins on his heels.
After their fake engagement became real, they opted to convert half of the second floor into a two-bedroom apartment.
It didn’t bother me—the mansion is too big, and we have empty rooms—but it also means I barely see them. Having them downstairs is… different.
“Are we interrupting?” Collins asks, going to her kettle. She grabs a tea bag—tea I make sure to keep stocked for her. Her eyes narrow in on Killian’s taunting smile.
“No.” Taking a large gulp, I gesture to Hayes. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” He slides his hands into his pants, and I cock an eyebrow.
Hayes is a brother to me—in blood and trauma. When he came into the clan, I knew what had happened to him before he said a word. It was the same despicable shit that had been done to me. But whereas I had to handle Michael, Hayes was given to any man who could pay.
It wasn’t enough to barter for his freedom when we were kids—I had always planned on killing Senior for his hand in hurting my friend—I dreamed of burning the entire organization to the ground. Life got in the way, and one crisis after another happened before I could.
It was poetic justice that Hayes killed Senior himself in the second trial. That should’ve helped his nightmares—it’s certainly helped mine when I ended my abuser’s life. And I see it—the ease in his step, the bright laughter, and frequent smiles. Could also be because of Collins.
“What is it?”
“Nothing.”
“I know when you’re lying,” I mumble. “Your ears are red. What happened?”
He glances at Collins, pulling his long strands to cover his ears, and I wait. My goal was never to have my sisters in this life—Sloane was meant for fame and fortune, and Collins was meant to travel the world, saving people after she survived cancer.
But my father dragged them in. He put us in this position. If I could, I’d raise his spirit, if only to kill him again. Slowly. Painfully. Vindictively.
A gnawing guilt consumes me whenever I think of what he did—his physical abuse of Sloane I couldn’t prevent, or his psychological torture of Collins while I was on runs. I had my own shit to deal with, but I should’ve been here, protecting them.
It’s all your fault.
“We have a situation.”
“Such as?”
“Roman,” Collins sighs tiredly. She grasps her mug to her chest, her blue pajamas cute and fresh. Not a hair out of place, she’s gorgeous in the light.
“What about Roman?”
“He’s making trouble,” Hayes explains. “He’s smarting after the last fight and taking it out on us.”
Three months ago, Roman used one of my men against me and kidnapped Hayes during the last trial.
Killian had been the interrogator and had put Hayes through all kinds of pain to break him, but he held firm.
While distracted, Finn, the fucking traitor and another contestant, subdued Hayes and brought him to Bruno Junior.
When Roman called, requesting a trade, I agreed to give him Collins so I could get the location on Hayes.
Never in my life would I give Roman Bruno Junior my sister. He’s vile and in serious need of my blade in his throat. But I need the world to see me as heartless. I need them to think I’m as bad as any man, and I will sell out my family for the end goal.
“What’s he doing?” I drop the mug onto the table, feeling Killian’s eyes on me.
“He’s at the Wharf. Meg can handle him,” he assures me. “But I’m making you aware.”
Meg is our cousin and our first line of defense. Of course, she can handle him.
It’s the fucking principle of it. He’s attacking my storehouse, where my men relax after runs or grab food before leaving. That won’t do. I have to make a stand—Pops would. As much as I don’t want to be him, there are times when his type of brutality is necessary. This world only understands pain.
“I’ll go.” Standing, the chair screeches over the tile. “You’re up to lead while I’m off the grounds.”
“Maeve—”
“Princess.” Killian grabs my wrist, perched over the table as if to climb. “Maybe you don’t remember, but assassins are tracking you. Leaving the grounds gives them the opportunity to kill you.”
Shaking him off, I glare and say, “No assassins have touched me yet. It could be a bluff.”
“Maeve, listen—” I push through the door and into the hallway, effectively ending the conversation. I don’t need to listen to their concerns—this is my clan. I need to protect it.
The plush red carpet hides my steps as I hurry to the stairs. Guards are parked by the front door, with their eyes trained overhead. A demand from my second and the Reaper, I’ve obliged. It means I’m constantly surveilled—but never quite a part of anything. Always surrounded, but always alone.
It’s fine. That’s what it takes to lead.
A hand whips me around, slamming me into the wall, forearm pressed to my chest. Coughing, I clip him in the chin before he grabs my hand, linking our fingers together and pinning them both to the side.
Killian’s furious eyes peer down at me, and I’m sure he’s thinking of ways to murder me.
“You’re going to get yourself killed.”
“By Bruno?” I snort. “He can’t kill a fucking spider. I’ll be fine.”
I push against him, but the bastard shoves me back, banging my head into the wood paneling. Lights explode over my eyes, and I blink the pain away.
The guards don’t interfere—no one is stupid enough to pick a fight with Killian Linwood. What fucking good is it to have them around?
“Assassins are out there.”
“No, they’re not?—”
“I killed two last night,” he growls, teeth bared. “One tried breaking into the apartment. The other? Outside, waiting for you to leave. Without me, you’d be dead.”
Cold fear strikes my heart, but I don’t show it. I refuse. “I could’ve handled them.” Kicking out, he shifts his hips, knee hitting my inner thigh. He presses, and I grunt, the pinprick of pain skittering over my skin. “You forget, I’ve survived worse. I can handle a few threats.”
My body shudders—not from pain, no.
With my legs open, his hips nestle between them. I gulp as desire unspools like a forgotten cord—desire I thought I lost years ago. It’s never present when I’m with Reese—or any other man. It seems to only be drawn out when Linwood is around.
Cursing, I try to ignore how wet I am.
“Oh, I know.” His words ghost over my face, and I try hard not to flutter my eyelashes. A blush creeps over my cheeks, and he gnashes his teeth together. “And every time, I was fucking there, cleaning up the mess. Admit it. Having me can help.”
“Admit it? Fuck you. Never.”
He chuckles, glancing down between us. His voice turns thoughtful, even nostalgic. “I remember the last time you opened your legs for me. You looked delicious like that. Do you?”
“No. And I hope the memory haunts you,” I spit.
Killian chuckles darkly. “It does. It’s a fucking recurring nightmare at this point, Princess.” He pushes off of me with enough force to dent the wall. “Regardless of what you think, you’re wrong. You need me. I’m going with you.”
Rubbing my chest, I follow after him, completely pissed. “I don’t need you,” I argue, fists at my sides. “I’ve handled myself for years?—”
“And if you think for one minute,” he growls, rearing back on me. His eyes blaze down, the flicker of emotions I used to crave to see, scorching me. “That I won’t be there to protect you, you haven’t been paying attention.”
Rage colors my vision, and I shove him. He only retreats a step.
“How fucking dare you?” I seethe. “After everything—after what you did?—"
Stepping close, he breathes harshly, gripping my hair into a painful knot. My whole body locks with pain and desire. I swear, I’m going to call a priest, because I must be possessed to want him after everything.
“Yell at me. Hate me if you want.” He shakes me. “Destroy me if it makes you feel better.”
“I do. I will.”
“You already have,” he growls. “You’ve fucking obliterated me. And instead of hating you—like I should—I would gladly get on my knees and ask for more.”
Tossing me back, he continues, “You are the only thing I care about. The only thing that keeps me tethered to this fucking planet. I need you alive. So, unless you want an assassin to shoot a hole through that pretty fucking head, I suggest you get used to me always being there.”
Slapping my palms to his chest, I spit, “That’s not fair, Linwood. After all this time, you think I need you? Now? I don’t. I haven’t needed you in a long time.”
“Keep telling yourself that.” He steps away. “Maybe one day you’ll believe it. But you do—you need someone like me to keep you alive. Because you’re sure as fuck not doing it.”
Glaring at me, he takes in my rumpled clothing, lips twisted. “Consider this your only warning. You’re never going to be free of me. Ever,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “Now, go get ready. You have an empire to rule.”