9. Maeve #3
I blink once, and his hand grabs my throat. Even with a man on his shoulder, he pulls me close so easily, fingers pressing against my pulse. My vision swims, and I cough against the sudden air restriction.
“Your. Fucking. Life,” he growls menacingly. “That’s what’s more important to me. What’s always been more important. You living to fight another goddamn day.”
He sounds honest—he’s practically pleading with me.
No.
I won’t be tricked into thinking he cares about me. Not again.
Slipping a knife from my thigh, I slice the wrist holding my neck, and he recoils, hissing through his teeth. Blood falls in fat drops, marring my chest, and I heave, fresh oxygen filling my lungs.
“You don’t get to pretend to care about me.” Panting, I hold my knife, my only weapon like a shield. “Not after what you did.”
“Drop it, Maeve.”
Glaring, I stay silent, knife a shield.
Throwing Junior to the ground, he rushes me, pinning my wrist to the wall, his bloody hand pinching my face. Copper assaults my nose as he leans forward. It’s not anger in his gaze—no, that’d be too simple. It’s black hunger—so tainted, so putrid, my stomach flips, and I shudder.
Not in fear, though. Never in fear with Linwood. It’s a depraved craving so strong, my soul yearns for his special brand of darkness. Where I can succumb to the rotten love, and bask in something so unholy that only Killian can understand it.
“And what did I do, hm?” he taunts. “Other than give you everything I am. Everything I have. What have I done other than be destroyed by you?”
Baring my teeth, I snap, “You gave me nothing.”
“I gave you everything,” he growls, voice shaking. He slams me back against the wall. Stars appear in my eyes, and a soft gasp leaves my lips.
Swallowing, he watches my face, captivated by the red that smears over my cheeks.
“Everything, Maeve,” he whispers reverently. “It might be tainted, impure, and rotten. But whatever I have is yours.”
Scoffing, I shake him off. “Mine? Hardly. If it was, you wouldn’t have left the night after I told you I loved you.” The words hurt to say.
I’ve never told anyone I love them—only him. And then he was gone, leaving me to the darkness, alone.
“I don’t know what you’re planning,” I mutter, voice cold. “But I will not let you fuck things up. You will not hurt me again. You will not interfere in my life—in the clan’s business.”
Linwood always has another plan, another angle. After years spent watching him, waiting for a slip, he’s never done anything for anyone. Only himself.
He smiles, huffing a laugh into the warm air between us. “You want to know what I’m planning? Fine.” Releasing me, his bloody hand falls to his side. “You. I’m planning on keeping you alive so I can have you again.”
Keep me again?
Ha. Hardly. No one wants me—certainly not a man who ran from me years ago.
It’s an old, disgusting fear in my heart. On the nights I crawled away from Michael, broken and bleeding, when the pain felt like too much, I would drift off, spent. I would wonder if anyone cared if I left this world—if I let go.
Every night, the same realization hit me. No one would miss me if I were gone. I was too broken—too damaged, that no one cared if I would still be here.
I made peace with that. I accepted it. Now, Killian thinks he can rewrite history—force me to contend with his demands. Be his again.
Inhaling, I wipe at my cheeks, fingers painted pink.
My voice shakes as I say, “You can’t have me, Linwood. You can’t stop Death.”
Scoffing, he looks to the side. “For you? I could—I would.”
A pang, so hard, so painful, rips across my chest. Similar words from times long past. Rubbing my breastbone, I shake my head. “More promises you can’t keep.”
Rushing past him, I shove everything I feel—the heartache, the grief, the rage—into the coldness. Back into my mind, far from me, where all the emotions go, and ignore his heavy gaze.
Killian and his promises. They used to be a balm to the pain—now they’re the root of it all.
Pushing past my men, I storm outside, barely hearing Meg’s call. She’s the operator—let her make the decisions. Let her handle the responsibility.
I’ve handled it long enough.
Once outside, I drop to my bare knees, skirt bunching around my thighs. The snow burns my exposed flesh, but I welcome it. Physical pain always makes the emotional pain more bearable. I can handle this—I cannot handle what Linwood dredges up.
Fuck, it’s been years. I put up the walls, broke that love into tiny pieces, and swept them under the rug. I found myself and ignored the desire to always rely on him.
But five minutes of being near him, listening to him wax poetically about fighting death for my soul, and that wicked love tries to bloom again. It awakens my soul, who yearns for his particular touch, and it’s taking everything in me not to fall into a puddle at the conflicting emotions.
The need to protect myself. The longing to let him have me. The rage at myself for being so weak.
“Maeve?”
Glancing up, my eyes flutter against the cold snow flurries, white flakes covering my shoulders. I don’t feel it. For the first time in days, I’m blessedly numb.
Until I look into the warm brown eyes of Reese Silva.
Shit.