14. Maeve
MAEVE
The two men left alive are withering on the metal table, groans filling the room. I pull away from Killian, needing to stand on my own. I’m in charge—I’m the leader. Relying on someone else doesn’t look good.
Shaking out my hands, I gesture to my sister. “Thoughts?”
She moves to Daniel, tsking at his wounds. “They’re bleeding pretty good. Luckily, the metal didn’t hit anything major. If I can get it all out and stop the bleeding, he’ll survive. But movement will be limited until he’s fully healed.”
I’m already rolling up my sleeves. “And Sean?”
She frowns. “I’ll have to remove the burnt flesh. With infections and who knows what other trauma underneath it, it might not be enough. If he does survive, it’ll be a long road.”
I make a mental note—desk duty for Daniel until he’s back. Maybe even counting cash. That way, he’ll still have a job. As for Sean? Rolling my lips, I tilt my head. I’ll keep paying Sean regardless of what happens.
If he dies, his family won’t starve. If he lives, I’ll find a place for him.
Taking a pair of offered gloves, I look down at Daniel. The metal bits are corroded and old. A pipe bomb—not necessarily well-made, but it’ll do in a pinch.
“What do you need?”
“Hold him.” She gestures to the men behind me. “One of you on his arms. Another on the torso. Maeve, I’ll need you to help with the extraction.”
“Not exactly my specialty,” I quip, easing down next to Collins. I’m better at causing wounds than fixing them, but I don’t say it.
Hayes holds Daniel’s shoulders, and Killian slips the hilt of his blade into the runner’s mouth. “Bite hard,” he instructs.
When he places his inked hands on his chest, I look at my sister. “Aren’t you going to give him anything for the pain?”
She scoffs. “Since when do you care about pain management?”
It’s a barb—a good one. Under most situations, I’d ignore it. Not today, though. My mood sours, and a dark cloud hangs over my head.
My problem isn’t that I don’t care—it’s that I care too much. I feel everything—understand pain, sadness, and despair better than most.
I care if my runners make it home every night. I care if my siblings live long lives. I care if the twins in Sloane’s belly are growing right.
Because of that, it’s my weakness. I lock the emotions down, preferring the cold mask I show the world, and hide. It’s easier, safer. I’m less vulnerable when everyone thinks I’m untouchable.
Leveling the gauze to the sides, I watch as Collins dissects the shrapnel. Daniel screams, body convulsing as she cuts into his leg. Both men have to throw all their weight onto him, trying to keep him as still as possible, much to Collins’ displeased look.
But she doesn’t falter. The sharp scalpel slices through tissue with barely any pressure. She’s meticulous, pulling back layers, using clamps to keep the wound open. Using small tweezers, she picks the smallest bits out, filling the small metal pan at her elbow.
The clink-clink-clink of each piece hitting aggravates my nerves. Every chip is a personal insult—my fault. My weakness. My failure.
With her direction, we pack the wound, stitching it closed with a small opening. As if talking to herself, she explains, “For drainage.” Glancing up at Daniel, I notice he’s passed out, face sweaty and gray. But he’s breathing—better than Jaimie.
“Prognosis?”
Collins wipes her brow. A few strands stick to her forehead. “As long as we keep infection down, he’ll be alright.” She looks to Sean, face grim. “Same with him. But it’s harder. Burns?—”
“Having a higher rate of infection,” I supply. I know a thing or two about burns. My back is a living scar, crisscrossed with knife wounds, cigar burns, and the occasional lighter. It was a bitch to heal after those.
Killian helped—he kept them clean. He checked on me. His gaze snags on mine, as if he can see what I’m thinking—as if he’s back in those memories too. The harsh smell of singed hair and burned skin, the shadows that kept our secrets while he worked.
I break the connection first.
Collins gives me an odd look, but I move to the last man. His left side is encased in charred flesh, and the sickening scent of boiled blood wafts off of him. I don’t hide my nose, though—I’m better than that.
His eyes, still bright, roll to meet mine. “Ace.”
Carefully, I lean over him, keeping from touching his sensitive body. Sean has been a runner longer than I’ve been one. We did a few meets together, him as my muscle when I negotiated deals. Probably a decade older than me, I’ve never had to worry about his loyalty. “What happened?”
“Bomb,” he rasps. I knew as much—I know the Board’s sloppy work. They tend to use the clans for these hits, but since we’re the only one in the area, they’re relying on old tactics. I wouldn’t be surprised if Doyle set it up.
The question is how.
“Was it at the meet?” Collins moves on my side, gathering supplies. I’m running out of time—once she takes him, the pain will be too much. He’ll lose consciousness, and I need information. “Sean, tell me. Was it at the meet?”
He tries to swallow, but can’t. His burned throat is dried out, and his lips are chapped, flesh pulling at the edges. His eyes flutter closed, strain exhausting him.
Not yet.
“Sean.”
“Yes,” he hisses, mouth slackened. “They’re coming, Ace. For all of us.”
My blood runs cold, and my nails scratch the metal above his head. The Board. The assassins. No longer coming for me, they’re going after everyone around me. Just to pressure me.
They want my family—my power. And they’ll do anything to make me break.
Like fuck will I give anything to them.
Placing his hand gently back on his chest, I nod at Collins as she starts to roll him to the sink. Debridement is gruesome, even for me, and I have to fight the gag on my tongue. “You take care of them. Understand?”
She bites the inside of her cheek. “I’ll do my best.”
“Do better.”
Stalking from the med lab, I slip out my phone, cold fury causing my fingers to shake. My heels drive into the basement floor, punctuating every swipe of my finger against a key.
Someone knew about the meet. Someone in my clan gave information to the Board and let them hurt us. It’s not exactly hidden knowledge among my men when we have meets, but I change the personnel. Never the same guys together to avoid detection.
Yet my men talk. They exchange nightly plans, routines, and orders at the Wharf. That means anyone could’ve gotten the information and sold it to the Board.
Maybe they even work for them. A mole in my organization.
I want to know who.
A woman could never lead this clan. Too soft. Too incompetent.
I need backgrounds.
Briar: Hello, dearest oldest sister. I’m wonderful, thank you for asking.
Rolling my eyes, I stab the elevator button. I’m not in the mood for my fucking smartass of a baby brother.
I know you’re fine. I know what you’re doing in California.
Backgrounds. Now.
Briar: On whom?
The doors slide open, and I step inside, sending one word.
Everyone.
There’s a brief pause, and I can see his devious grin as he responds. We share the same smile.
Briar: My pleasure.
Exhaling, I shove the phone into my pocket as a hand slams between the closing silver doors. It jams, the warning rings, and I step back as the Reaper stares at me flatly. Those cold eyes dance with irritation, and my shoulders hike, readying for a battle.
He slips in beside me, leaning on the back wall, a dark shadow that insists on stalking me.
The elevator slowly closes its doors and begins to rise. The air turns charged, heightened, and I shift. I hate how easily he can influence me—the room—everything. I hate that he’s here.
I hate how my body hums, begging to be touched again
“You have a leak.”
I know we do, but hearing it from his lips hits me in the gut like a physical punch.
“I know.”
The elevator rises to another floor, and I hold my breath. I expect the doors to open, but the damn thing keeps going. Growling, I jab the buttons, trying to force it to stop.
I want out—away—from him. I need to get away from him. Away from the conflicting emotions. The broken heart that insists on beating only for him. Only him.
If I stay here any longer, he’ll see everything. He’ll see me.
“They’re going after everything you love,” he comments slowly, eyes on my back. My shoulders tense as if each word stings. “Someone is selling your secrets to the Board to get rid of you.”
“I know.” If the clan loses trust in me, that’s it. They’ll turn. I’ll be out, my agreements voided. And whoever takes over, whether it be Hayes or someone else who seizes power, can get in good with the Board by undoing all my work.
They can give Sloane to Doyle.
They can give Collins to Bruno.
They can kill Briar.
No.
Pounding my fist into the white buttons, something snaps. My restraint, my resolve, this ugly bubble of doubt explodes, and I pummel the metal.
The Reaper wraps a large protective palm around my hand, tugging me back forcefully. Blinking, the fog of red dulls as his face appears in my vision, black eyes searching mine.
I frown as he inspects my hand, tsking. It’s bright pink, sore. I didn’t realize I was hitting so hard. All I felt was panic—the sheer terror of losing my family to this mess. At failing them—failing like Pops always thought I would.
Because a woman can’t lead. I was never meant to be the captain.
“Hurting yourself never solves anything,” he whispers.
I remember a time when I tried to hurt myself to find stability. He helped me find pleasure through the pain.
“I assume you already reached out to Briar.”
“He’s looking into everyone.” My voice shakes, and looking down, I see my knees wobble. But it’s the only sign of fear I allow myself. “But that will take days, even with his computer skills.”
Days of having a mole. Days of not knowing when the next strike will come.
If the Board only came after me, I could handle it.
But they’re going after my men and my clan. They’re trying to destabilize me, take my power, before coming for me. Go for the knees, then the eyes, and then they’ll chop off my head.