15. Killian
KILLIAN
Her dark brown locks spill over my lap like shadowy hands, reaching for my soul.
I’d give it to her. Slice into my chest and pluck the dead organ from the gaping wound, and drop it at her feet like a good pet.
My fingers twirl the ends, smoothing them against my jeans. She doesn’t stir. Taking in her small nose, the wrinkled brow, I count how many lashes dust her pale cheek.
One hundred-forty-seven lashes, long and curled, flutter with each roll of her eye. A nightmare—they rarely leave her. I’ve spent more nights by her side as she fought back the demons that tried to take her to their bleakest depths. This is no different.
Gently, I wrap my hand into hers, squeezing once. A silent warning to her demons that she isn’t alone—that though I might not be inside her mind, sludging through the darkness, I am here. I will fight for her, lend her strength, and help her keep them at bay.
Her breaths slow, and those eyes still. Affectionately, I tap her nose and smirk as she snorts, annoyed. She hasn’t slept in months, and finally, after a fitful slumber, I can still get under her skin.
Picking up a folder, I scan the page, looking for the dates. We both agreed that a leak must be coming from someone with a connection to the men behind the Board—whether a cousin, a friend, or given a role out of a favor—and it’s likely someone who has been in the clan as long as us. Maybe longer.
Someone with a vendetta, whom the Board could exploit. Once we find them, we can focus on taking out Doyle and the Board. Maeve won’t be safe until all of them are dead.
Searching through the stack of papers meant too many names and not enough time. The clan is vast, with all kinds of players lurking in the shadows, ready to be called on for a favor. Some are runners, others enforcers. Some are simple soldiers, sent to give messages or protect a drop.
It could be anyone.
It took some convincing to get the folders from the woman on my lap.
She doesn’t want to rely on me—she doesn’t want my help.
Maeve’s always been independent—doing what she can to make things happen—but it’s the same bullshit from when we were kids.
She’d hide her wounds, hide where they came from, and pray she could do it alone.
I had to fight to heal her. Weaker men might be annoyed with it—toss in the towel, give up. But that’s what makes Maeve special. She’s not some delicate mob wife, waiting for the knight to save her. She’s the warrior—and I’ll do whatever it takes for her to see that I’m on her side.
It could take the rest of my life, but I’ll make the stubborn woman see. I’ll still be here.
Fuck, at the end of the day, it’s the only thing she’s wanted. Someone to be there when the day ends, someone to see the scars and hold back the terrors, and to remind her of the strength inside of her heart.
I might fucking kill her before that happens. Nothing about Maeve and me is easy. But I’ll resurrect her to have her once more. Or she might kill me—that seems more pleasurable.
The phone on the coffee table vibrates, and I snatch it, expecting to see her genius brother. The bastard is a pain in the ass on a good day, but if he thinks his eldest sister is in trouble, he’ll move heaven and hell to help.
But it’s not Briar’s name I see. It’s fucking Reese’s.
Reese: Just thinking about you.
White-hot anger courses through my veins.
Another text comes in.
Reese: I haven’t heard from you in a few days. Are we still on for our lunch date?
Glaring down at the woman, I barely stop myself from pulling her pants down and burying my face in her pussy. Reminding her who she belongs to—who she owns, even as she sleeps.
After taking her on the desk, I figured this was over. I felt her come on my dick, I heard her scream my name; I watched me leak down her bare legs as she left. She gripped me like she did all those years ago—it might not have put us back in that spot, but it was the first step.
I know she remembered. I know she fucking enjoyed it. I know she’s mine.
But this fucking tool is still texting her. Sending sweet words of bullshit to the woman who owns my heart? Like she isn’t drooling on my leg, as if he has any right to this?
I read the text again and throw the phone. This fucker, with his loafers and pleasant smile, thinks he has a right to her. That he’s allowed to touch her—that I’m her fucking brother.
She had balls of steel to call me her brother in front of this dick.
Brothers don’t feel the way I do about her. Brothers don’t offer unholy sacrifices to evil gods for one chance to lick their sister’s pussy. Not the way I do—not the way I have—the way I crave to do so again.
It’s almost a crime I haven’t tasted her in so long. That will change.
The phone hits the wall, and I sit back, grumbling under my breath. I need to try harder—make Maeve remember what we were like.
I’ll fuck her raw until she’s fucking filled with my cum, then strip every piece of Reese’s skin where it brushes against her. I’m the only person alive who knows what she feels like—the only person she’ll love.
If I have to force her under me, on top of me—fuck if I have to give her my knife and let her carve me up until I’m nothing but shredded pieces, I’ll do it. I’ll do whatever it takes to make her mine again—to feel her soul beside mine once more.
Because as much as she belongs to me, I belong to her. If I don’t touch her, see her smile, hear her laugh, or see someone else touch her, I’ll wither away to nothing.
“Killian.”
Glancing up, I instinctively place a hand on Maeve’s back.
“Liam.”
The pretty blonde stands there, his baby blues sweeping over his captain before landing on me. With large shoulders and a thick neck, he makes an impressive foot soldier.
Once upon a time, he used to warm my bed. A quick fuck, he was someone to take the edge off after hard missions. Or as a substitute for the one person I wanted.
When I finally tasted Maeve, no one else compared. I cut ties, ignored texts, and never let my eyes drift from her. No one could tame the devil in my heart the way she could.
She’s my keeper, and I never denied it.
His eyes scan my body, hunger darkening his eyes.
“See something you like?”
He grins. “Actually?—”
“Rhetorical question,” I say curtly. “What?”
“I have a message for her.” He crosses his arms. “It’s important.”
“If you wake her,” I warn, voice deadly, “I’ll rip your tongue out of your mouth and eat it.”
I’ll be damned if I let some fucking dick disturb her.
A sad smile crosses his face. “Still have a thing for her, huh, Reaper?”
A thing? Teens have things for their girlfriends who they fuck behind the bleachers. A thing is what Bruno has for his new favorite, who turns him into a deranged mush pile with a hard-on for being walked all over.
What I have for Maeve is so much deeper.
It’s consuming, near suffocating in the pressure that sits on my chest when she’s in the room and won’t look at me.
It’s exhilarating when she smiles, and I can bask in it, like moonlight behind a heavy cloud.
And it’s fucking soul-crushing when she looks at me, and I see that I’ve broken something sacred inside her.
Whatever this is—love, lust, obsession—it’s not a thing. It’s the endless abyss of death and the scorching burn of new life. It’s everything—and nothing at all.
“A thing,” I laugh, psychotic rage growing. “Why do you ask?”
“You’re still pining for a woman who won’t have you. It’s been like this since we were all kids. You follow her around like a lost dog, hoping for scraps, and it never comes.”
He wouldn’t be saying those things if he knew I had my initials etched into her skin.
“Maybe I’m hoping for a bone?” I tuck a strand behind her ear. “What’s the message? Or I use my knife to cut it from your fucking throat. Your choice.”
A shiver of fear racks his shoulders, and he nods. “De Luca Capo wants to know where his pills are.”
The fucking capo.
“Of course, he does. Send him a message back,” I instruct, sliding out from the captain. She moves, brows furrowing, and I tuck my jacket across her chest. “I’ll be by to speak to him soon.”
“Are you going to tell the captain?”
Turning toward him, I tilt my head. “You think this is worth her time?”
The Board is breathing down her neck and has assassins after her. A mole is sabotaging her hard-earned reign. And Bruno feels the need to fuck shit up like he’s a cat pissing in the corner for dominance.
Lex bitching about not having his product is beneath her time. She’ll never admit it, but she needs help.
“Playing king now?” He scoffs. “Is that why you’ve always been stuck to her side? You want the power?”
Power? I’ve never wanted power. A home, or a family to belong to? Absolutely. It’s been my dirty secret for years. When you don’t belong to your old family, you wish for a new one.
But with Maeve, I’ve never wanted her spot. I never wanted to be her king. I only wanted to be hers.
Grabbing the fucking asshole’s throat, I smile as he gurgles. His nails slash at my hand, and I kick out his legs. He’s airborne before I slam him loudly into the floor, the coffee table rattling. Folders fall and the paintings shift, rocked by his weight.
Maeve stirs, makes a soft gasp that pulls at my heart. Her eyes flutter, and I hold my breath. She stirs, rubs her cheek where a crease indents it, and I wait. A moment longer, before she turns, tugging my jacket higher, and buries herself into the cushions away from us.
“You’re lucky,” I comment. “If she woke up, this might be uglier.”
“Wha—"
The rage simmers higher, everything sharply contrasting. The knife rises, pulled from somewhere I’m not sure, and I attack.