16. Maeve
MAEVE
The sweltering café makes my skin itch.
The snow outside, full of thick snowflakes, looks cool. Comforting. Not at all suffocating like the blinding cheer beside me—a noose around my neck. People stand laughing, placing orders at the glass counter, while others share stories further back.
Even the soft jade-green wall cannot soothe me. It’s too hot, too full. The windows are wide and exposed, and there isn’t a clear path to an exit.
What if an assassin shows up here? My eyes track every person who enters, lingering on their bags. A bomb can fit inside the smallest of handbags, and my shoulders hitch higher as I chew on my cheek.
I’m too exposed. Why did I agree to this date?
Because I needed out of the house. After waking up on the couch—alone—I spent another hour looking through folders. No one sticks out as being in the Board’s pocket—or maybe everyone does. They did start the clan. They are as intertwined as the O’Brien name.
When Killian returned, with a smear of blood on his neck and smelling like spicy aftershave, I had to escape.
Jealousy sours my gut—it’s my own fault. I told him to leave, that I can’t be an effective leader if he’s haunting my home. Maybe he went off and found someone else who wants him?
So, I grab my phone, the cracked screen lying against the wall of my office, and respond to Reese’s text. Hayes isn’t wrong—I don’t like him. We’re not anything official. But I needed space—a moment of normalcy, where the weight of the world isn’t resting on my shoulders.
The jealousy from earlier doesn’t dissipate. Holding the cup of black coffee to my chest, I let it burn me, char me to the bone. Linwood might have wanted me to remember who I belong to—who owns my soul—but this pain reminds me of the cost of loving the Reaper.
Someone bumps into the table, and I grab the knife on my thigh.
They make a lame excuse, Reese holding a fork of dripping Caesar salad to his mouth.
He doesn’t see what I do—the dangers lurking in the shadows, or the clandestine hitmen who want my head.
Every movement sets my teeth on edge and my heart racing.
“It’s packed,” Reese says, glancing around. “You’d think getting so close to the holidays, it’d slow down.”
I make a sound that could be agreement. I don’t know—I’m glaring at the lumbering giant who takes off to the back.
Sipping from my mug, I give him an annoyed look. “It’s loud.”
“Is it?” He tilts his head. “Maybe I’m used to it. I come here all the time.”
The searing heat of the mug grounds me, and my skin grows uncomfortable. Blinking at him, I roll my lips. “Oh.”
Placing the fork down, he wipes his face. “Is something on your mind?” I still, and he smiles sweetly. “You’re distracted. I think I’ve told you the same story three times since we got here.”
Did he? Was I so focused on looking for a possible enemy, I forgot about him?
I should feel guilty about that, but I don’t. Reese’s emotional health pales in comparison to the growing attempt on my life—on my siblings’ lives.
“You can tell me anything.”
I really can’t.
“I’m a great listener.”
Is he? I’ve never noticed.
He sighs. “I want to be let in a little bit. But if you don’t want that—” he breaks off, glancing around. Swallowing, he shrugs. “I understand.”
Taking a large gulp of my coffee, I shift in my seat. I don’t owe him anything, nor do I need to explain. But it would look super weird if I sat here, staring at him, not touching my salad.
“It’s work,” I offer. His eyes glint. “And family. Probably both.”
He nods sagely. “Life doesn’t make things easy.”
Scoffing, I look away, eyes tracking the snow as it drifts across the window. “No, it doesn’t.”
He pushes his plate to the side, folding his hands onto the table.
When I don’t say anything else, he rubs his cheek.
“I want to stay—especially to talk more. But I’m already past my lunch break.
Why don’t you stay?” He gestures to my plate and takes out his wallet.
“I’ll handle the bill. You sit and have some time to think.
Maybe all the answers will come to you with a bang? ”
My shoulders drop, exhaustion pulling on my features. “Thanks.”
He’s not pushing—not that he ever does. And I’m glad for it.
He exits without a kiss—and I’m silently happy—as another couple enters. The brisk wind whips around the warm café, and I inhale, red cheeks cooling.
My eyes track them. They’re normal enough—bulky sweaters, big coats, tall boots—and one holds a bookbag.
They don’t look at me, smiling at the overhead décor.
I follow them to the back as the woman points at one picture—something black and white—Killian could paint better.
But nothing strikes me as odd about their mannerisms—it’s almost predictable.
And that’s why my brain clocks it, adrenaline thumping through my veins. It’s too normal—too rehearsed. I’ve been watching for attacks my entire life—and my alarm bells are screaming.
Breathing short, I slowly turn back around and hunt for a small mirror. At the top corner, a reflector sits, a way for the kitchen staff to see around the corner, maneuvering around the open farm tables and rowdy crowds. At the right angle, I can see the couple.
Tapping the table, I judge the thickness. Relatively big, it’ll hold against bullets. But I’ll have to duck to the exit when they start firing.
It’s not great chances, but I’ve faced worse. Wrapping my hand around the fork, I plant my foot, ready to jump.
Killian drops before me, a slap of mint hitting me in the face. Freshly dressed, his hair falls around his face, still heavy with snow. Those dark eyes, which must have been born from the devil himself, peer at me, a lick of anger making them flicker with unholy madness.
I react before I think better of it—stabbing the fork at his outstretched hand.
He moves out of the way effortlessly. The tips of the silverware plunge into the solid wood, the sound eaten up by the cafe.
Killian’s lips quirk as he teases, “You can do better than that.”
Seriously?
“Lean closer and maybe I’ll slice your neck with my butter knife.”
Those soulless eyes crinkle at the corners, glancing back at me as he licks his bottom lip. “Don’t say things to turn me on, Princess. We both know my cock gets hard when you’re murderous. And I’m already pissed enough as it is.”
Shifting, I look away, knowing my cheeks are bright red now. His smirk grows.
“What are you mad about?”
He glances around. “I wonder if your boyfriend would be happy to know that three days ago you were leaking my cum, or if that’s his kink to know someone else was fucking his girl?”
I kick out at his shin, glancing around. “Lower your fucking tone.”
“Why?” He smirks. “Afraid someone will hear how you liked to be filled up against your will?”
“Funny, coming from someone who came back to the mansion smelling like aftershave.” Glaring, I rip the fork out of the grain. “What do you want?”
Rolling his eyes, he reclines, looking over my shoulder. “I think I made it abundantly clear you’re never to be alone.”
“And I think I made it abundantly clear: I don’t need your protection.”
His jaw clenches. “You keep saying things like that. But for some reason, I don’t believe it. Maybe it’s because I remember how your cunt milks my dick when I’m inside you?”
I kick him again, and he barely winces. He’s in rare form.
Killian frowns at my plate. “Why are you eating a Caesar salad?”
“Because it’s lunchtime.”
“Right.” He goes to the checkout counter, standing in front of a large case containing delicious pastries. Danishes, croissants, donuts, and more all sparkle under the soft lights.
My eyes look in the mirror, ignoring him. So far, the couple hasn’t moved. They’re looking at menus, blending in, but I see the nervous twitch of their fingers. The way they stare without reading.
They’re waiting.
A plate drops before me, a gooey chocolate croissant steaming on it.
My stomach rumbles as I push it back. I’m a sucker for chocolate, but right now?—
“No.” He halts the plate, eyes hard. “When’s the last time you ate?”
Something akin to shame burdens my shoulders. I refuse to answer.
Softer, he says, “Eat, Princess.”
It almost sounds like a plea.
With two fingers, I rip a corner off and moan when the buttery flakes hit my tongue. His eyes turn heated, but I don’t care. I’m ravenous, devouring the pastry so quickly, I choke.
Chuckling, he shoves the mug at me. “Fuck off,” I wheeze.
“Maybe later.”
As I rinse my mouth, his fingers tap the table. “Is he gone?”
I glare over my cup. “I feel like you already know that.”
“Perhaps,” he drawls, fingers still moving. “I find it odd he’d leave you so quickly, though.”
Of course, he was watching. “How so?”
“Because, Princess,” he says, leaning forward. His gaze captures mine, and I freeze. Using his thumb, he traces my bottom lip, the digit calloused but gentle.
Glancing down, I see the chocolate covering it before he licks it clean.
My stomach clenches, and my cheeks darken.
“Normal men don’t leave beautiful women on a date unless under threat of death.
Sometimes, for those of us who aren’t afraid of death, even then.
We certainly don’t leave because our lunch break was over. ”
I don’t ask how he knows what he does—Killian knows everything.
Folding his arms, he curls forward. “Did you clock them?”
My eyes flicker to the ceiling mirror again, and he looks up, silently laughing.
“Three tables back. On the left. Woman and man.”
“Good.”
“Recognize them?” Killian is a terrifying hitman on his best day. He tends to know the other assassins in the world. They all have an unlikely truce when on a job.
Or, in reality, they don’t want to piss off the Reaper in his backyard.
“Not them,” he admits, stealing my coffee for a sip. “Do you have your gun?” His gaze skirts over my chest and down my belly to my hips. Desire rises behind those dead eyes, and I shift, damp between my legs. It’s like a damn switch whenever he’s around.
“Are you patronizing me?”