16. Maeve #2
“Hardly.” He snorts. “But in that tight a dress, it leaves little to the imagination. I’m not complaining—though I did consider smashing the butt of my gun into every single prick in this café who was looking at you—it also makes hiding a weapon difficult.” He clears his throat. “Where is it?”
Pointing to the floor, I say, “Bag.”
“Knives?”
“Thigh.”
Swallowing, he looks over my shoulder, as if to rebuild his resolve.
I’ll admit, I’m having trouble focusing too. It’s too easy to remember his blade against my body, the pain and pleasure, and his dominance from a few nights ago.
Exactly why I can’t let him back in. Killian destroyed me—and yet, here I am thinking about him between my legs. I’m a fucking idiot—and my mind is a mess. I can’t lose focus. My only concern should be on finding the mole and ending the Board.
Not the Reaper before me.
“How do you know they’re assassins?”
He glares. “Are you insulting me now?” Gesturing with his head. “How do you?”
“Being the most fearsome Reaper in the Northeast, I assume you had some super-secretive way to deduce who they were.”
His smirk drips with danger. “The most fearsome Reaper in the world.” His voice drops lower. “Careful, Princess. Question my ability again, and I’ll have to show you exactly how good I am.” He smirks. “Well, again.”
My throat dries. My nipples pebble through the tight fabric, and that grin grows.
Traitor.
Swallowing a gulp of hot coffee, I shrug. “Too bad that’s over.”
Tilting his head, his eyes flash. “I distinctly remember telling you to never hide from me. No more lies.” His hand snakes out, pinning my wrist to the table with unnatural speed.
“So? Let go.”
“I won’t count this one. Call it a get-out-of-jail-free card. But this is your only warning.” His voice lowers, a deadly rumble that does unholy things to my pussy. “Lie to me, hide from me again, and you will regret it. It won’t keep happening, Maeve. You’re not going to hide from me anymore.”
I glare. “Oh, really? And you’ll do what? Let go, Linwood.”
“Test me, and you’ll find out.”
Scoffing, I wrench my wrist away and cradle it to my chest. His fingers left impressions, skin red and angry. “Don’t put your hands on me again.”
“I’d count that as a lie if we weren’t about to be killed.” His eyes snap to the right. “Hopefully that food has digested. Don’t throw up when the bullets start flying. It’s unbecoming of a captain.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him off.
Before I can, Killian grabs my shoulder, throwing me to the ground.
My knee slams into the table leg, my elbow to the floor, and pain spikes from the collision.
Dragging me back, he kicks the table over with his powerful legs.
The dishes shatter into a chaotic mess, the crash ringing in my ears.
He presses me to the ground, hand to my head, body over mine as the bullets penetrate the air. They miss us by moments.
“Still think it’s all a bluff?” he grits out into my ear. His weight keeps me pinned, and his arms brace along my sides. “Breathe.”
“Fuck you, I am.” Mostly. The urge to storm into battle is trying to override the logic that says I need to stay put. “I don’t want you on top of me.”
“Liar,” he breathes, lips grazing my ear. “I’m giving you a lot of free chances today, Princess. This won’t happen again.”
People scream around us as tables fall to the ground with heavy thumps. Glasses break, combusting from the semi-automatic. The window to my side bursts, pieces raining down on us. Shards slice my cheeks and neck, but Killian takes the brunt, tucking my head under his chin.
My hands grip his jacket, holding him close as he protects me. I don’t think on it.
The bullets don’t end, a continual assault, and I hear the table groan in protest. The wood starts to buckle, tiny holes growing larger with each additional hit. It won’t last long. We have to return fire.
“Don’t.” His nose brushes my cheek, as if hearing my thoughts. “Wait.”
“I hate waiting,” I say tensely, jerking with every bullet. I expect to feel the pain any second.
He snorts. “I’m well aware, Princess.”
A few more sprays pass over us, and the clang of bodies falling will forever haunt my dreams. Innocents, people who never knew this world existed, are dying because of me. Their deaths are on my conscience; fingers clean, but as bloody as if I had pulled the trigger.
More deaths on my shoulders. More failures.
The guns stop, and I exhale, body releasing tension. An eerie silence fills the room, and I try to quiet my heart, as if they can hear it. The barrel clicks, the popping of gears echoes around me—they’re changing cartridges. I know those sounds better than anyone else.
If we don’t move now, we’re done.
Killian pushes up, grabbing his gun from his back. The gold Death's-head hawkmoth swings out, glinting against the harsh afternoon sun. Snagging my bag, he shoves my Eagle into my hands.
I don’t wait to be told, clicking the safety off.
We exchange a quick look—quiet, but meaningful. It’s odd. The one man whom I would stab after he left me is the only man I can read better than myself. He’s the one person I would trust in this situation.
He grins, and because I’m just as fucking unhinged, I’m grinning too, body singing with the thrill of a fight. We’re two people who feel alive surrounded by death.
“Ready?”
“Shut up,” I whisper, but I can’t stop the soft giggle. It’s freeing—to be here, a gun in my hand, the Reaper at my side. No other worries—no other concerns. Life or death. Here and now. No past, no future, only present.
And I wouldn’t choose anyone else to help me.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
Kicking across the tile, we slide across to brace against the pastry case. Glass cuts my side and hands, but the pain is a distant memory as we press to the counter. The final click sounds, and we hold our breath.