17. Maeve
MAEVE
“Maeve Gwendolyn O’Brien, what in the actual fuck,” Killian growls.
The overhead lights flicker, and I hiss, the sudden sting of fluorescents flooding my eyes. Crumpled in the corner of my bathroom, stuck between the tub and toilet, I hold back the urge to curl into a ball. Or vomit. I’m pretty sure I’m going to vomit.
Pressing my hand closer to the wound, my fingers are sticky with blood. The leather jacket squeaks something horrible in the quiet room as I blink, trying to look up, but the room spins.
“Did you just government name me?” I croak, shielding my eyes.
Killian glares down at me. He’s a wraith, full of black fury. “You’re lucky that’s all I did.”
Grumbling, I shake my head, willing the nausea to pass. “How do you even know my middle name?”
“I know everything about you, Princess. Knowing your middle name is child’s play.”
“Yeah, but how?” My head drops to the cool toilet. I’m feverish, and this seat is so fucking nice. “No one calls me that.” No one bothers to know me.
He sighs, running a hand through his hair. Nervous energy fills the room as he looks around. “You’re bleeding.”
“Astute of you,” I quip. My voice wavers, strength zapped as I fight the urge to pass out again. How long have I been bleeding?
He leans down, cold black eyes staring into mine. “What was it this time? Run go bad? Someone said something smart?”
I drop my head back against the white tile, ignoring him. He always asks when he finds me like this. Always wants to know how it happened. Who did it. He almost sounds like he cares, but I’m sure it’s to gather information to use against me later.
It’s not like I can tell him the truth.
That after Michael forced himself on me—after I fought, clawed, and bit him to leave me alone—I felt so disgusted, so angry, I went looking for a fight in the back alleys. I needed to expel this pain in the only way I knew how—fighting.
I found the first fight. Some thick asshole from Bruno’s family, with a cute mouth. He fell down before anyone knew I struck. My hand flexes, knuckles split open, and I grin despite the pain. His mouth looked better with my fist in it.
The second fight, his friend thought he’d get a crack. He pulled a knife, so I pulled mine. At the last second, he slashed my abdomen, but I cut his throat.
I still see him, eyes wide, bleeding out in the alley behind The Docks, Bruno’s strip club and whore house. I wonder if they bothered to collect him. Doesn’t matter to me.
He yanks on my collar, and I bat his hand away. “Go away,” I groan, blinking back pain. I refuse to cry—crying has never helped me.
Not when Michael first took my innocence at thirteen.
Not when I told my father what his best friend was doing to me.
Crying is a weakness I can’t afford.
He grumbles something, staring me into my squinted gaze. He plunges two fingers into the wound, and I scream, jerking back, slamming into the wall.
“What the fuck!”
He holds up bloody fingers and glances at the white tile under us. It’s black-red, a puddle, smearing around me. I don’t have the energy to worry. “You need that looked at, Princess.”
“Fucking prick,” I growl, kicking out like a dying animal. He easily avoids my hit, pinning my legs and ripping my jacket away. He sharply inhales, but doesn’t show any other emotion.
“Fine. If you won’t help yourself.” He grabs my hand, pulling me up. I yelp, body ripping, and blood falls faster. The sound of drops hitting the tile echoes around us, and I sway. Swooping low, he lifts me into his arms like I’m a rag doll, carrying me into my bedroom.
Weakly, I try to hit him, but my vision swims and my aim is off. I miss; my fist sails over his head. Fuck. I’ve lost a lot of blood.
Unfortunately, I can’t find it in myself to care.
Dying would be easier than enduring this life. So much easier.
He tosses me onto my bed, and I cry out, pain flaring along my side. He doesn’t wait for my consent, just strips my boots. My eyes stay closed as he peels away the bloody clothes, the saturated items plopping onto my floor. I barely feel the dampness.
Killian curses, running a hand through his hair. “Tell me the other guy is dead.”
Laughing, I roll into my sheets, smelling my perfume of violet, orchids, and juniper, and a tear drops from the corner of my eye. “You think I’d let someone walk away who did this to me?”
“No.” He’s so confident. “In fact, I’m pretty sure most of this blood is his. Knowing how vicious you are, you probably gutted him.”
He’s lying. My wound is too deep—there’s too much blood. But it feels good to know Killian Linwood thinks so highly of my ability to fight—to defend myself.
The man has been my rival for over three years. My father took him in, bonded with him, gave him every opportunity—and he’s never missed a chance to rub it in. If there were a way for Killian to be heir, my father would’ve done it years ago.
Me? He thinks because I’m a woman, I’m incapable of leading. He thinks because of what’s between my legs, I’ll fail. I’ve fought, bled, sacrificed for this clan—for a place I should already have, but no power because my father refuses to allow me any.
But, Killian? My father would hand him the throne and walk away without a second thought. How fucking fair was that?
“Maeve,” he commands, grabbing my jaw. My head lolls back, and I blink, unable to focus. Everything swims, and black dots float in my vision. Is this death? “C’mon, Princess. Stay with me.”
Snorting, I shove his hands away, but I don’t go far. Everything is too heavy, weighted down with lead. “It’s fine. I’ll be fine.”
“You won’t be fine,” he growls. Something scratchy touches my side, and I gasp. He presses a towel into the wound, halting the bleeding. “You need stitches. Probably surgery.”
I laugh again, delusional and tired. Everything is so funny, and I’m so fucking tired.
Tired of this life. Tired of fucking being on my knees for a man I want to kill, but can’t because I’m doing this for my sisters. For my clan. Tired of trying, of protecting, of being the fucking punching bag while everyone else gets to live.
I’m tired of living, or what constitutes living.
“Let me go, Killian. It doesn’t matter.” Nothing matters. Maybe if I give in this time, let the blackness creeping into my vision take over, I’ll finally have peace.
Peace from Pops. From Michael. From the fucking hole in my chest, of loneliness and pain, that never seems to go away. If I give in, it’ll stop.
Yanking me up, Killian shakes my shoulders until my eyes open. Looking at him, it’s the first time his eyes have been so angry—rageful pits of coal glaring down at me as if I suggested he murder a kitten.
“Don’t say that,” he commands, lips frowning. “You’re not allowed to go anywhere, Maeve. I won’t fucking let you.” Shit, did I say that out loud?
My chin dips. He stripped his shirt and wrapped it around my waist. A blanket covers my torso, shielding me even though it’s the two of us.
This isn’t the first time. Only with Killian do I seem to have any sort of privacy—a right to my body that doesn’t exist elsewhere.
“Why do you care?” I whisper, lips cracked. “Maybe it’ll be better?—”
“No.”
Clearing my throat, I try to hold his stare. “You’d get my spot.”
He chuckles, tucking the blanket around my legs, fingers red. “If I wanted your spot, I would’ve killed you myself a long time ago.”
If Killian wanted to be the heir to this clan, he’s had many opportunities to end my life. Yet, he keeps healing me. He seeks me out to check on me, like tonight. It’d be easier to let me die, but Killian battles back death to keep me here.
“The only blade that touches your skin going forward is mine, Princess. Do you hear me? No one else.”
Sinking back into my blankets, I smirk, looking up into the covered canopy, and another tear falls into my hairline. I only feel dulled pain—not sadness, not happiness. Just emptiness and pain. That’s probably not good. “That’s quite a vow. In this life, you won’t be able to keep that promise.”
“Watch me.”
Snorting, my eyes fall closed again. Fatigue tugs at my bones, and I rub my cheek against my velvet duvet. “You almost sound like you care.”
How fucking silly. Killian doesn’t care—and not about me. He probably keeps me breathing as some sadistic joke, a taunt, to drive me insane. He’s good at that.
“Would that be so wrong?”
I snort. Now, he’s screwing with me. No one cares about me. Not this clan, not my father. Certainly not my bitch mother, who I hope is in Hell, waiting for me to torment her when I go.
And not my perfect sisters and adorable younger brother. They don’t care if I live or die.
I’m nothing—nothing to anyone. Killian especially.
The Reaper shoves harder into my side, and I groan, cringing against the pain.
“Keep your eyes on me, Princess,” he demands, voice rough. “A simple knife wound isn’t going to be how you die.”
“No?” I scoff. “Then tell me, how do I die, Linwood?”
“By the way this night is going? Me.”
I snort, one last tear dripping from the corner of my eyes. “No, that sounds about right. You’ll be my downfall. Whether it be a blade, gun, or information, I’m sure one day you’ll kill me.”
“You almost sound hopeful.” He pushes harder, and I yelp. “Don’t.”
He grips my chin, leaning over the bed. He doesn’t touch me anywhere else, but his warmth burns me. “If you die, I promise I will bring you back and kill you myself. So don’t.”
That’s the last thing I remember before my eyes flutter open, soft sunshine drifting in through my closed drapes. Sitting up, I groan, my stomach pulling in pain. I pull back the covers and see my abdomen is wrapped in fresh gauze, still in my underwear.
Scanning the room, I half expect Killian to be there. But I’m alone, like always.
The pang in my chest sets off another wave of pain, and I rub my breastbone.
Swinging my legs out of bed, I see on the nightstand a white paper, a glass of water, and two pills. There’s no note, but the paper is etched with charcoal flowers. Violets and orchids, wild ones that grow behind our house.
Killian.
Maybe he does care. Maybe he doesn’t want to see me dead.
But I don’t let the hope grow too large, or let myself think of dangerous things.
Like those dark, soulless eyes as he holds me, or how he’d feel between my legs, that devious smirk looking up at me.
Because my life is set—and I’m meant to be with Michael.
And I can’t change fate, or wish for something better.
Crumpling up the picture, I toss it into the nightstand drawer where all the others reside. Then, I slam it shut.
And I throw the cup across the room, watching the glass fall like broken dreams.