21. Maeve
MAEVE
“You’re fucking bleeding again,” he growls, fresh on my heels.
The car ride went as expected. Tense, full of silence, and his hand on my thigh. I removed it repeatedly—might have thrown in a few threats—but by the third time, he pulled over, wrapped his fist in the seatbelt, and tied me to it.
A bit overkill, but his point was made. I wasn’t going anywhere without him. No one else was touching me. Not anymore.
Looking to my side, fresh dark blood stains my dark blouse. Probably not the best idea to put my gun next to my wound, but it’s where I’m most comfortable.
He lifts my shirt, fingers cold, and I shiver. But it’s not from the temperature, but his fury that seems to wrap around me like an overprotective hug. That anger would level buildings if he wanted—and it’s directed at me.
“You pulled a stitch.”
“I saved your life,” I counter. “Remember? Gun. Bullet. You didn’t see him.”
“Maybe if I knew what I was looking for,” he snaps, tugging me close, finger curling into my skirt. It stays there, our bodies pressed intimately together, and his familiar scent surrounds me. “And I didn’t spend most of the night looking for you; I wouldn’t have needed you to save my life.”
“How did you find me?” I raise an eyebrow. “Are you tracking me?”
He smirks. Slipping my phone from my coat pocket, he waves it into the air. “You should know better than to ask that. Your brother is a tech genius. Of course I am.”
Un-fucking-real.
“Now,” he drawls, sliding a foot between mine. Every curve of my body is cushioned by his hard muscles. My throat bobs. “Explain. What happened back there?”
My jaw audibly snaps shut. I don’t want to admit my stupidity—not to Killian. That the man I met at a random coffee shop, who seemed disarmingly sweet and kind, whom I ran background checks on, was connected to the Board. The same people who wanted to kill me planted a guy in my life.
Why? To get information? That was a fucking idiotic joke. I never told Reese anything.
To kill me? That would be a better option. But he never tried—he didn’t even kiss me. How was he supposed to get close enough to end my life?
None of it made sense. What was the angle?
“Ace!”
Killian growls, and I exhale, relief exploding in my chest. Hayes shuffles down the hall, and it’s only then I notice the absolute chaos that’s happening in my house.
Movers are bringing boxes upstairs, full of clothing and trinkets.
On the foyer table are more packages, freshly delivered with snow on top.
The new maids we hired and vetted are in the back, being given directions by Collins.
Her clinical tone is the only thing I can hear over the rumble and scuff of heavy boots.
“We’re busy, Prince,” Killian snaps, tugging me into him. “Go.”
The venom isn’t shocking. Neither is Hayes’ glare.
“Considering you’re not supposed to be here, I’m choosing to ignore you.” Looking at me, he sighs. “Thank God you’re back.”
“What’s going on?”
“Your sister is what’s going on,” he says, annoyed.
“You told them to come and fuck, Ace, they came. She brought everything baby-related. Two of everything, obviously.” He picks up a mobile from the table, the glittery white polar bears reflecting the overhead chandelier.
“You can’t seriously need all of this, right? Not for two kids.”
Taking it from him, I inspect it closely. “They’re mobiles. For the crib. It’s a way to develop a baby’s senses. Vision, movement, color.”
Both men look at me, curious. I know how to raise kids—I spent most of my life raising my siblings—that’s probably why I don’t want any. I can’t stomach the thought of bringing any into this terrible world.
“Briar had one. Little morning suns.”
I kept one when he got older. It, along with the ribbon from Sloane’s first recital and the broken pair of glasses Collins wore as a kid. They’re shoved into my nightstand, where I keep all my treasures.
Hayes’ brows furrow, confused. “I never knew that.”
Why would he? Hayes had a room, a chain, and an open door to whoever paid. My heart breaks at the thought, and gently, I touch his arm.
It’s not a lot. It won’t ever be. But if anyone knows the pain of never being cherished as a child and forced to grow up too soon, I do.
Clearing my throat, I put the mobile back. “I assume that means the capo and Sloane are here.”
“Oh, they’re here.” He avoids the babies’ belongings, choosing to put on the grin that hides his pain. “And Lex is on a warpath. I’d prepare now.”
Just what I need. An angry Reaper at my back, and a pissed-off capo somewhere in my home. “What’s his problem?” Doesn’t he understand I’m trying to keep him, my sister, and nephews alive?
He should be thanking me.
Hayes scoffs. “What isn’t his problem?”
“He’s an expectant dad,” Killian adds, shifting a cigarette from his pocket. He might look relaxed, but the burn of his irritation strikes me like a blade to the sternum. “I’m told the stress is high.”
It doesn’t help that my mess is coming back on him.
When I made the plan with Nico, I swore that it wouldn’t. That his family—my family—would be protected. I made these deals, forced these alliances, with the promise of safety.
All I’ve been able to do is get a man I respected killed, lose runners who have families mourning their deaths, and allow someone close to me who shouldn’t be.
Only a man can lead.
Looking over at my sister, I nod at her. “How is she handling all of this?”
“Shaken up,” he admits. “She’s starting to have panic attacks about possible attempts.”
My chest tightens, and I rub my breastbone. Fuck. “I assume she’s working through them?”
He snorts. “Of course. We both know she’s stronger than she looks. She won’t let this get her down.”
“Obviously.” It’s not a question.
There’s a commotion on the stairs as the movers drop the leg of a table. Why the dining room table had to come too is for anyone to guess. Sloane can’t bear to be without her things.
Hayes starts yelling, throwing his hands at the men. I move to help—this is my house, and they’re scuffing my railings—before a hand curls into my long locks, knotting them into a tight fist.
Swinging me around, the Reaper peers down at me, a cigarette hanging from his mouth.
Staring at me, he slowly plucks the butt from his full bottom lip and then licks it. The pale pink piece of flesh glistens with saliva, and I have the insane urge to follow it.
“We’re not done,” he comments lightly. His words hang around my throat, a wraith pulling me to Hell. “We have things to discuss.”
Smoke curls around us, and I inhale.
“Like, what?”
He laughs, full of mirth. “Don’t play coy, Princess. You’ve never been good at it.”
Taking another inhale of the smoke, he holds it for a long moment. When he releases it, the white wisps curl around his nose, like a demon seething.
“Did you know an assassin would be there?”
“No.”
His eyes harden, an unhinged quality striking them. “Did you plan on fucking that accountant tonight?”
Rolling my eyes, I answer, “No.”
A muscle bounces by his ear. “Are you going to tell me what you had planned?”
I should—but that would mean admitting to fucking up royally. I don’t think I could take that kind of shame.
“No.”
He grows still, calm, like death seeking out a new soul. It’s the precursor to when he finally snaps, and his rage overtakes him. Whereas my eyes bleed black when I’m close to losing it, Killian freezes, becoming unmovable.
He’s going to explode—and it’s going to destroy the house.
Hayes comes back to my side in a hurry, and I exhale. Opening my mouth, I say, “Hayes, I need?—“
He grabs my arms, stopping me. Killian releases a growl that feels as if it were forged from the underworld. “Incoming.”
Cursing loudly, the capo comes barreling down the stairs. Dressed in a crumpled dress-shirt and slacks, he’s the most disorganized I’ve seen him. Maybe Killian was right—maybe becoming a new father is taking its toll on the man.
I’m usually the type to stand my ground and fight. I’ll take the hits and give better back. But right now, I have two choices.
Stay here and listen to a whining lecture from a man I can’t kill, or deal with the shadow at my back that wants to consume me in his ire.
My side aches, but fuck it. Eyes darting to my office, Hayes reads my expression. Playing interception, he blocks me as I dart across the hall. A place that used to be a room of shame, it’s become my sanctuary. And if it starves off the two men giving me a headache, all the better.
Killian cuts me off before I get three steps.
“Going somewhere?”
“Fuck.” I really hate that he knows me so well.
Shoving two fingers into my wound, I double over in pain, and he holds the bloodied fingers to my face. “You’re going to pass out. You need this fixed.”
My wound—or us, I can’t tell what he’s referring to. Knowing Killian, he means both.
Hand to my side, I glare. “I’m fine.”
That was the wrong thing to say. Hauling me close, he tugs me into my office and throws me at the desk. I stop myself from colliding, hand slapping the wood as pens and papers fall to the ground.
Behind me, he kicks the door shut.
“Shirt. Off.”
“Fuck. You.”
Surging forward, he picks me up, dropping me to the desk with no finesse. My wound throbs; I groan in agony, and he yanks the blouse higher. Using one hand to push me back on my elbows, he inspects the inflamed skin, the stitches stark against the red.
“I already did,” he grumbles. “Or did you forget already? Maybe we need a repeat to remind you who owns that fucking pussy.” Glaring down at my side, he continues, “It’s going to get infected.”
“I’ll be fine?—”
“No, you won’t,” he interrupts, exasperated. “You are not indestructible. You are not unkillable. You are human, Maeve, running around in a city where people want to end your life and take your head back as a damn trophy.”
Pushing away, he grabs a first aid kit from the bottom of my drawer.
“I know,” I whisper, watching him rifle for more supplies. “I’ve been reminded many times.”
He scoffs. “Apparently not enough for you to listen.”