32. Killian
KILLIAN
Ronan is a man of simple pleasures. A cold beer, a pussy to fuck, and a greased gun that sits on his hip, even when he’s sitting on the toilet. If I didn’t just watch him fuck a sex worker in the middle of an alley, I would think the gun was the most important thing in his life.
Well, it could still be. He keeps caressing it. It’s fucking weird.
I follow him through the streets as he makes his stops.
It’s almost early morning before he leaves the city in a rental car, heading north.
Although I usually take Maeve’s car, I stole Collins’ sedan to stay off their radar.
Blending into traffic, I curve through the interstate roads until we pull off to some forgotten exit over the state border.
Through the thick woods, over barren roads, I keep a safe distance. I don’t want to spook him, but it’s a struggle not to ram the car into his bumper and send his flying off into a ditch. Maybe break every bone for thinking of harming the woman who owns my heart.
But I wait.
He turns off the bumpy road onto a barely-there track. Instead of following, I park the car down the road and hide it under the brush. Checking that both my knives are on my belt and my gun is on my back, I take off into the woods.
It takes minutes to walk through the impressions. In the back of my head, I know I should be worried about wildlife—bears, moose, or, fuck, a bobcat—but I’m focused on my goal.
Get to Ronan. Kill Ronan. Get the Board’s location. Get back to Maeve.
Simple enough.
It’s not long before I see the lights among the heavy leaves. A giant cabin built from new money, it’s a beacon in the dark woods. Cedar logs, a large front porch, and wide-open windows, I hurry to the side, flinging myself behind a giant oak for safety.
Guards with large weapons are on the corners, scanning the grounds. Above their heads are cameras.
I’d be impressed if I wasn’t irritated. They couldn’t make this easy?
Slowly, I pick my way through the trees, on the edge of sight. Using the shadows to my advantage, I slink through undetected.
Once I’m in the back, I sneak toward the back door, keeping my back to the side. On silent feet—I’m not some fucking amateur—I step onto the stairs and press to the wall. Through the panel glass, I can see directly through the kitchen into the dining room.
Lush leather furniture and mantles of deceased animals hang on the walls. It’s meant to be an old hunting lodge, but everything is too new—everything gleams, and it smells like cheap cigars. At the table, various shades of gray sit around, glasses of brown liquor at their elbows.
At the head? Fucking Doyle.
I scoff. Well, fuck. Briar was right. Ronan’s plan failed, and he went running to his daddy for help. Pathetic.
The hair rises on the back of my neck, my instincts warning me of an impending attack.
Maeve used to hate that about me—in those drills, I always knew when an attack was coming.
I chalk it up to living with my father’s presence and being on the streets, which made me a bit more attuned to patterns of the world.
Including feeling other people before seeing them.
Hand on my knife, I step to the side, a fist sailing past my shoulder.
Smirking, I catch Ronan’s blazing blue eyes and curled lip before kicking him in the stomach. He’s top-heavy and damn slow for a wannabe assassin, and he falls down the porch stairs.
Flat on his back, I jump down, looking at him.
He groans, rolling over, and I sigh, annoyed.
“No, please, take your time.” The prick of sunlight digs into my shoulders. “I’ve only been up for over twenty-four hours. But who’s counting?”
“Fucking Reaper,” he swears, getting to his hands and knees. “How did you find this place?”
Tsking, I kick his side and grin when I feel the crack. He groans, falling into the mud, but he can still breathe. Must not have fully broken his ribs—pity. I’ll have to try harder next time.
“No, no,” I say, shoving my hands into my pockets. “I’ll ask the questions.” Lifting him, I throw him into a pile of shovels packed with snow. The clatter of metal is loud, but there’s a shout from the cabin. It covers the noise.
Moaning, he peers up with half-closed eyes. “Did you really think you’d be able to kill Ace? Men three times her size piss their pants if they run into her on the street.”
He scoffs. “She doesn’t deserve her spot in the clan. Women can’t?—”
“If I hear women can’t lead one more time,” I say, wincing, as the words drag on my eardrums. My grin grows, and I smell his fear saturate the air. “I will carve you up and make you look like a fucking snowman.”
He swallows loudly. “What if I told you she used an enemy to get her throne?”
Crouching low, I slide my knife out. “You don’t say.”
Ronan nods. “She got into bed with De Luca. The Board found the old will—she somehow had it changed. She was never supposed to lead the clan—Ferguson never wanted that.”
“She’s his heir,” I respond, watching the sweat fall from his brow. “It’s her right to lead.”
“Not unless the old captain had a different plan.”
Silence descends, and the snow chills my fingers. But I don’t lose my grip.
Exhaling, I wave my hand. “Do you plan on explaining or am I skipping to the killing you part?”
“You, Reaper,” he says in a rush. He’s terrified, and it makes me giddy. “Ferguson was going to leave the clan to you if he couldn’t marry Maeve off.”
Quietly, I tilt my head, studying the abysmal man before me. Pale hair, pale skin, pale eyes. He’s as white as a corpse, and just as entertaining.
When I don’t react the way he wants, he sits up, wincing against the pain in his side. Definitely cracked. I’m pleased with the damage.
“Did you hear me? He was?—”
“I heard you.” I tap my ear. “I also don’t care. I’ve never been initiated into the clan—Ferguson’s will wouldn’t have held up against the Board.”
“They would’ve taken you.” He glances over my shoulder. “If it came down to you or the bitch, they would’ve taken you. Maybe they’d let you decide her fate. I heard Michael?—”
And that’s where he loses me. The minute someone mentions how that fucking prick touched my girl, how he tried to break her—make her into his perfect little servant and spent years destroying her body—I turn into a rabid dog, who needs to bite the first thing that moves.
The knife plunges into his hand, pinning him down to the dirt, red staining the white snow. I grab his mouth, stifling his screams. Pinching his nose, I force him to look at me, his eyes wide in fear, body shaking. It’s fucking delicious.
“I don’t care about the clan,” I murmur.
“It can go up in flames and burn for all I care. All of you—from the smallest runner to the biggest soldier—can fucking die in the inferno I leave behind, and I wouldn’t bat an eye.
I wouldn’t save you, and in fact, I might throw gasoline on your bodies to make you all burn brighter.
I’ve never cared about it—I’ve only cared about Maeve.
And you insulted her, insulted her past, and her power. I can’t abide by that.”
Blood rushing through my head, I pull out the second blade and rest it against his pulse. It jumps and pounds against the metal, and I watch, transfixed. Such a beautiful thing—and so precious. One slight touch and it’s severed. Just like that.
“You could’ve been captain.”
“I don’t want to be captain,” I respond lightly. “I want Maeve. And if you kill her, it really fucks with my plans to have her on this plane of existence.”
The slash moves so quickly. One moment, he’s whole—the next, a thick red line covers his neck. He doesn’t make a sound, just convulses in my hands, before I drop him back into the snow.
I should’ve pulled more information out of him. But I know where the Board is—and the threat to Maeve’s life is gone. The last thing to do is get back to her and form a plan of attack. Fuck them—this asshole—for thinking I would trade her in for a little bit of power.
I have power. The world trembles under my feet when they see me coming. But what I’d rather have? Maeve obliterating everyone who dared to wrong her and lapping up the carnage afterward.
The cocking of the gun behind me draws me out of my haze. It’s been years since I’ve been lost after a kill—a thing I worked out during my years under Ferguson. Blood captivates me, and I’ve had to do drills just pulling out of the haze that could get me killed.
But Ronan knew which buttons to push, and it triggered me.
My instincts dulled, and I lost my surroundings. Rooky mistake.
Standing, I hear a noise of complaint.
“No sudden movements, Reaper,” Doyle commands. Dryly, I roll my eyes. Of course, it’s him who finds me.
Hands out, I drop my knife without being asked. “Now, what, Doyle?” I stare ahead into the woods, exhaling. “If you want to suck my dick, I’ll have to pass.”
“Prick,” he insults, slamming the hilt of his gun into my head. I fall to my knees, biting my tongue. Fucking asshole. How incompetent do you have to be to hit someone and not knock them out?
He gets another hit in before—finally—I pass out. It’s fine. When I wake up, I’ll kill him then.