33. Killian
KILLIAN
The first thing that comes to me after being knocked out by the pussy in a gray suit is I’m airborne. Lifted high into the air, my feet drag on broken cement, boots scuffling along in an unseen wind. It’s not enough—I can still put my weight down—but I’m a chunk of meat, dry aging. Not very fun.
The next thing is the wetness dripping onto my cheek. I move to wipe it—because what the fuck—only for my hands to be above my head, wrapped in a thick, heavy chain. Glaring at it, I sigh, annoyed. What is this shit?
Tugging down hard, the metal pipe I’m connected to screams, but doesn’t falter. Fuck. That’s not good. I’m stuck.
Shaking the hair out of my eyes, I look at my surroundings.
Being a contract assassin for so long has taught me a few things—location for a kill plays more in a kill than the method.
A nondescript warehouse, most likely back in Boston, with decrepit walls and broken plaster?
He’s planning on torture. Good on him to think I haven’t survived this shit before, as training and one previous assignment.
Wherever we are is abandoned—I hear rats in the corners, and the corners are brown from water damage. At the far back, a small cellar window points to the sky.
It’s black. Has it only been a few hours or the next day?
Fuck. Maeve.
If I’ve been gone an entire fucking day, after promising to stay by her side, she’ll think I abandoned her. Forget coming to find me; my girl will fall into the ghosts that torment her, and think she’s not worth sticking around for.
Total bullshit, but the voices aren’t kind to her.
If I find a blade near her body that doesn’t belong to me, I will go to the underworld and bring her back. Mark my fucking words.
Yanking again, I grit my teeth against the pain, desperate to escape. It’s one thing if she knew—but she doesn’t. She doesn’t know I did this to help her—she’ll only think I fled.
Like fuck am I going through that again. I finally got her back. I’m not losing her.
“I wouldn’t do that,” Doyle says, materializing from the shadows. Gliding through the doorway, he tucks his hands into his designer slacks, dress shirt rolled up to the elbow.
Clearing my throat, I ruthlessly shove my anxiety to the back of my mind. That has no place here. I might be worried about Maeve—and fuck, that’s an understatement—but Doyle is going to take all my concentration. I’ll need to lock it down to survive this.
Turn off the emotions. Go to that place in my mind that’s my security. Pain can’t touch me there. I learned a long time ago how to compartmentalize, and it’s helped me survive in a world that would like me to shatter into pieces.
“All this because I said you weren’t my type?” I tsk. “It’s a bit of an overkill, Doyle.”
His pleasant face morphs into frustration. “Shut up.”
“Did I hurt your feelings?” I shrug, though the act is restricted. “Sorry about that. I’ve never been good at letting people down.” Tsking, I make a vague gesture above my head. “I tend to cut their necks and move on.”
He growls, swinging at my stomach. Air rushes past my lips, and I cough, the pain a welcome relief. If I can feel, I’m still alive. At least, that’s the theory.
I sway, finding my balance. “I’m sorry you feel that way, but I’m a one-woman kind of man.” Looking up, I wink, torso throbbing. Get the prick some credit—he can actually hit. “She kind of owns all of me. Can’t really share.”
“Jesus,” he curses, words flavored with his Irish homeland. “Do you ever stop talking?”
“Me?” I pretend to ponder his words. “Not really.” At least not in torture situations. It tends to piss people off when they can’t get under your skin.
Sighing, he turns toward a metal stool. Laid out with heavy equipment—pliers, scissors, a cattle prod, knives, and various other fun bits—he makes sure to put it right next to me.
He thinks he’s intimidating. I’ve got bad news for him: I was trained by one of the coldest motherfuckers in this outfit, and born to another psychopath who Interpol has on their watchlist. Doyle, in his adorable little dress shoes and styled hair, doesn’t bother me. He only irritates me like a fly.
“So, what’s this, Doyle?” I pull on the chains again. “A marriage proposal?”
“We’re going to have a conversation.”
“Are we?” I drawl, shifting my weight. Christ, he couldn’t even tie me up right.
You never let the victim touch the ground. By lifting them high enough, gravity pulls them down and will slowly dislocate their shoulder. It’s uncomfortable and effective to get answers.
Apparently, we both didn’t have the same lessons in the clan. Lucky for me, I can stand. Which means I already have the upper hand to escape.
“Ronan must have informed you,” he begins, holding up a handsaw. The edges are rusty—nice touch. “We know Maeve didn’t come into her power—naturally.”
“Naturally,” I taste the word. “How so?”
“She struck some deal with the old capo of the De Luca family.” He waves his finger. “That’s against the rules. The Board doesn’t work with anyone outside for clan matters. But yet, she stepped right over the line and made a deal.”
Sighing, I hang my head. “Is this still about Sloane? Man, I think you need help. You sound obsessed.”
Doyle scoffs. “I’m obsessed? You stalked a woman for months because you couldn’t let her go.”
“This isn’t about me,” I say cheerfully. “Besides, she’s your niece.”
He kicks the stool, sending his tools flying across the floor. Poor planning, now he’ll have to find them when he starts to torture me.
“That’s not the point,” he growls. “I’m owed her. Ferguson made an agreement.”
“Ferguson made a lot of agreements,” I admit. “And none of them were good.”
It takes a lot to say that. To admit the man who saved me from living on the streets was not a good man.
I always knew he wasn’t—he taught me how to pop eyes out of a human skull while they were still alive—but, to me, he was bigger than the consequences of our actions.
He had a shred of humanity in him for seeing something in me—and choosing me, regardless of that darkness.
I always thought I mattered to him. That if I had escaped the father I had, I found one in Ferguson. Depraved, mean, and barbaric, but still a better option than Kwan.
I was stupid, though. He chose to sell Maeve to Michael. He knew what was happening and never stopped it. Any good I had for the man had dwindled as I flew around the county killing off potential suitors, but it completely left me when he put his hands on Maeve for trying to save her sister.
Killing him wasn’t too difficult to stomach when I put things in perspective. Who was more important—a man who would use his daughter for his own greed, or the woman who would sacrifice herself for everyone else?
I would choose Maeve in this life—and the next.
“I know of his deals,” Doyle growls. “I know what he had planned for Maeve. Tell me,” he says, scooping up the cattle prong. “Did all those potential arrangements die, or did you have something to do with it?”
I stare at him, and the smirk slips off my face. Instead of seeing the warning signs, he grins as if he had won.
“That’s what I thought.”
Turning the end on, he stabs it into the center of my chest. My entire body tightens up, pain radiating out as electricity surges over me. Hot, fluid, I grunt against the suffering and hold on.
Fucking Christ, my teeth chatter as everything shakes. I have no choice but to retreat, let the agony wash over me, and fucking brace for more.
Finally, he pulls it away, grinning at me with glee.
“You know,” he recalls, “I hope this setup is familiar. I took some tips from Renaud.” The name slithers over my shoulders, a hissing snake that’s looking to strike. “You visited them last, isn’t that right? Right before Ferguson died?”
Panting, I roll my shoulders back. Copper floods my mouth. “We’re friendly.”
Laughing, he shakes his head. “Friendly. Does Maeve know you almost sacrificed your life just to keep her free?” He swings the prong around, and I tense—waiting to see what he does next. “That you went into that hole for her?”
The hole. A black pit in the ground, Renaud threw me in there when he discovered I was plotting to kill him.
We had an uneasy alliance—I sold my skills to keep him away from Maeve’s marriage contract—but we never trusted the other.
When I learned he was still entertaining the idea of signing the agreement, I reacted.
I got so close to killing the head of the New Orleans clan, but I didn’t anticipate how big the family was, or where the guards were hidden.
The old fucking asshole had changed his security measures.
I was overwhelmed, taken, and thrown into a darkness so bleak, I was left there with only my thoughts.
Not as terrible as one would think. I carry no guilt for my crimes, but I was tormented by knowing Maeve was alone, and I couldn’t reach her. If not for Renaud’s heir, I’d still be there, rotting away in the soaked bayou dirt, praying for an end.
The fact that Doyle knew this…
“You had me followed.”
Doyle smiles widely. “We got word of the random deaths all over the states, all clan members or allies. The common thread was your and Ferguson’s agreements.” He taps his nose. “You were sloppy, Reaper. All for a woman.”
I bide my rage, a demonic entity that rises fresh from Hell, and chuckle. It’s low, a haunting sound, curling around the room like smoke, and his hackles rise.
“What’s so funny?”
Shaking my head, I rest my head against my arm.
“Oh, nothing.” My smirk grows along with his nervousness. It’s an aphrodisiac. “Just imagining your heart in my hand. Do you think it’d be as pretty as I do?” My smirk slips away, gone like a cloud. “Don’t worry, we’ll see soon enough.”
He lifts the saw and lashes out. The strikes are harsh, wicked, as he cuts into my leg, my arm, and the sensitive skin under my collarbone. He’s not thinking as he attacks. His emotions are overruling his head—another mistake when torturing.
I hold firm, withstanding the hits. That’s all I can do until I find my opening.