34. Maeve #2
The crack echoes across the deserted compound, and he lets the body plop to the ground without another thought.
The capo exhales harshly. “Jesus.”
“Not many people see the Reaper live in action,” I say, smirking. I have to admit—Killian kills like an art form. Moving fluidly, he’s what I assume true death looks like—skilled, quiet, and unremorseful. “Thoughts?”
“Just that I’m glad he’s on our side.”
Killian’s dark gaze cuts through the area, landing on without trying. He finds me—he’ll always find me. At one point, I hated that. Now, it’s a steady presence in a dark life, to know someone will always be there—whether I want him or not.
Whistling once, I shove Lex forward, and he hurries across the frozen ground. Over the coms, Briar informs us, “They’re at the back door. Three more soldiers are down.”
At least they’re being quiet.
Looking up to the grand wooden door, I see movement behind the opaque glass. Killian cleans his knife off on his pant leg, jerking his head.
“What’s the plan, Princess?”
I smile, and his eyes ignite. “I think we should be invited in for dinner.”
Swaying up the stairs, I loudly knock on the door, like a guest coming over. Both men share a look before taking a side, guns drawn.
Briar laughs in my ear. “Yeah, no, that’s tracks, sis. Let’s tell the bad guys we’re here.”
“Briar,” I breathe, withdrawing my gun. “We are the bad guys.”
As the door opens, I have my gun leveled at his old, gray face. It’s a Board member—I don’t know which one, and I don’t really fucking care. Icy rage takes over my body, and everything I touch freezes.
His eyes widen with recognition at the exact moment I place the barrel into his open mouth.
“Were you expecting someone else?”
I fire. The bullet shoots through the back of his mouth, embedding in the far wall before his body crumples to the floor. There’s a second of waiting—silence—before Killian laughs next to me.
“I’ve always loved it when you make an entrance.”
Slipping past me, Lex keeps at my back, and we move to the house. Feet are pounding, the scrape of chairs, and with Briar’s direction, we find ourselves in the dining room. Six of the Board are in there, some in the process of standing.
At the head sits a large man, dark hair peppered with gray, face ashen. I’ve only seen him in photos—whispered about in polite society.
Hale Langston—Michael’s younger brother.
I always wondered why I was given away. My father hated me—hated his firstborn was a female, someone he couldn’t use to carry on his authority.
When he offered me to Michael, I assumed it was to keep the O’Brien blood while having a man he trusted at the head.
They were best friends, but a half-decade separated them.
I realized, after his death, that I wasn’t given out of some beautiful irony. Not because of my last name, nor to breed me. But to appease the Board.
If my father kept Michael happy, he kept Hale happy, and therefore? The Board. They controlled our finances, our shipments, our contracts—if he stayed on their good side, he could do anything. My father liked his power more than he liked me.
Hale is a fucking nightmare in human form—he shares the same facial structure as his older brother, the same beady eyes. He’s not overweight like him, but their smiles are the same.
The same smile that used to beam whenever he hurt me—took from me.
Such a pretty little thing.
No.
Finger hovering over my trigger, I take in the full table. The gray faces, their furrowed brows. No one thought I’d be here—no one thought they were touchable. It makes me laugh.
Hale stands, looking from me to the capo and finally, the Reaper.
“Ace,” he says slowly. “How did you?—”
I hold up the gun. “We’re going to make this quick.” I stare into each of their eyes. “Doyle is dead. My father is dead. The contract they agreed to? Dead. That means you don’t touch my family—you don’t touch my clan. We don’t have business anymore.”
There’s movement to my side. A man is trying to be courageous and take me out. I swing my gun into his face and pull the trigger.
He sits back, blood marring the leather. I think that gets the point across.
“Do we have an understanding?”
“Ace, listen,” he explains, “We have a long-standing arrangement. If you let us explain, maybe we could work something out.”
I share a look with Killian, and the killer smiles.
“Work what out?”
Lex makes a noise of protest, but Killian glares, halting him. I want to hear what they have to say.
“We have resources. Connections. With us, your clan could grow to be something big—something important. We’d be willing to put this aside—” he gestures to my weapon—“As long as we put our differences aside and work toward something new.”
“Something new.” Grabbing a tumbler of Irish whiskey, I down it. It burns my throat, and I make a face. “This is disgusting. You should try American Scotch.”
Tossing the glass at the wall, I let the noise rain over us. I walk around the table, drawing my fingers over the backs of their chairs. Everyone I touch flinches, as if I’ll strike.
I catch Killian’s eye—he sees it too. They see me as the threat I am. I like it.
“So, I give this up,” I say, waving my gun, “And we can move on? Make a new path.”
“Absolutely.”
I stare into his eyes—lifeless, taunting. I see them still in my nightmares when I was young and unable to fight back. When life told me, the only good I could offer to my clan was what was between my legs.
Shrugging, I drop my gun onto the table, stopping short of his elbow.
He visibly deflates.
Sitting, he turns toward the rest of the uneasy men, Lex and Killian still by the door. Neither of them moves, waiting for my signal.
“See? A new path for everyone?—”
Slipping the knife from my jeans, I flip it and stab the sharp tip into his throat. Pinning him to the seat, I don’t take my eyes off his face. He quivers and shakes, his pupils flaring dangerously with pain. A harsh breath leaves his lips, and with glee, I watch the light fade from his eyes.
As his spirit leaves the room, I feel Michael’s ghost follow.
Shoulders lighter, I glance over my shoulder and lick my lips. Killian’s gaze grows dark with want.
“Kill them all.”
As I exit, gunfire erupts, followed by the second team rounding up the last soldiers.
Lights flash behind me, and when I reach the porch, the noise cuts off abruptly.
In the woods, surrounded by barren oaks and evergreens, I wrap my arms around my middle, embracing the cold, and listen to the silence.
Until the Reaper comes up behind me, hands rubbing down my arms, before tugging me back into the heat of his chest. I wait—for the voices, the ghosts to torment me—but they don’t come.
They’ve been coming less and less since allowing the Reaper back in.
But after shooting Hale, I don’t expect them to return often.
I’m sure I’ll still have nightmares. The trauma won’t disappear with one act. I’ll have to watch my back, and I’ll still flinch whenever there is a loud noise. I’ll continue to gag whenever I smell cigar smoke. But with the Reaper at my side, I won’t fear the nightmares. They will fear me.
And maybe one day they’ll leave me alone.
“I hope you didn’t want your heart back, Pup,” I murmur, words soft. He lowers his chin to my shoulder and inhales at my neck. “Because it’s mine. I love you.”
“It belongs to you, and only you.” His nose brushes my cheek. “Let’s go home. You have a clan to run.”
Slipping my hand into his, we walk into the darkness and toward the future.