When I slip into my coat and turn around, I’m hit with a tidal wave of déjà vu.
“Oh,” I breathe, gaping at the bouquet of flowers.
My stepbrother is holding it in front of him stiffly, but pulled to the side a bit, as if he’s holding a weapon. When I just stare at them, too taken aback to form a proper reaction, he says, “You like flowers.” It’s not a question. In fact, it sounds more like a heated accusation.
“I-I-I do,” I say, reaching out to take them. They’re daisies, which isn’t a surprise. What is surprising are the dark chrysanthemums scattered within the bouquet. They’re absolutely gorgeous. An exercise in contrasts. Light and dark. Cheery and muted. I try to imagine him at the flower shop in town, picking them out. Did he ask for someone’s advice? Or did he choose them himself?
For a second, I half expect him to yank them away and storm out of the den. Instead, he waits for me to grab them before jerking his hand away. He uses it to straighten out his tie. “We should leave soon.”
I’m so busy smelling the flowers, reaching out to stroke the spiky mum petals, that I don’t hear him. “I should—”
“Put them in a vase,” he interrupts, extending a hand toward the mantle. “I remember.”
There’s already a vase waiting there—the same one I’d used for the daisies Tristian had given me. They died long ago, before being strung up in my bedroom, pressed and currently drying. It’ll be nice, I think as I arrange the flowers in the vase, to have some life back in here again.
Killian waits patiently as I fuss with it, turning the vase just-so, and once again I’m struck with the feeling I’ve done all this before. Only that’s not quite right. There’s a nervousness here that wasn’t present the night I escorted Tristian to his family’s Christmas party. I can hear it in the way Killian is shifting restlessly behind me, buttoning and unbuttoning his blazer, only to button it once more. I can see it in my hand’s tremble when I go to pick up my clutch purse. I can see it in the lurch of his eyes when I turn around, rising from my ass to the flowers on the mantle.
Assuming what some of the nervousness is about, I pull the ribbon from my purse—the one he’d tied around my wrist on New Year’s Eve—and offer it to him. “For good luck.”
He stares down at it, but when he reaches out, he just uses his fingers to close my fist. “I wasn’t lending it to you. I was giving it back.” I tilt my head in confusion, and he releases a slow breath. “You wore that ribbon in your hair, the first time you came to one of my games.”
“Really?” I blink, trying to place it in my memory. “Tied around my ponytail,” I suddenly remember. It used to be a far more vivid shade of cobalt blue; our high school’s spirit color. “I thought you didn’t want me there,” I admit, giving a confused laugh. “You were so grumpy all night.”
His mouth twists into a rueful line. “I was pissed because I won,” he confesses, still holding my fist in his hand. He looks down at it, as if lost in the memory. “I remember thinking I won because you were there, and it made me…” He shifts his shoulders uncomfortably. “I mean, people can leave. I didn’t like the thought of giving you that much power.”
The conclusion is automatic, pieces clicking into place. “So you took my ribbon. Something you had control over keeping.”
He shrugs. “It’s the same with the others. The scrap of wire is one of Rath’s old guitar strings. Tristian offered me a piece of gum on game day, freshman year. The baseball card was something Ms. Crane gave me when I was little.” He slides his eyes to mine, voice wry, “She said football was for little pussy barbarians, and that real men learn to hit balls with sticks.”
I give a little laugh, imagining the words were probably more colorful. Unflinchingly, I take the ribbon from my palm and grab his wrist, looping it around. “Well, thank you for returning it, but I like being your good luck charm.” He stands still as I tie it, pulling the sleeve of his blazer down to cover it.
He buries that hand in his pocket, less like he’s hiding the ribbon and more like he’s protecting it. “Ready?” he gruffly asks.
“As I’ll ever be.” I shoot him a shy smile when I touch the crook of his arm, feeling how we fit together like this. Formal. Proper. Lovers more than step-siblings. His amber eyes drop down to my hand, a crease forming between his brows. Before I can think to doubt the gesture, he reaches up to place his hand over mine, tucking it further into the space between his bicep and body.
Meeting my eyes, he says, “You look… really nice.”
It’s not like its anything special. I’m wearing my hair down tonight, but he’s seen me in this dress. These shoes. This makeup. Still, try as I might, I can’t detect a trace of mockery or insincerity in his words.
“So do you,” is my response, and this time, when I smile, the hard lines of his face soften—ever so slightly.
It’s nothing like it was with Tristian.
But it feels just as right.
The banquet is one of those fish or chicken events held in the ballroom of a hotel not far from campus. It’s not just football—every sport is represented, and they’re segregated by tables. When we take ours, I’m startled by Killian lunging ahead of me, pulling out my chair. I give him a quick blink, but recover quickly, taking my seat with a nervous grin.
Around us, the small gymnasts and cheerleaders pick at their plates. The basketball team towers in the corner. The rowing club is up front, sounding like the rowdiest of the bunch. Mixed in are tables filled with coaches and their wives, and an assortment of administrators, press, and important people. Our table is crowded with broad-shouldered football players and their dates.
Marcus is one of them. “May I say that you look stunning tonight, Lady?”
“You may,” I answer giving him an exaggerated nod. Marcus is on our list of suspects, but truthfully, I don’t see it. I just don’t get a creepy vibe from him, and these days, I consider myself a bit of an expert.
“That dress does great things for your shoulders,” he adds, dipping his head appreciatively. From the three empty glasses in front of him, plus the way he somehow misses Killian’s glare, Marcus is way ahead of us on the booze. “I’m sure everyone thinks so.”
“Not if they know what’s good for them.” Killian keeps glaring, but the words lack their usual bite. Come to think of it, since the sex last night, he seems to have lost a lot of that temper.
I can’t stop myself from poking the beast. Just a little. I bat my eyelashes at Marcus. “Are shoulders what you find most attractive in a woman?”
Marcus gives a scoff that’s just this side of sloppy. “No offense, Lady, but the only part of a woman I find attractive is her brother.” My eyebrows shoot up, but when I swing my gaze to Killian, he’s rolling his eyes.
“He’s gay, Story.”
My jaw goes slack. “Ohhh.” This is news to me. Massive, unexpected, spreadsheet-changing news.
“Don’t worry.” Marcus leans back in his chair, eyes roaming the room. “Killer here isn’t my type. Way too uptight.”
Killian drapes his arm over the back of my chair, face blank. “I’m everyone’s type. Now shut the fuck up.”
I soak that news in, but the more I think about it, the more it makes sense. No wonder Killian trusted Marcus with me most, out of all the LDZ guys.
Over the next hour, Killian sits stiffly next to me as President Whittmore hands out awards. Marcus gets one for the highest GPA in the football program, and when he stumbles on the steps up to the stage, a spattering of obnoxious applause erupts from various tables. LDZ, I eventually realize, is scattered throughout the athletic programs. Marcus brings the award back to the table and lets the other players ‘ooh’ and ‘ahh’ over its cut glass and etched words.
But it’s a trinket compared to what Saul Cartwright hauls up to the podium.
I’ve spent the last hour staring at the back of his balding head, but the moment he breathes into the microphone, my body goes rigid.
“I’m sure you all know by now,” he begins, voice sending a slimy shiver down my spine, “that Forsyth’s football department has had an excellent year. And that’s what I want to talk about right now. Excellence.” The more he talks, the more wound my muscles get.
I watch from my periphery as Killian slides his arm from the back of my chair, hand disappearing beneath the table.
A second later, I feel it on my thigh, thumb sweeping soothingly against the satin of my dress.
“Our player of the season is someone who excels,” Cartwright is saying, “both on and off the field. Tonight, it’s an honor to personally present this award to star quarterback and all-around Forsyth royalty, Killian Payne.”
A rush of chants swells from the same smattering of people who’d laughed at Marcus before. LDZ is shouting, “Killer Payne! Killer Payne!” and I barely get to give his hand a squeeze before he’s rising from his seat, buttoning his blazer, and stalking up to the stage.
There’s a moment when Killian approaches the podium, reaching out to shake Cartwright’s outstretched hand, that I notice the tightness in his jaw. The belligerence in his eyes. The way Cartwright’s eyes narrow in response.
If I had to guess, Killian is crushing that man’s hand.
He doesn’t even look at the award he’s handed, setting it heavily onto the wood of the podium before looking out over the room. Now I’m tense for an entirely different reason, wishing I could be beside him. Wishing I could tell him he doesn’t have to do this. Wishing I could see the softness in his eyes I’d put there earlier, with nothing but a smile and a tentative touch.
Now, his face is hard as stone.
But he’s looking right at me.
“When I was young,” he begins, bending his neck to speak into the microphone, “people used to tell my father I had a problem. They’d complain about me being too aggressive. Too angry. Too physical.” There’s a pause, but he holds my shocked gaze, adding, “Among other things.”
“Too sexy!” one of the LDZ guys in the back shouts.
Killian pays no attention to it, addressing the room in a somber voice. “But out on the field, there’s no such thing. You can be angry. You can tackle some guy from thirty yards out and absolutely crush him, and afterward, he’ll shake your hand. Your coach will tell you ‘good job.’ The student body will start calling you by a cool nickname. Your parents will hang your jerseys and brag about you to their friends.” There’s a murmur of agreement from our table in particular, but it doesn’t last long. “I think I’ll always appreciate this game the most for giving me that. For allowing me to point my anger at something that weighs two-fifty and is wearing armor. For showing me I have power that’s all my own. And I’d like to thank someone else,” he says, dropping his gaze to the award, “for helping me realize I don’t need it anymore.”
A grim hush falls over the room, and even though I see Marcus’ gaze flick to me, everyone else’s is plastered on Killian and the tense line of his mouth.
“This week, I’ll be formally withdrawing from the Forsyth athletic program—” He pauses at the swell of protest from the crowd, but quickly recovers. “—to pursue a different path, both at this school and in my life.” He lifts the award, rushing out a hasty thanks, and then steps away, brows set low as he lumbers back to the table.
I’m stunned. Not because he quit the team, or even that he announced it. It’s the realization that football meant so much more to him than just some dumb game that gave him the glory to escape his father’s plans for his future. It’s the knowledge that this is an even bigger sacrifice than I thought it was.
When he takes his seat, flashing me a glance, he shakes his head. “Don’t.”
It’s only one word, spoken quiet and soft, but it makes my heart twist. There isn’t a trace of bitterness in it. This is a man who came to terms with the decision before I even realized he was making it.
Instead, I reach beneath the table and cover his hand with mine, hoping it’s a distraction from the football players casting him deep, betrayed frowns. “You didn’t have to do that tonight,” I say, leaning in close.
He answers with a shrug, picking up his glass of champagne. “We’re here to build an alibi. Everyone will remember me being here now.” He flips his hand, pressing our palms together, and squeezes. “And you, too.”
When I think about it like that, it’s genius.
“How long do we need to stay?”
The words I whisper into Killian’s ear might feel rude, except I can tell he’s just as anxious as I am. President Whittmore has been slow to wrap this up, talking for twenty minutes about the outstanding achievements of the school’s athletes, a clear attempt to drum up boosters and donations from alumni. I’ve tried my hardest to relax and not think about what Dimitri and Tristian have been doing all night—Killian’s speech had certainly been a distraction—but now my neck is itchy and tense, and my palm feels clammy against his.
“I’m waiting for their text,” Killian says, releasing my hand to rest his arm on the back of my chair. He keeps his voice a hushed whisper, leaning in to breathe it against the shell of my ear. “They’re fine. You know that, right? In and out. Nothing they can’t handle.”
I turn my head, so close to catching his lips with my own. “You act like they’re professional cat burglars or something.”
“They may as well be,” he says, eyes searching mine. If there was any ambiguity about what we are to one another, it will be wiped clean when he dips down, brushing his mouth against mine. “Rath’s been picking locks since he was seven. His brother Alessio taught him. And Tristian? You know what a nosy bastard he is. He started breaking into the Vice Principal’s office in middle school, reviewing security tapes, changing grades on the servers.” He tucks his fingers under the back of my dress. “That doesn’t even get into the fires. He was into all that shit before he even met me.”
He’s playing it cool, but I know he’s worried. His knee keeps bouncing under the table and he’s checked his phone a million times. I’ve had to keep our clasped hands on his knee for the past half hour just to keep the silverware from bouncing off the surface. “I’d feel better if I was driving the getaway car.”
“Well, I feel better having you by my side.”
Changing the subject, I give his thigh a subtle rub. “You deserve that award you hid under the table.”
“Probably.” He shrugs, looking away from my mouth. “It’s just going to make my retirement that much more complicated. Marcus looks like I just stabbed his puppy.”
It’s not as bad as all that, but he keeps shooting Killian these small, sullen looks. It’s a big deal, and one day, when we’ve both gained some distance from that tension sitting in his spine whenever he sees the award, I want to ask him about it. Football, his anger, how he knows he doesn’t need it anymore, and if I’m the person who’s helped him realize it. But for now, there’s a big picture, because South Side is calling.
Literally.
Our phones vibrate at the same time, but I don’t bother pulling mine out, watching as he thumbs the text open.
Rath: 237
“What does that mean?” I ask, shifting nervously.
But the relief is clear in Killian’s eyes as he tucks the phone back into his pocket. “It’s the city penal code for ‘mayhem’. If you recall, Nick’s got it tattooed down his temple because he’s got all the class of a vandalized bathroom stall.” He meets my gaze, fingertips skating down my shoulder. “It means it’s done.”
I’d like to say all the tension drains from my body, but I’m not as stupid as all that. This is just the beginning.
“Let’s get the fuck out of here.” He bends and grabs the award before standing up. I follow, offering Marcus and the others a small parting smile, trying to play it just as cool and charming as Tristian might. But I’m so eager to get out of here that it’s a struggle not to sprint toward the exit.
Whittmore’s voice follows us out the ballroom door, only silencing when we’re in the lobby. That’s short-lived, though. A group of reporters right outside the front spots us. A chorus of ‘Mr. Payne!’ and ‘Killer!’ accosts us.
“Mr. Payne! Can you tell us why you’re quitting the team? What are your plans for senior year? Is there a chance you might return to the field next year?”
Killian grimaces as the shouts continue, turning to shield me from the commotion. “Let me deal with this. Can you grab the coats?” He cups my cheek, ducking down to press a kiss to the corner of my mouth. A burst of bright camera flashes makes me flinch. “I’ll just be a second.”
“O-okay.” We split apart, but I look back, watching him pull himself to his full height as the first reporter asks his question. I’ve seen some of these guys doing press before, and they’re all terrible at it. I’ve always wondered why they need to bother. They’re good at what they do on the field. Isn’t that enough?
But not Killian.
He holds eye contact, and when he answers, he projects his voice, lifting his chin in a way that would look arrogant on someone else. He has presence, exudes an authority and competence that I know Forsyth’s athletic department is going to sorely miss. Football or not, watching him standing there, commanding the attention of the people before him, I know that’s where he’s meant to be. Leading.
I finally turn away and approach the coat check, unzipping my purse for the ticket. Unfortunately, there’s no one behind the little desk. I’m peering impatiently into the closet when I hear, “The President is a bit dry, isn’t he?”
My stomach drops at the voice.
Saul Cartwright. “I don’t blame you for making a break for it. Pretty little thing like you, on a night like this? You should be out painting the town.”
I wasn’t surprised he was the one to present Killian’s award. He’s the Athletic Director, after all. But now that I know Ted is likely one of the Kings—and Saul being more likely than the rest—my heart rate jacks up to eleven.
I turn reluctantly, forcing myself to meet his gaze. “I’m in a hurry, so if you’ll excuse me…”
His eyes fall to my chest, ignoring my brush off. “You look lovely tonight, Story.”
I try not to let him see the way my muscles stiffen at the way he’s looking at me. “Don’t let Killian hear you say that. Not if you want to keep your fingers.”
“Ah, yes.” He glances back at his star player, so surrounded by the reporters that he doesn’t even notice us. “I’ve heard he’s become quite protective of you. The other Lords, as well. A spirited bunch, aren’t they?” The smug tilt to his mouth deepens. “Not as hardy as my Dukes, but passable, I guess.”
Impatient to leave, I circle around the desk and step into the closet, scanning it for our jackets. It’s jammed packed, though. I can’t tell one black coat from the other, but one thing is painfully noticeable.
Saul’s presence behind me in the doorway.
When I turn, dread pooling in my stomach, I see him standing with his hands in his pockets, deceptively casual-looking. Fucking stupid, letting myself get cornered. So anxious to get back to my Lords that I disregarded everything they’ve taught me.
Saul’s eyes flash with satisfaction. “You know, I caught your little show in the pit. That sure is some pussy you’ve got.” From a distance, no one would know he was talking about something so crass, and so brashly. “I was… well, disappointed. You were always so pure back in the day. Those little rainbow panties…” He wets his lips, for the first time acknowledging that he remembers me from my sugar baby days. In all our interactions, Cartwright has never openly admitted it—not that he needs to. He was one of my more memorable customers, a pale, perverted face on the other side of my computer screen, plying me with filthy compliments. But I’ve learned that he’s way more than just some old guy paying for underage pussy. He’s even more than the director of athletics at this school. He’s a King—the leader of the Dukes, and one-fifth of the upper echelon that keeps the Royal machine chugging along.
I clutch my purse to my stomach, willing the champagne from earlier to remain down as I frantically search for an exit. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He dips his head, looking at me through his lashes. “Oh, Sweet Cherry. Give me more credit than that. I was a loyal follower.” He props his hand on the doorframe, looking completely comfortable to block my way. “If you want to know the truth, at first, I was just watching to case the goods. See whether Payne was shirking his duties. But there you were, sweetheart. The real deal.” The endearment makes my chest throb. Only one person calls me sweetheart. “I was the first one to sign off on you, you know. This new girl we’ve got lined up…” He pulls a face, flicking his wrist. “She doesn’t really do it for me. Not as cute as you are. Not as…innocent. Bustier. She’s got that slutty look about her.” His eyes slide down my body and he adjusts his belt, hiking it up against the early stages of a paunch. “Some men like that, I suppose. I hear she’s a fighter. You’re more gentle. Our sweet little cherry.”
There’s no doubt that the girl he’s talking about is Lavinia.
But if he thinks I’ll cry, then he doesn’t know me at all.
It’s what makes me lash out, jaw locking. “Now that you mention it, I do remember you. I remember having to force myself not to vomit up my dinner at the sight of you, jacking off like a sweaty, hairy lump of meat.” I approach him, calculating how fast I can duck beneath his arm and call out for Killian. “I remember your ugly dick and your uglier face. I never forget sick, pathetic, disgusting old men.”
His arm thrusts out faster than I’m expecting, palm slamming into my chest. It knocks me back into the closet, and then he’s kicking the door shut, bearing down on me with a snarl. “You want to see ugly, little girl? I never forget, either.” His nostrils flare, a wild look taking over his eyes. “Four long years. That’s how long I’ve waited to get what was owed to me.” He reaches down, jerkily unbuckling his belt. “This wasn’t exactly what I had in mind, but it’ll do, don’t you think?”
“You’re crazy.” My heart pounds in my chest, but the flurry of thought rushing through my head is too chaotic to slow. Am I right? Is this flustered, angry man towering above me, Ted? Was it Saul all along? Is this the bastard who stalked me, sent me pictures, killed my friend? Did he send Ugly Nick after Killian? Carve those initials into Vivienne after slitting her throat? “You’re fucking insane,” I realize, everything coming together.
“That’s what happens when some little bitch makes your balls blue for four years.” The sound of his zipper—the jangle of his belt buckle slapping against his thigh—is shockingly loud in the oppressive silence of the closet, but there’s no space in here. No room to move away. No way past him to the door. He’s close, so close. Frozen, I keep my eyes on his face and clutch my purse against my stomach like a pathetic shield, but he just tucks his pants below his balls, exposing his half hard cock to me. “I know you let them defile your mouth and pussy, but what about your ass? I bet you haven’t let them fuck you there yet. You were always such a tease.”
My instinct is to fight back, but he’s a tall man and I’m in these fucking heels, and even in the best of circumstances, I’m no athlete. I need to use my brain. I need to buy some time. I need some goddamn space.
I don’t get any.
What I get are his rough hands suddenly grabbing at my shoulders, trying to spin me around. A wave of fury swells in my chest—that rush of red-hot instinct to fight for survival—and that’s exactly what I do.
I fight.
I kick out, thrash around, open my mouth and belt out a scream. He’s a solid wall against me, but I strike out anyway. Fists. Elbows. Knees. He grunts in his effort to contain me, face contorting with rage.
He reaches back before swinging. His enormous palm contacts with my cheek and the slap rocks me. My head snaps to the side. Pain explodes up my cheek, throughout my skull, and I have to be still then, bringing my arms up to cover my head.
It gives him the opening he needs to twist me around, his hand clamping hard onto the back of my neck. As I blink away the stars in my vision, he’s shoving my face down into the shelf of coats and rucking up my dress.
“Like I was saying,” he growls, fingers aggressive as they dig into my hips. He doesn’t even sound winded. “I don’t mind a little fighting. You think I’m ugly now? You should have seen me in my day, Lady.” He sneers the title, and I fumble for my purse, thinking that I just need a few seconds. A minute at most. “I was the hot shit around here. You would have been on your hands and knees for my dick back then.”
I stop fighting, forcing my limbs to go limp as I catch my breath. The crack in my voice is only half-faked as I whimper, “Okay, okay, I’ll let you—”
“Let me?” He barks a laugh, ripping my thong to the side.
“Just don’t leave a mark,” I plead, planting my feet wide. “They’ll punish me if they know. And if Killian gets through that door, he’ll kill us both.”
There’s a brief pause, and then his derisive snort. “I knew you’d cave. You’re nothing but a dirty whore, just like your mother.” There’s a sickening sound—him spitting a wad of saliva into the palm of his hand. Sick dread fills my belly as I know he’s prepping himself, the wet sound of him slicking up his stubby cock filling the surrounding air. “You know I found her first? Fucked her after the bowl game, almost six years ago. Her phone rang and this picture of a sweet little girl’s face came up. Your face. I knew right then you were meant to be our new pet.” He leans into me, breath hot against my neck. “All the other Kings are married, but Daniel…well, he had himself a bit of a domestic vacancy. So I had to give the two of you up to him.” My hands shake and I take the chance to dip my fingers in the open zipper of my purse. “It wasn’t really a surprise when you showed up on the Daddy sites. Like mother, like daughter.” His fingers graze over the bare swell of my backside and nausea mixes with my rage. “He was supposed to get you ready for us, but then you left, and look what you became? Just another predictable whore. Four years, Sweet Cherry. I’ve thought about this for four years, and if you think I’m not going to make it hurt, you’re very, very wrong.”
My fingers brush against the cool metal just as the spit-slick head of his cock slides between my ass cheeks.
I whirl around, pressing the barrel of the gun against his cock. It’s a fast move that sends him off balance, but the bald shock in his eyes, the way he freezes, tells me he can feel the cold steel.
“Touch me again,” I sneer, flicking off the safety, “and I’ll blow your goddamn dick off.”
Both of his hands dart into the air and he takes a step back. It really takes the steel out of the stern look he gives me. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll put that gun away.”
I keep it aimed at his pelvis, extending my arms just the way Killian taught me. “Oh, really? Why’s that?”
His dick is still hanging out, hard and pointed right at me. “Daniel has all the dirt he needs to ruin your life. Adding in the assault of a respected school administrator?” He begins lowering his hands, tsking. “No one will believe it’s self-defense. I’m a cornerstone of Forsyth’s community, and what are you? Like I said. Just another whore.”
White hot rage pulses through me, a burning hatred that’s been growing and growing for years, winding itself around my lungs like a sickness. It’s a combination of exhaustion and pain, adrenaline and hurt. Everything he said… it all makes sense. ‘You were always so pure,’ ‘I never forget,’ ‘just another whore,’ ‘four years, Sweet Cherry.’
That’s why I know.
I finally have him in front of me.
Ted.
I cock the hammer, letting the telltale click fill the room. “You’ve terrorized me for years. You’ve abused me, you’ve stalked me, you followed me halfway across the country to fuck with my head, to terrify me, to ruin my fucking life!” His eyes never leave the barrel, but I see the crease appear on his forehead.
Behind him, the door suddenly bursts open, swinging so violently that it bangs against the wall and recoils back.
Killian stops it with his foot.
There’s a moment of awareness as Cartwright turns.
Killian shifts his gaze between my red face, the gun, and Cartwright’s dick.
When I speak, it’s a message. Not just to Cartwright or Killian. To myself. “You won’t control me anymore, Ted. This is done.”
Killian reacts with stunning immediacy, lifting the ten pound crystal award and bashing it into Cartwright’s jaw. The crack of his bone crumbling rings sickeningly in my ears, but despite my flinch, I don’t lower the gun. It’s trained on him like a guided missile, jerking to the left when he rears up to tackle Killian, then to the right when Killian dodges, tackling Cartwright instead.
He takes him to the ground and straddles him, teeth bared as he pulls a fist back and buries it into Cartwright’s cheek. What happens next can only be described as a brutal assault. Punch after punch, Killian red-faced and huffing as his fist rears back only to return, knuckles meeting bone and teeth. The lurching shift of his muscles, the grunts that tear from his chest with each hammering hit, the harsh lines of his face, the lava-bright brilliance of his eyes…
It’s raw, animalistic power, and I’m struck with a thought that takes my breath away.
Killian has never been more gorgeous.
Blood sprays from Cartwright’s mouth, sending droplets all over Killian’s white shirt, and the explosion of hate-hurt-mine-beautiful in my chest gains a new companion. Fear.
Killian has murder in his eyes.
This isn’t how we beat Ted. Not here, with witnesses, in the middle of a plan to take down Daniel. This is sloppy and impulsive, and it’s up to me to salvage it. To approach the feral animal in front of me. To bring him back.
In the end, it only takes two words.
I drag in a shaky inhale, my voice a quiet, jagged whisper. “Big brother…”
Killian swings his fist, but pulls it back a hair’s breadth away from making contact. It trembles, the tattoos over his knuckles almost unreadable through the blood and swelling. I’m worried at first it won’t be enough, but he surprises me, opening his fist and pushing his hair back. There’s a silent moment, Killian breathless and stiff, before he bends to spit in Cartwright’s mangled face.
“That’s for Vivienne, you motherfucker.”
He lumbers to his feet, but wobbles, body solid and almost too much to support when I rush to him. It doesn’t take long for him to find his footing, though, turning to me with a dark, tense expression. Wordlessly, he reaches up to brush his fingertips over my cheek. “He put his fucking hands on you.”
The touch is gentle, but still smarts, making me gasp. “I’m fine,” I say, grabbing his wrist.
Killian’s knuckles are already turning purple.
He says, “Put the gun away now, little sister,” and it’s only then that I realize I still have it pointed at the unconscious mess of blood and bone on the floor. “Safety first,” he quietly coaches, placing his hand over the barrel.
He’s always two steps ahead. That’s what makes him different. A leader. A Lord. A future King.
Somewhere in South Side, a building is burning.
But here with Killian, it feels like the heat of the flames could never touch me.
