The air is thick, and it’s not just tension and my mother’s grief. It’s a numbness that I can’t penetrate. A panic I can’t sweat out. A dread I can’t shove down.
Did we just kill someone?
Again?
My mom still hasn’t taken the tissue I’m holding out to her, but it takes me too long to drop it, opting to rub at her back instead. We’re sitting on her sleek, designer couch. Her shoulders hitch with strained breaths beneath my palm, and even though her eyes are downcast, I can tell they’re empty.
“The remains were found among the debris early this morning,” the detective is saying. He has bright, shrewd eyes and a hard mouth bearing very few laugh lines.
“Oh, my god,” she gasps, covering her face. “This can’t be happening.”
But it is. Last night, a fire broke out in South Side, burning a building to the ground. Within the debris, the remains of a man were discovered. In Daniel’s office. He was wearing a ring—with a skull.
“The fire investigators say the building was old and filled with the kind of material that burns quickly.” The man frowns, his bushy eyebrows looking like two aging caterpillars. He’s sitting on the armchair across from my mother. For the last ten minutes, his focus has vacillated between the notepad in his hand and my mother’s cleavage. “Someone in a neighboring building called it in around eleven. The fire trucks were there in five minutes, but old buildings like this, ma’am…” He gives her a pitying look. “It went up like kindling. Took less than an hour for it to burn to the ground.”
My mom pulls her hands from her misty eyes, head shaking. “I thought he was just working late. He’d been doing that a lot lately. Staying at the office. He was so upset when Vivienne was killed. He just couldn’t sleep.”
My mother weeps next to me, soft cries that don’t quite smear her makeup, because even now—maybe even especially now—presentation matters to her. I suppose I understand. I hold her hand as we sit on this couch—this fucking ridiculous, expensive, sterile couch—in her formal living room. Daniel’s living room? No. Not anymore. He’s dead.
Daniel is dead.
Killed in a fire.
I try to keep my thoughts here, in this room, because I can’t think about what’s happening back at the brownstone. The guys must be at a total loss. Killian would have been present for this, but since he’s the closest next of kin who could stomach the idea of it, he’s identifying what’s left of the body.
“I understand this is hard to think about,” the detective says, adopting a low, sonorous tone that he probably thinks is comforting. “But sometimes the people closest to the victim hold the key. It’s well known that Mr. Payne had his share of enemies. Is there anyone in particular you think we should look at?”
My mother sniffs and looks over at Martin, who’s been standing nearby, silent and still for the last hour. His back is straight, and from the pained, anxious expression on his face, this isn’t his usual flavor of lawyering. The firm sent him over to oversee the questioning, but I’m guessing this is the first non-frat job he’s been given, because he’s been as stiff and bland as cardboard since he followed me through the door. He nods at my mother, giving approval for the question.
I watch her visibly gather herself, adjusting her shoulders into an elegant line. “Daniel had a difficult job. People didn’t want to see progress in South Side. They prefer to keep things as they are: run-down and derelict. They resented him for his compassion toward the downtrodden.” She finally takes the tissue from my hand, dabbing beneath her nose. “Drug addicts, sex workers, migrants. The sort of people South Side exploits. He believed everyone was part of the community—no matter your circumstances.”
It’s a physical struggle not to roll my eyes at the makeshift eulogy.
Since she’s rambling and not answering the detective’s question, I carefully prod her. “Mom, did Daniel piss anyone off in particular lately? Anyone noteworthy?”
Besides me, that is.
Daniel must have more enemies. He must. Otherwise, all four of us are screwed, because I’m not sure how to handle this. Do I misdirect the detective? If so, then how?
She pauses, her red eyes shifting to Martin, and then to the detective. “There is one person he kept getting into very…hostile disagreements with.”
“Who is that?” The detective gently asks.
She dabs her nose with the tissue, giving Martin a long look. His expression back is stony, but she answers anyway. “His son, Killian.”
I jolt back. “You think Killian killed his father?”
She sighs and crushes the tissue in her palm, shooting me a pointed look. “Don’t pretend you haven’t seen the tension between the two of them. Their relationship has always been difficult, but lately, things have escalated. Ever since you returned.”
“It’s not Killian.” I insist, looking to Martin for some backup.
He just offers me a puzzled shrug.
The detective takes out a small writing pad. “Why do you think it’s your stepson, Mrs. Payne?”
“Why?” She laughs a bit hysterically. “He shot him two months ago!”
I’m stunned speechless for the second time today, not realizing she knew. What was it she’d told me at Thanksgiving?
“Shot protecting one of his girls…”
The detective’s eyebrows wiggle at that revelation. But I’m not letting my mother drag Killian down. Not when she’s so far off base. Even if the body is Daniel’s—even if the fire we planned killed him—Killian had no part in it. It wasn’t his idea; it wasn’t his execution, and it wasn’t his intention.
“That was an accident,” I lie, giving the man a beseeching look. “They were civil after all that, ask around. And in any case, it doesn’t matter. I know it wasn’t Killian. We were at the Forsyth athletic banquet all night.”
The detective straightens. “Other people can corroborate this?”
I nod frantically. “Dozens, maybe even hundreds. There were photographers. We sat at the main table, Killian won an award, he made a speech…” I trail off, thinking about the scene in the coat room. It’s a part of the alibi, but not one that’ll shed Killian in the best light. “I’m sure plenty of people can confirm we were there until after eleven.”
“What?” she says, swinging her head to stare at me. “You both said he wasn’t attending that banquet.” I’m not sure what her accusing tone is meant for; our not inviting her, or her being skeptical that we really went.
“He changed his mind at the last minute.” To the detective, I explain, “He wanted to announce his withdrawal from the team. It was an incredibly difficult thing to do, and I’m sure he didn’t want his parents there for it.” I say the last part sharply, so she’ll understand. But she just keeps gawking at me with that pale, betrayed expression. I narrow my eyes at her. “Do you want to blame Tristian next?”
Her eyes widen, palm flying to her chest. “A Mercer? Goodness no. A young man with that type of upbringing would never do such a thing. But Dimitri?” She nods at the detective, sniffling. “You should check him out. I can definitely see him doing something like this.”
Jesus. My mother. You’d think she’d figure it out by now that the rich guys are the worst. She grew up waiting for that knight in shining armor, telling me stories about them, wanting my life to be a page out of a storybook, just like the name she gave me.
Which is why this will fucking destroy her.
“Mr. Rathbone and Mr. Mercer already have alibis,” the detective says, looking almost disappointed as he closes his notepad. “They spent the night at the Maddox hotel. Camera footage has them arriving at nine and leaving at seven the following morning.”
“You checked them already?” I ask, bafflement mingling with disgust. “Why?”
The detective looks unbothered by my tone. “Both Mr. Mercer and Mr. Rathbone have prior run-ins with the police, most on behalf of Mr. Payne himself. They were part of his inner circle of, er…colorful associates.” He looks at me, assuring, “It was nothing personal. We checked everyone in that group first.”
“Are you sure?” my mother asks, fanning herself. She’s breathing fast and her eyes are welling up again. “This is too much. It’s too much.”
I interrupt. “Sir, could you give us a moment? My mom’s barely had time to digest all this.”
“Of course, ma’am.” He stands, but even though he dusts off his knees and says, “We don’t need to do this now,” I see his eyes taking in the house, scanning, documenting, observing.
“Come on, Mom,” I say, resting my hand on her shoulder. “You should rest. Let me take care of you for a while, okay?”
She nods and offers the detective a brief, watery glance, muttering, “Thank you.”
“Call me,” he says, handing her a card. “Any time.”
I ignore the implication in Detective Eyebrows’ tone and walk her to her room as Martin escorts him out. I’d love to think this guy isn’t a dirt bag, but my mother and I have been surrounded by them our entire lives. It’s why she told the man who came to deliver the news of her husband’s horrible death ‘thank you’. It’s why I understand her neurotically straight posture and efforts not to smear her makeup. Sometimes, appearances are all we have. The mask we pull over our faces to hide the ugly sadness beneath. My mother taught me plenty, but few lessons so important as this:
We are whatever people see.
If they see a whore, they’ll treat her like a product to be consumed. If they see a sweet, virginal princess, they’ll do whatever they can to mar her purity. If they see a woman who’s upstanding, wealthy, straight-backed and put together, they’ll shake her hand and hold her door.
We pass Daniel’s office on the way to their master suite, but I keep my eyes forward, refusing to look inside and remember. A strangeness settles over me as we approach her bedroom. After all this time, the threats and the drama, it’s hard to believe that he’s really gone. That he’ll no longer have power over me and the guys, and with the fire, the slate will wipe clean. Whatever dirt he had on me is gone.
I step into their bedroom for the first time since high school, idly noting the muted decor. It makes it easier to ignore that he slept here, woke here, fucked here, on that very mattress, with the woman I’m leading to it.
I prepare myself for the breakdown. The sobs and the cries. Tearing at the bed sheets. The futile question of ‘why’. I prepare myself to console my mother, because it doesn’t matter that I hated her husband. She loved him, whatever that might have looked like between them. I think of losing one of mine—Killian, Dimitri, Tristian—and it makes me hurt so badly that I have to turn away from it, refusing to put myself in these shoes a second before I’m forced to.
She leans back on the pillows, her wet eyes staring sightlessly across the room. “He has appointments,” she suddenly says, forehead crinkling. “I’ll need to cancel them. And there will be a funeral. Won’t there?”
I’m frozen as she looks at me, so lost. “I don’t think you need to worry about that just now.”
“And the house,” she goes on, as if she’s not hearing me. “Will I have to move out? Will I have to close our accounts and give everything to—” Her mouth clamps shut, a hardness coming over her eyes. “I suppose it’s all his now.”
“That’s not true,” I say, bending my leg beneath me as I perch on the bed beside her. I don’t need to ask who she’s talking about. “You’re his wife, that must mean…something. Legally. Financially.” I want to tell her Daniel wouldn’t have left her in the position to be destitute, but at this point, I wouldn’t put anything past him. “And even if it doesn’t, Killian wouldn’t ever just toss you out in the cold.”
“How do you know?” she asks, turning her agonized eyes on me. “You know your brother. He’s so spiteful and mean. He’s always hated me.”
I shift uncomfortably, unable to disagree without lying. “You don’t need to worry about this now,” I repeat. There’s a throw blanket at the foot of the bed, and I drag it over her, tucking her in the same way she once tucked me in.
“There’s so much to do,” she mutters, clutching the blanket to her chest. “I don’t know how I’m going to manage.”
“We’ll figure something out,” I stress, taking her hand in mine. It seems wrong somehow to borrow the words of a man she thinks so little of, but I do, remembering Dimitri assuring me with them on New Year’s Eve. “People like us always find a way.”
This makes something in her eyes finally spark. “You’re all I have now.” The grin she gives me is watery and limp, but when she squeezes my hand, her grip is strong. “My little storybook. My perfect fairytale.”
The sobs come then.
Deep, body-wracking, ugly sobs.
I hold her, and try so hard to rearrange things in my head. I pet her hair and pretend that I’m not responsible for her grief and hurt. I pull the mask over my face and become the fairytale she needs.
Because the one she married into is gone.
I’ve barely walked into the den when Tristian stands and asks, “How’s Posey?”
“Knocked out on sleeping pills. For now, at least.” I drop my bag onto the chair, surveying the men around me. I hide my surprise that Killian is back so soon. For some reason, I’d had it in my mind that they’d… keep him. Hold him. Detain? Isn’t that what they call it?
The atmosphere in the room is heavy and oppressively quiet, and for a long stretch of time, no one says anything.
Slowly, Tristian sits back down.
Killian’s sitting in his leather armchair with his head resting all the way back. His right hand is balancing a glass of something amber on his knee, finger tapping the glass. “What did the detective say?” He doesn’t look at me when he speaks, eyes fixed on the glowing embers in the fireplace.
My stomach cramps with hot, churning acid. “He was asking Mom questions. Looking for enemies. Suspects.”
Killian nods, eyes reflecting the flames in the fireplace. “And?”
I tuck my hair back from my face, huffing. “She thought you did it.” His eyebrows twitch, but aside from that, he gives no reaction. “And when you had an alibi, she brought up Dimitri.”
“Typical,” Dimitri mutters. “It’s always the poor guy.” He’s hunched over the console table behind the couch Tristian is currently occupying, fingertip tapping the trackpad of a laptop. Where Killian and Tristian are both nursing glasses of the amber liquid, Dimitri has opted for the entire bottle. He hasn’t even glanced at me since I arrived, eyes pinched with focus at whatever’s on the screen. Even when he brings the bottle to his mouth for a long swig, he doesn’t look away.
Tristian sees the question in my eyes. “I was able to get access to the coroner’s files, but they haven’t updated the initial report yet.” He jabs a thumb to the space behind him, in Dimitri’s direction. “This one’s been refreshing the page for two hours.”
Standing awkwardly in the middle of the den, I say the one question that’s been bouncing around inside my mind all day. “Is it really him?”
Killian lifts the glass on his knees, speaking against the rim. “It’s him.”
Even though I know no one could possibly be as certain as Killian, I still wait for something more concrete. Something to make this real. Something that will drag me out of this dream-like trance.
Tristian senses this, offering, “Some of his face was still…partially identifiable. Plus, there was a tattoo on his calf.” There’s a sickening lurch in my gut at the thought of whatever Killian saw. ‘Partially identifiable’ will forever be etched in my memory as the most disturbing thing I’ve heard today.
“There was a metal pin,” Killian adds, tipping his glass back. “In his shoulder, where I shot him.”
“And dental records,” Tristian adds, resting his elbows on his knees. His fists hang between them, and I don’t need to notice the dejected curve of his shoulders to know what this is doing to him. The hollowness of his blue eyes is quite enough. “There’s no doubt Daniel’s dead.”
I’m not sure I have it in me to put voice to the second question that’s been throbbing inside me since I got the call. Not when it hangs above us like a storm cloud, present in everyone’s eyes.
Did we kill him?
The last question is something so cold and unfeeling that I’ll probably take it to the grave with me.
Do we care?
Before I can gather the courage to ask anything at all, Dimitri makes an alarmed sound, spine snapping straight. “It’s up.”
Tristian’s head jerks up and he twists, looking over his shoulder. His eyes bore into the back of the laptop as if he could see through it. “What does it say?”
“It says…” Dimitri’s forehead scrunches. “Something about… uh, frackt… fractures of the cal… calvuh? Fuck!” His fists come down hard on the keys. “I’m too fucking stupid to read this shit!”
Tristian surges to his feet, but I get to Dimitri first, laying a palm on his tense back. “You are not,” I whisper, because this isn’t Killian and one of his rages. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Dimitri like this, drawn taut as a piano wire, flinching away from my touch.
I don’t like it.
He slaps a hand out, snagging the bottle of whiskey in a smoothly violent gesture. “You read it,” he tells Tristian, whirling away from the laptop and crossing the room, as if he’s trying to create a physical distance.
Tristian takes his place, tipping the screen up, eyes narrowing. He gives a quiet scoff as his eyes scan it. “Dude, you’re not stupid. I can’t read this shit, either. It’s fancy medical jargon.”
“See?” I try, stepping between Dimitri and the fireplace. “It’s going to be okay.”
He curls and uncurls his fist, not meeting my eyes. “I don’t have a problem with being a murderer. I don’t even have a problem with murdering Daniel, because I’m sorry, Killer, but your dad was fucking garbage, and we all know he had it coming.” His black eyes glint in the glow of the fireplace, jaw just as taut as his shoulders. “But not like this. Not fucking sloppy, accidental bullshit.” He punctuates the last word by angrily throwing the bottle into the fireplace.
A hot burst of fire explodes outward, the heat licking at my calves, and I yelp, almost tripping in my haste to hurl myself away from it.
In an instant, Killian is between us, slamming Dimitri into the wall beside the fireplace. “Watch what the fuck you’re doing!” he booms, and it’s as if his eyes absorbed the flames.
But Dimitri isn’t paying attention to him. For the first time since I got home, he’s looking at me, his face pale with shock. Mine probably is, too, but he’s also seeing the scared, wounded thing in my eyes. I can tell because his face falls. “Baby, I didn’t mean to—”
Killian’s lips pull back in a snarl, cutting him off. “Making it into a habit now?“
“Guys,” Tristian says, but they talk over him.
“Oh, fuck you.” That spark of stunned guilt in Dimitri’s eyes is wiped away in an instant, face shuttering. “Like you have any fucking place to lecture me on hurting her—”
“Guys.” Tristian repeats, approaching them.
Killian shoves a finger into Dimitri’s chest. “Don’t you fucking bring that up like shit hasn’t changed—”
Tristian snaps, “Guys!” and yanks Killian back, placing himself between them. “Shut the fuck up and listen to me!” He waits until Killian backs off to let out an annoyed huff, looking between them. “None of this matters, because Daniel didn’t die in the fire.”
“What are you talking about?” Dimitri asks, rubbing the shoulder Killian had planted the heel of his palm into.
“Gunshot wound to the back of the head,” Tristian explains, twisting to take in Killian’s stunned expression. “Execution style.”
My mouth works around a series of aborted replies, because that doesn’t make sense. Does it make sense? What finally emerges is, “He was dead before the fire even started?”
Killian goes back to his chair, dropping heavily into it. “What the fuck.”
Shoulders dropping, Dimitri parrots him perfectly. “What the fuck?”
“Someone shot him,” Tristian says, like he’s hammering it in, eyes bright and full of fire. “Probably just after everyone went home for the day.”
“Who?” I ask, the word barely forming.
“No clue. Around lunch time, the security footage went blank. Someone else turned it off. Probably whoever went in and out set the alarm. It looks like an inside job.” Tristian leans back on the console table, and even though there’s an irritated tightness in his eyes, there’s also a relieved looseness to his posture. This is a man who just dodged a massive bullet. “It reminds me of when that finger was left here. Too easy. No footprints.”
My stomach flutters.
“Well, we know it wasn’t Saul,” Killian says. “But other than that, it’s open season.”
“Could be Lionel Lucia.” Tristian glances at Dimitri, jerking his chin. “Maybe he found out about you interfering with his daughter. Assumed it was a Lord thing.”
“He doesn’t give a shit about that girl,” Dimitri says, eyes fixed to my legs. “Execution style, in his own office? This feels personal.”
“No. You know what it feels like? Really fucking convenient.” Killian shakes his head, looking between Dimitri and Tristian. “This was someone who knew we were going to set that fire, thereby destroying a crime scene, and making whoever set it look like the real murderer.”
The wheels turn behind Tristian’s eyes. “Only five people knew we were torching that building.”
Killian gives him a meaningful nod. “And we know it wasn’t any of us.”
“Oh, that motherfucker,” Dimitri breathes, teeth clenching.
“Wait.” I hold my hands up, trying to find my balance. “Are you saying Pretty Nick killed Daniel?”
Dimitri gives a sharp, bitter grin, his metal piercings catching the glow of the fire. “It’s fucking perfect. He makes a deal with us to get the Kings’ little pet, kills Daniel, gives us the signal, and watches us walk right into his goddamn spider web.” He’s the next to collapse, falling onto the couch with a sour expression. “And I fucking fell for it.”
Tristian says, “Hold up,” making a timeout gesture with his hands. “Nick’s whole thing is mayhem, right? Two-thirty-seven. What’s the criminal definition of mayhem?” He’s looking at Killian expectantly, but I’m the first to answer.
“Destruction? Mischief?”
“No.” Killian sinks back in his chair, eyes clouding over. “The criminal definition is very specific. It means disabling someone by…”
“Amputation.” Dimitri stares between them, eyes darkening. “Like an arm or a leg or—”
My jaw drops. “A finger.”
“Son of a bitch.” Killian shoots to his feet and begins pacing, muscles rippling with every flex of his fists. “If this Ted fucker got to Ugly Nick, there’s no reason he couldn’t have gotten to Pretty Nick.”
Dimitri looks just as pissed, but there’s a rueful undercurrent in his words. “He really fucking sold it. The way he acted around that girl? It was like a dog watching a pork chop. I really thought he just wanted her that bad. Bad enough to turn on Daniel.”
Killian stops his pacing, turning to him. “No. None of this is on us. You understand? All of you.” He looks directly at me, stressing, “This isn’t on us.”
Nostrils flaring, Dimitri reaches behind him, pulling a pistol from his pants. “I’m going to fucking kill him.” It doesn’t matter that he remains sitting, dark eyes fixed to the barrel of the gun. The way he says it—low, calm, deadly—gives me no doubt he means it.
But Killian shakes his head. “We’re too hot right now, Rath. We can’t afford to get caught in a retaliation when we’ve got detectives breathing down our fucking necks.”
“Maybe,” I suggest, watching Rath begrudgingly tuck the gun back into his waistband, “we should just let them take care of each other.”
Tristian snaps his fingers, pointing at me. “Send them to Nick as a suspect.”
“If they aren’t already sniffing him down,” Killian says.
“The detective said,” I remember, “they’re checking his inner circle first. They checked Tristian and Dimitri. What are the chances Nick has an alibi more solid than ours?”
“Not fucking likely.” Tristian scoffs, blue eyes glinting. “Nick doesn’t exactly have an overabundance of brain cells. He’s all brawn and fists.”
Dimitri adds, “And does this Ted jackoff strike you as the type to give a shit about his lackies getting caught?”
Killian reaches up to pinch the bridge of his nose. He looks exhausted and spread too thin, and I have no idea how to help, but I’m pretty sure it involves touching him. Before I can, he mutters, “I need to think,” and promptly stalks out of the room.
I blink in his wake.
Tristian says to me, “It’s been a long day.”
He doesn’t even know the whole of it. Not what we went through last night. The fight, quitting the team, carving up his chest. We were physically and emotionally drained before we found out his father was murdered.
“Let me go talk to him.”
Dimitri catches me as I pass, hand curling around my knee. “Wait.” He looks up at me, and even though his brow is eerily still, his mouth moves in a complicated, hesitant maneuver. “About before. I didn’t mean to—”
“I know.”
“Sorry.” His eyes fall closed when my fingers push into his hair, stroking it back from his forehead. “I’m a shit,” he says, hooking his hands around my thighs and pulling me between his knees.
“Yeah.” I give his hair a gentle tug. “But you’re my shit.”
The corner of his mouth tips up, and I bend down to press my lips to it, not missing the gentleness of his touch as his palm sweeps down to my calf. He puts his hand over the patch of skin the flame might have touched, if not for my jeans. “I’m fine,” I assure, giving him one last kiss before pulling away. His fingertips drag against me like he wants to haul me back. But from the look in his eyes, we both know Killian needs me more.
I take the same direction, walking toward the kitchen, and find the back door ajar. He’s in the backyard, slapping a basketball against the concrete pad. I watch silently as he lifts his arms, taking a shot and sinking it.
“Hey,” I say, not feeling reluctant as I approach him.
He glances over, eyes still shuttered. “Hi.”
I toe at a stain on the pavement, wishing I knew what to say. “Crazy stuff, huh?”
He retrieves the loose ball and dribbles it a few times, taking another shot. He misses this time. It spins around the hoop and falls off.
Killian watches the ball bounce and roll toward us, ultimately coming to a stop right at his feet. He stares at it for a long moment, brows pushed together. “God, I really fucking hated him.”
I bend down to get the ball, passing it to him. “I know.”
He takes it without looking, eyes fixed on the trees in the distance. “I hated him, but he wasn’t just a King to me. He was a god. Untouchable, indestructible.” His lips press into a hard, grim line. “Immortal.” He holds the ball between his two palms, squeezing it together. “But you know what I saw laying on that table this morning? Meat. Flesh and bone, just like the rest of us. He looked so…” His face contorts, and I want nothing more than to plug my ears, because I know whatever’s coming next will haunt me. “He looked so fucking mortal. His eyes were gray and his skin was all—”
I don’t mean to make a sound. I might not want to be haunted by it, but I can’t stand the thought of Killian shouldering it all himself. Despite the ugliness of it, I want to take some of the weight. I want to fold it up and tuck it away where we won’t find it.
But he pauses, eyes flicking to me. “Sorry.”
I shake my head. “I can’t imagine what it must have been like to see…that.”
He looks away, jaw clenching. “You want to know what it felt like?” His bruised knuckles strain as he digs his fingertips into the rubber. “It felt like…nothing. He was laying there in this disgusting pile of charred pieces, and I didn’t feel anything at all.” Sightlessly, he bounces the ball. “My dad was dead to me a long time ago, Story.”
I wince at the idea of Daniel’s body. “But still—”
“Did you know he met my mom in high school?” He bounces the ball again, harder this time, eyes tight at the corners.
I’ve had so many shocks today that this one barely penetrates. “They were together that long?”
“If you can call it that,” he says, scoffing. “He came here to FU, became a Lord.” There’s a weight to the ensuing silence, and then it hits me.
“He had a girlfriend while he… uh, had a Lady?” It’s not like it’s a surprise. Daniel never struck me as the faithful type. But still, the thought of any one of my guys doing that…it makes my insides squirm around.
“Yep.” His face twists with more disgust at this than it had describing his father’s burnt corpse. “He spent a year fucking his Lady, then graduated, married my mom, and had me.”
Warily, I ask, “What happened to her? Your mom.” Killian’s never talked about her before, and I’m used to the topic making his eyes ignite in a fury I’ve never comprehended.
Now, he just locks his jaw and slams the ball against the ground. “She didn’t like what my dad was doing even before he started to buy up South Side. It wasn’t clean work.” He slides his eyes to mine. “He ran a lot of drugs with the Counts. Guns with the Dukes. Hooked up with Tristian’s dad. He mowed over this town like a goddamn bulldozer. But you know what got to her?” He stares at me, punching the ball into the pavement with every dribble. “Finding out how he won.”
Frowning, I ask, “How he won what?”
“The Game,” Killian clarifies, pointing his gaze into the distance. “Kingdoms are passed through blood, Story. To win The Game—not just the silly frat stuff, but to really win it, kingdom and all—you have to be born into it, or you have to take it.”
Slowly, I repeat, “Through blood.”
“It’s not as easy as killing the King,” he goes on, a dreariness filling his eyes. “If that were the case, the Kingdom would have been up for grabs as of last night. You have to kill the whole line. You have to kill the father and his sons.”
“What?” I step in front of him to catch his eyes. “Killian, that’s crazy.”
He gives a slow, emotionless nod. “I know. It’s why they all go ape-shit about having heirs. It’s why the Princes kick out babies like a conveyor belt. It’s why my dad gave me my first gun at the ripe age of ten, and it’s why he wouldn’t let my mom take me when she left. He needed me.” He gives the ball another slam against the ground, stressing, “He needed me to carry on the name, not because he wanted me.” He shakes his head and the dribbling finally stops, ball clutched between his palms. “Everything changes now. I thought I would have to fight him tooth and nail to take his spot by force, but now…it’s just mine.”
Is this what’s bothering him? Taking over as King? “I’ve seen you, Killian. Not just on the field, but in front of the cameras. Behind a gun.” I make a strained, frustrated sound. “This whole Kingdom thing is dangerous and barbaric, and I’m not going to lie to you. I think it’s insane. But you were born for this.”
He doesn’t look convinced. If anything, he just looks annoyed. “I was supposed to win it, not inherit it, like those other rich pussies. There are so many shifting rules to this fucking game.” He snorts, tucking the ball under his arm. “Why do you think we have Martin?”
I arch an eyebrow. “To cover your muscular and very attractive asses?”
That earns a ghost of a smile. “Well, yeah, there’s that. But also to make sure tradition is upheld and everything is done right. Technically, Rath or Tris could challenge me. I’m the end of the Payne bloodline.”
“They could?” The idea is chilling. If they turned on one another… well, there’s already enough bloodshed in South Side.
“Yes. But they’d have to kill me and they wouldn’t. That’s why my dad was so hell-bent on us being friends. Having a Mercer in your corner is always an advantage, obviously, but it wasn’t just about that. He wanted us to love each other, like brothers.” He sighs, shoulders shifting uncomfortably. “And the funny thing is that it worked. Still, it won’t be a smooth transition. The other Kings will have something to say about it. It’s going to take time to build influence, get access to my father’s resources. Plus, the law’s gonna be nosing around—even if we do have alibis. ”
“Martin is working on it with Mom,” I assure, taking the chance to reach out and touch his shoulder. “It’ll be fine.”
I don’t know what to expect next, but it’s not the shudder down his spine, and it’s certainly not him hurling the ball, arm jerking as it catapults it down the court. The ball slams into the backboard and ricochets, the sound of hollow rubber echoing as it bounces away.
“Why?” he says, shoving the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Why did he have to be such a dick?”
The weight of his words rock me. Daniel was the closest thing to a father I’ve ever known, but it was never real. “I don’t know.”
“Everything was a game to him.” He looks up, eyes ringed in red. “His businesses. My mother. Even Ms. Crane.” I step toward him and slide my arms around his waist, ignoring the tightly coiled tension in his muscles. I lay my cheek on his chest, hearing the rumble of his voice. “He fucking destroyed her, you know that? He took everything from her, just because he could. He liked to break people. He fucking loved it. Lived for it.” The tension in his body doesn’t go away, but his palm on the back of my head is as gentle as his voice. “He wanted to break you so fucking bad.”
I tighten my arms around him, eyes falling closed. “Well, he didn’t.”
“But I did. Didn’t I?” His hand runs up my back and I feel the tremble in his fingertips. “Is that what I am? Just another fucked up Payne mowing people over?”
I look up at him, my voice as strong as the grip I have wound around him. “No.” It’s true that they tried, but they also fought for me. Bled for me. Championed me. I was put through the gauntlet and came out stronger. Very carefully, I tell him, “It’s okay to both hate him and be sad that he’s gone.”
“I’m not sad he’s gone.” But despite his words, there’s grief in his eyes.
I take a guess. “Then it’s okay to be sad that his potential is gone. The potential to wake up one day and be better. But Killian…” I let him go to take his face in my hands, making sure he hears what I’m saying. “The potential isn’t gone. He left it with you. Maybe I was wrong before. Maybe you weren’t born for this. Maybe you were born to do it better.” When he rolls his eyes, I angrily jerk him back. “You know what my mom told that detective? She told him Daniel cared about South Side. That he had compassion for the downtrodden. You and I both know that’s bullshit. I’m sure she does, too. But it doesn’t have to be. Not for you.”
He makes a soft, derisive sound. “What do I know about the downtrodden?”
“Probably nothing,” I concede, lifting a shoulder in a loose shrug. “But Dimitri does. Ms. Crane does. I do. That’s the difference between you and him, Killian.” I strain up on my toes to press a kiss to his cheek. “You’re not alone.”
He drops his head to my shoulder and clings to me like a lifeline. I fight my own tears. Not because I’m sad for losing Daniel, but because I know that Killian’s right. Everything changes now.
If Killian is about to become King, what does that make me?
