Every instinct tells me to stay and push back. To remind Killian of who runs this clan—who owns this house. But I’ve known Killian since we were children, and I know what line not to cross to bring out his psychotic nature. We’re toeing it right now.
Choosing to remain silent, I slam the door before moving my chair as a blockade. It won’t keep someone like Killian out, but it makes me feel better. That, and the extra knife under my pillow and mattress.
When I wake in the morning, the chair is still in front of the door, but a picture lies next to me, placed gently on my pillows. In the harsh lines of black charcoal, I trace the design of an orchid. It’s done with such precision and care that when I touch it, I expect to feel the velvet softness of the petals.
Killian.
It’s not a simple gift, though. It’s a warning—athreat.
That he’s not leaving. He’s staking his claim.
I’ll have to figure out a way to get the Reaper of souls to leave mine alone.
3
MAEVE
PRESENT DAY
Iglare down at my plate as if it personally offended me. My date speaks, but all I can focus on is the bleeding steak, the charred lines, and the nausea threatening to take me under. The blood mars the porcelain plate, and my stomach twists.
It’s mocking me. The perfectly pure plate turned broken and dirty from spilled blood. Fitting, really. I’m the broken dish, left to take on the sins of the world, to be the shield that gets sullied from life. There’s not a part of me that’s considered pure anymore.
I glance around, lips curling. This whole place is a mockery. Fancy table settings, beautiful wax candles in glass hurricane holders, with dim lighting and soft words. I’m a jagged piece of iron, surrounded by so many polished silver pieces. It’s too much—and I’m not enough.
I don’t belong here.
“Everything alright?” Reese asks, his warm smile breaking into my troubled thoughts.
Reese Silva—dressed in a smart gray suit and white dress shirt—waits for my response. He’s always kind, always patient. Why does it feel so wrong?
“Maeve?”
Lifting the glass of red wine to my lips, my crimson lipstick smears the edges. I’m still getting used to wearing makeup. “Hm?”
His honey-colored eyes glance at my plate and back. “The food. Everything okay?”
Rolling my tongue over my teeth, I shrug. “Not really feeling steak tonight.”
I’m not feeling much of anything lately. The least of which is food. I’ve never had an appetite—but it’s certainly become worse since I rid myself of Michael and his control over my body.
He controlled what I did and where I did it. I was never allowed to leave the house, never allowed to wear certain things. In that way, he enjoyed breaking me, using me for his depravity, and I had no choice but to comply. I fought every time—I have the scars to prove it—but ultimately, he would win. I never controlled my pleasure, my limbs, my mouth—they were all to be usedbyhim.
With his death, I gained that control back. I decided what to do, who to see, and what to experience.
Including when I ate and how often. It’s not healthy—I know this—but I can’t help holding on to this bit of control. I dictate when I eat—not my body, not someone else.Me.
“We can fix that,” he says, waving me off. Picking up his fork, he holds it out, Alfredo noodles drooping over the sides.
Bile rises up my throat, and I clamp my lips shut.
“Maybe pasta was what you wanted instead?”
He’s being sweet, but I’m going to lose what little contents are sloshing around in my stomach. The idea of someone feedingme is almost as embarrassing as running around naked. Call it pride, call it stubbornness, I don’t care; I don’t want it.
But he has those puppy eyes. Eyes that should make me feelsomethingfor him and want to appease him. Normal people would care about hurting his feelings. They would want to make him happy.
I don’t have those feelings. Not for him, and not for most people. I’m broken in the deepest ways, unable to feel empathy for simple sadness or happiness from life’s littlest joys. I’m numb.
