Blood rushing through my head, I pull out the second blade and rest it against his pulse. It jumps and pounds against the metal, and I watch, transfixed. Such a beautiful thing—and so precious. One slight touch and it’s severed. Justlike that.
“You could’ve beencaptain.”
“I don’t want to becaptain,” I respond lightly. “I want Maeve. And if you kill her, it really fucks with my plans to have her on this plane of existence.”
The slash moves so quickly. One moment, he’s whole—the next, a thick red line covers his neck. He doesn’t make a sound, just convulses in my hands, before I drop him back into the snow.
I should’ve pulled more information out of him. But I know where the Board is—and the threat to Maeve’s life is gone. The last thing to do is get back to her and form a plan of attack. Fuck them—this asshole—for thinking I would trade her in for a little bit of power.
I have power. The world trembles under my feet when they see me coming. But what I’d rather have? Maeve obliterating everyone who dared to wrong her and lapping up the carnage afterward.
The cocking of the gun behind me draws me out of my haze. It’s been years since I’ve been lost after a kill—a thing I worked out during my years under Ferguson. Blood captivates me, and I’ve had to do drills just pulling out of the haze that could get me killed.
But Ronan knew which buttons to push, and it triggered me.
My instincts dulled, and I lost my surroundings.Rooky mistake.
Standing, I hear a noise of complaint.
“No sudden movements, Reaper,” Doyle commands. Dryly, I roll my eyes. Of course, it’s him who finds me.
Hands out, I drop my knife without being asked. “Now, what, Doyle?” I stare ahead into the woods, exhaling. “If you want to suck my dick, I’ll have to pass.”
“Prick,” he insults, slamming the hilt of his gun into my head. I fall to my knees, biting my tongue. Fuckingasshole. How incompetent do you have to be to hit someone and not knock them out?
He gets another hit in before—finally—I pass out. It’s fine. When I wake up, I’ll kill him then.
33
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 thefuck—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 shedoesn’t. She doesn’t know I did this to help her—she’ll only think I fled.
Likefuckam 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.
