“You know, a thank you would be nice. I’m carrying you home so I can fucking stitch you back up to rage another day.”
She pummels my back, her dainty fists packing a hit. I wince, biting my lip to keep from dropping her again.Damn. I’m going to be banged up all over from the banshee.
“If you want to hit me, maybe wait until we’re back in the gym. I promise, you can beat me all you want when you’re better.” Adjusting her, I take one more look at the dead body.
This is it. Leave her and claim my spot in the clan, or choose Maeve and never belong.
The choice should be harder. All I’ve wanted is to be part of this family. And I’m throwing my only chance away. I should hate the girl in my arms for making me do this. But I don’t. This is easy. I’ve spent the last five years healing a woman who doesn’t seem to understand her own limits, and I’m not stopping now.
I’m choosing Maeve.
Saying goodbye to my shot, I resign myself to the fact I’ll probably always be here, protecting Ferguson’s heir. Because she sure asfuckisn’t going to protect herself.
8
MAEVE
PRESENT DAY
The heat of the coffee mug sears my bottom lip as I inhale the rich aroma.
Another sleepless night. Another night lost to nightmares.
Such a pretty thing.
A useless woman.
My shoulders bunch, and I mentally push the taunts away. Doyle’s threat didn’t help. But fuck him and his perverse sense of ownership over my sister. It’s the same consuming need Bruno Senior had when Pops offered Collins to him in that clandestine meeting.
It’s the same shit Michael tried to hold over me.
I’ll never regret the choices I’ve made on behalf of my siblings. It’s kept them alive. And if that gets me killed, so be it.
“You need to eat something,” Killian drawls from the counter. Glaring up at the Reaper, I stubbornly take a long sip of the black coffee, enjoying the way the heat scalds my throat.
“Why are you here?” I ask, hunkering into my day-old clothes. “I wasn’t happy with being stalked, but at least you didn’t talk to me.”
“That was before Doyle showed up.” Leaning against the custom-made kitchen island—white, with polished quartz countertops and brass handles that Pops spent too much on when it was built—he’s a menacing presence in the bright room. Dark jeans, black band shirt, ebony boots. He’s Death come to rage.
I ignore him and sit at the kitchen table. Usually, it’s only me here—in a cold kitchen, sitting in front of the three large windows that face the west side of the property. I can see the woods in the distance, and in the spring, the wild violets crop up at the edges.
Right now, it’s expanses of white snow and barren trees. Just me, my thoughts, a book, and coffee. I hate the silence, but it’s all I have.
Of course, Linwood would show up to ruin it.
I haven’t forgotten the kiss or how his hands felt. How my body burned with fury and desire, mixed with the sickening realization that I wantedmore.
Of how that ember of love I tried to kill years ago still smolders.
But the bastard isn’t getting anything from me. Not after everything he did.
“Eat something,” he demands, gesturing to the croissants our chef made.
I stare, bored. “Not hungry.”
He smirks as my stomach growls. Just to spite him, I sip from my coffee. “Right. It’s someone else’s stomach that sounds like it’s digesting itself.”
I refuse to answer. Mostly because he’s right.The prick.
