Opening my book,Emmaby Jane Austen, I pointedly ignore him. The cover is worn and the pages bent from constantly turning them, but it’s my comfort read. It’s the book I reach for when I need to escape. I have bookshelves full of classics, but I always return to this one.
The Reaper moves behind me, and I settle into it, the mug steaming by my elbow. The sun’s rays shine through the large windows, and I exhale, the warmth a calming balm to the darkness inside my mind.
It banishes the ugly and brightens my resolve. It pushes away the bad thoughts, and I roll my shoulders, imbuing myself with the light.
A plate appears in front of me. It’s a few pieces of buttered toast, a sliced banana, and scrambled eggs. Frowning, I’m about to tell Killian to shove it when he pushes it away from me, and he sits with a fork.
At my look, he steals my coffee, sipping from it. “What? I’m not allowed to eat breakfast here?”
“I’d rather you not be here at all. And give me that,” I grumble, taking back my mug.
The Reaper winks, shoveling a bite of eggs into his perfectly shaped mouth. With a full bottom lip, a delicate arch, and laugh lines around the corners, it’s not fair how sexy he makes eating. Surrounded by the barest five-o’clock shadow, it only heightens his attractiveness and adds to my need to stab him.
He chews, and I watch, mesmerized. As he swallows, the tip of his pink tongue darts out, catching traces of food, and I gulp, averting my gaze. I remember vividly what his tongue can do.
“You alright there, Princess?” he asks, fork moving around the food absently. “Are you getting sick?”
“What?” I clear my throat, tugging at my collar. “No. Why?”
He smirks, like he knows a secret I don’t. “You lookflushed.”
Fucking traitorous body.I know what he did—what he’s doing, but apparently, my body hasn’t gotten the memo.
Angrily, I snatch his food, if not to wipe the smirk off his face. I pluck the fork and barely resist the urge to stick my tongue out at him, and bite into the toast.
Flavor explodes over my tongue, and I whimper. Jesus, I didn’t realize how hungry I was. It’s bad when I can’t remember the last time I ate—I could blame the nightmares keeping me away, but I know it’s this insane need to be in control. Control, I desperately need.
Killian leans back, crossing his arms. His triceps bulge under his tight shirt, and the ACDC faded lettering catches the morning’s rays. “You had your chance. Give me my plate back.” But he doesn’t move to take it.
I scoop more into my mouth and shrug. “Try to take it.”
It’s reminiscent of our fights as children. Last time I stole his food, it was a cupcake he had teased me with all night. He took one bite out of it, so I cut his forearm and stole it right out from under him. It was probably the sweetest thing I’ve ever eaten—all because Killian couldn’t have it.
His hand darts out, but crumbs are all that’s left.Take that.Smiling smugly, he rolls his eyes, annoyed. “Thanks for sharing.”
“Any time.”
The swinging door opens as Hayes walks into the room with Collins on his heels. After their fake engagement became real, they opted to convert half of the second floor into a two-bedroom apartment. It didn’t bother me—the mansion is too big, and we have empty rooms—but it also means I barely see them. Having them downstairs is… different.
“Are we interrupting?” Collins asks, going to her kettle. She grabs a tea bag—tea I make sure to keep stocked for her. Her eyes narrow in on Killian’s taunting smile.
“No.” Taking a large gulp, I gesture to Hayes. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” He slides his hands into his pants, and I cock an eyebrow.
Hayes is a brother to me—in blood and trauma. When he came into the clan, I knew what had happened to him before he said a word. It was the same despicable shit that had been done to me. But whereas I had to handle Michael, Hayes was given to any man who could pay.
It wasn’t enough to barter for his freedom when we were kids—I had always planned on killing Senior for his hand in hurting my friend—I dreamed of burning the entire organization to the ground. Life got in the way, and one crisis after another happened before I could.
It was poetic justice that Hayes killed Senior himself in the second trial. That should’ve helped his nightmares—it’s certainly helped mine when I ended my abuser’s life. And I see it—the ease in his step, the bright laughter, and frequent smiles. Could also be because of Collins.
“What is it?”
“Nothing.”
“I know when you’re lying,” I mumble. “Your ears are red. What happened?”
He glances at Collins, pulling his long strands to cover his ears, and I wait. My goal was never to have my sisters in this life—Sloane was meant for fame and fortune, and Collins was meant to travel the world, saving people after she survived cancer.
