I found the first fight. Some thick asshole from Bruno’s family, with a cute mouth. He fell down before anyone knew I struck. My hand flexes, knuckles split open, and I grin despite the pain. His mouth looked better with my fist in it.
The second fight, his friend thought he’d get a crack. He pulled a knife, so I pulled mine. At the last second, he slashed my abdomen, but I cut his throat.
I still see him, eyes wide, bleeding out in the alley behindThe Docks, Bruno’s strip club and whore house. I wonder if they bothered to collect him. Doesn’t matter to me.
He yanks on my collar, and I bat his hand away. “Go away,” I groan, blinking back pain. I refuse to cry—crying has never helped me.
Not when Michael first took my innocence at thirteen.
Not when I told my father what his best friend was doing to me.
Crying is a weakness I can’t afford.
He grumbles something, staring me into my squinted gaze. He plunges two fingers into the wound, and I scream, jerking back, slamming into the wall.
“What the fuck!”
He holds up bloody fingers and glances at the white tile under us. It’s black-red, a puddle, smearing around me. I don’t have the energy to worry. “You need that looked at, Princess.”
“Fucking prick,” I growl, kicking out like a dying animal. He easily avoids my hit, pinning my legs and ripping my jacket away. He sharply inhales, but doesn’t show any other emotion.
“Fine. If you won’t help yourself.” He grabs my hand, pulling me up. I yelp, body ripping, and blood falls faster. The sound of drops hitting the tile echoes around us, and I sway. Swooping low, he lifts me into his arms like I’m a rag doll, carrying me into my bedroom.
Weakly, I try to hit him, but my vision swims and my aim is off. I miss; my fist sails over his head.Fuck. I’ve lost a lot of blood.
Unfortunately, I can’t find it in myself to care.
Dying would be easier than enduring this life.Somuch easier.
He tosses me onto my bed, and I cry out, pain flaring along my side. He doesn’t wait for my consent, just strips my boots. My eyes stay closed as he peels away the bloody clothes, the saturated items plopping onto my floor. I barely feel the dampness.
Killian curses, running a hand through his hair. “Tell me the other guy is dead.”
Laughing, I roll into my sheets, smelling my perfume of violet, orchids, and juniper, and a tear drops from the corner ofmy eye. “You think I’d let someone walk away who did this to me?”
“No.” He’s so confident. “In fact, I’m pretty sure most of this blood is his. Knowing how vicious you are, you probably gutted him.”
He’s lying. My wound is too deep—there’s too much blood. But it feels good to know Killian Linwood thinks so highly of my ability to fight—to defend myself.
The man has been my rival for over three years. My father took him in, bonded with him, gave him every opportunity—and he’s never missed a chance to rub it in. If there were a way for Killian to be heir, my father would’ve done it years ago.
Me? He thinks because I’m a woman, I’m incapable of leading. He thinks because of what’s between my legs, I’ll fail. I’ve fought, bled,sacrificedfor this clan—for a place I should already have, but no power because my father refuses to allow me any.
But, Killian? My father would hand him the throne and walk away without a second thought. How fucking fair was that?
“Maeve,” he commands, grabbing my jaw. My head lolls back, and I blink, unable to focus. Everything swims, and black dots float in my vision. Is this death? “C’mon, Princess. Stay with me.”
Snorting, I shove his hands away, but I don’t go far. Everything is too heavy, weighted down with lead. “It’s fine. I’ll be fine.”
“You won’t befine,” he growls. Something scratchy touches my side, and I gasp. He presses a towel into the wound, halting the bleeding. “You need stitches. Probably surgery.”
I laugh again, delusional and tired. Everything is sofunny,and I’m so fuckingtired.
Tired of this life. Tired of fucking being on my knees for a man I want to kill, but can’t because I’m doing this for my sisters.For my clan. Tired of trying, of protecting, of being the fucking punching bag while everyone else gets to live.
I’m tired of living, or what constitutes living.
“Let me go, Killian. It doesn’t matter.” Nothing matters. Maybe if I give in this time, let the blackness creeping into my vision take over, I’ll finally have peace.
