Killian.
Maybe he does care. Maybe he doesn’t want to see me dead. But I don’t let the hope grow too large, or let myself think of dangerous things. Like those dark, soulless eyes as he holds me, or how he’d feel between my legs, that devious smirk looking up at me. Because my life is set—and I’m meant to be with Michael. And I can’t change fate, or wish for something better.
Crumpling up the picture, I toss it into the nightstand drawer where all the others reside. Then, I slam it shut.
And I throw the cup across the room, watching the glass fall like broken dreams.
18
KILLIAN
PRESENT DAY
Kicking open the med lab door, I hold Maeve in my arms. Blood soaks my shirt, and it runs in rivulets down her legs. That bullet got her the right way—but I swear on everything unholy, I will not let the afterlife have her.
If I have to fight Death himself for her soul, I will. Because her soul belongs to me. And I won’t let anyone—real, fake, or supernatural—take her away.
Slamming her onto the metal table, I throw my phone down and hit number three on my speed dial. Grabbing gauze, bandages, and antiseptic, I toss everything at her feet and start ripping into packages as the phone rings.
I’m in purgatory, waiting for judgment as the connection clicks to life. There’s a pause before the prince’s soft rumble floats across, and I swallow hard. “What, Reaper?”
“Maeve’s been shot. Get down here.” I’d ask for God’s forgiveness, but he left me a long time ago. Hopefully, this woman will understand. “I need Collins.”
There’s an inhale. The prince is stunned. Too bad I don’t have time to fucking care.
“We’ll be there in five.”
“Make it fucking two, or I’ll tear your limbs from your body.”
Stabbing my elbow into the phone, I flip open the antiseptic. Bile rises hard and fast up my throat, and I wince. Jesus fuck, it’s been years, and that smell is still the worst.
Fuck that. Those nightmares can go to Hell. Maeve needs me.
Ripping the fabric of her dress, I expose the wound. Right in the abdomen, the bullet hit a sensitive area. Statistically speaking, she’ll have other damage: broken bones, organs nicked, damaged tissue.
Worry so intense claws at my chest. She’s been asleep the whole time, and other than dousing her with antiseptics and praying Collins hurries, I can’t fucking do shit to save her.
The med lab doors fling open, and Collins rushes in, throwing her mass of cinnamon-brown hair into a bun on her head. Still in her pajamas, she fixes me with a hard stare before her pale cheeks turn ashen as she sees her sister.
“What happened?”
“Gunshot,” I snap. Holding her wrist, I count her heartbeat, wincing as it slows. “Move it, Colli. I don’t think I need to explain to you what a bullet does to someone.”
That seems to make the timid woman jump, grabbing a pair of gloves. Hayes stalks in, going to Maeve’s other side, touching her forehead.
I can’t help—I growl at him, teeth bared, a rabid animal protecting what’s his.
The hitter glares at me, but it’s lacking its usual disdain.
“Easy, Reaper.”
“If you touch her?—”
“Help me roll her,” Collins commands. We grab her shoulders, and Collins inspects Maeve’s back, blood poolingunder her fragile form. “I’ll need imaging to check if the bullet passed.”
“Then, fucking do it,” I demand, pushing the metal slab closer to the machine.
Against the wall is a compact X-ray, thrifted when Simon was still the clan doctor. I don’t know how we go it—I don’t fucking care. When Collins hands me protective gear, I toss it to the side and hold Maeve’s hand, letting my presence give her strength.
