Grinning, Killian twirls his knife, the blade wet with my blood. “You’d be surprised what I know. I’ve spent my entire life protecting a woman who won’t protect herself. Trust me when I say, I know what I’m doing.”
I glare at him. He’s fucked my entire plan with this scheme of his.
Without Maeve, I don’t have the backing for the votes. All those favors are wasted now because I don’t have an O’Brien vouching for me.
And then there’s Collins. I want to be pissed, but my dick has other plans, hardening at the thought of finally having her, no matter the circumstances.
He looks down at me pensively. “Whydidyou never complain about protecting Collins, Prince?”
Standing, I elbow his side, getting in one final hit. The asshole just smiles wider.
“None of your business, reaper.” Because I wanted to be near her—hear her voice, taste her breath, heal her anxiety when it became too much.
And now, she’s mine. My mind spins.
Killian just grins.
10
COLLINS
Death haunted me as a child. I rarely slept after I was diagnosed, forced to live in the hospital for months, alone with my thoughts. I knew if I closed my eyes, they might never reopen.
Which only prepared me for my lessons with Pops.
Thepat-pat-patof blood and the cold smell of metal, flashes in my memory as the harsh commands of my father echo in my mind. My breaths halt.Not now, not here.I run up to my senior resident and the three medical students in my class, steeling my spine.
Ignoring the memories never helps. I always feel dirty—tarnished after they surface. It’s why I show the world the mask that allowed me to survive Pops’ world. The mask that hides my broken pieces, the festered wounds that have warped me into something unrecognizable.
Dr. Dillon gestures to the gurney, a white cloth covering the deceased, unaware of my inner drama.
“Deceased,” he begins. “Came in last night complaining of a stomach ache. Any guesses?”
The two women share a look, their brows furrowed. Dillon always does this, piques our interests, before giving us all the facts. He wants us thinking like doctors, not just acting like ones with recited knowledge.
I might understand it, but it’s frustrating after the night I’ve had. I’ve yet to explain to Hayes what happened—why I did it.
Franklin, a tall and skinny man a few years my senior, points to the body. “Appendicitis.”
I know he’s wrong by Dillon’s reaction. His lips always flicker as if he’ll frown before correcting into a gentle, patient smile.
I got exceptionally good at spotting tells with my father, anticipating his moods by the way he walked in the house or how his keys sounded when he came home. I survived by anticipating his moods.
My psych professor would remind me that it’s a trauma response, but I didn’t do very well in his class—only a B.
“No.” He shakes his head. “Think, people. We’re in Boston. There are all kinds of things in the city, in the daily grind. What could have happened?”
My mind whirls, possible scenarios and thoughts swirling together. I raise my hand quickly.
“Drug smuggling,” I answer, biting my lip, eyes unfocused. Dillon gestures for me to explain. “Boston is a known hot bed of criminal activity. Drugs come into the port. She could have had some stowed on her person, it opened, and too much killed her.”
“You assume it’s a woman?”
I sigh tiredly, looking at the white sheet. “It’s always a woman. Women are used more frequently than men. Forced into it by love or labor. It’s not a pretty sight.”
“I guess you would know a little about that.” Dillion winks, but my blood runs cold at the insinuation. “And you’re right. There was a massive amount of cocaine in her system. We did an autopsy and found the baggie in her stomach.”
“How were they supposed to get that out?” Franklin asks, peachy face turning green, staring at the sheet.
