Nodding, a muscle bounces by Killian’s ear and he tosses the spent butt. He didn’t even finish it.
“I don’t need to remind you what that trust cost her,” he says, voice flat. “And what she’s done for you. Or what I’ll do to you if youeverhurt her.”
Clearing my throat, I nod once. “I know.” It’s the one thing I don’t doubt.
Killian will kill me if I hurt Maeve. He’s a deranged man, but she has his complete loyalty.
“Good. Then don’tfuckinglose.”
36
HAYES
It’s well into the night by the time we get back to the mansion, and my mind is a mess, torn up by guilt and anger. How did I not know? Why didn’t Collins tell me?
Killian drops me off at the front door, the air so brisk that puffs of vapor leave my lips. Before I leave, I give him a dry look, hanging over the open window to stare him down.
“Any chance you’ll leave her alone?”
Killian smirks. He knows who I’m talking about. Looking up to the ceiling of the car, he taps his inked hands on the steering wheel.
“Would you leave the person who holds your heart alone, Prince?” In my silence, he nods once. “Exactly.”
Tires squealing, he whips the car toward the back of the manor, and I enter the front door, nodding to a few of the guards there. The house is silent, dark, with the lone Tiffany table lamp on by the entrance.
The urge to find Collins, confront her is overwhelming. But that isn’t fair to her.
It’s her secret to share. I can’t force it from her.
But I’m fucking pissed. At Ferguson for fucking with her life, for trying to break a strong woman. I can’t kill him, but there is some joy in knowing I killed Simon. I hope he tells the old mobster who did it and why.
And I’m angry—furious with Collins, though I have no right to be.
Instead of returning toward bed, I head past the office, intent on haunting the halls until I calm down. But the lights are on, the door is open and Maeve is nowhere to be seen.
Grabbing a bottle from the cart, I turn the corner into the dining room, the fresh roses nauseating and rich. Maeve has tried to stop the chef from putting them out, but the guy is old and set in his ways. She finally gave up.
Sitting in one of the armchairs, I drop my head back, taking a deep swing of the scotch, the burn of oak and the sting of salt sliding down my throat. I don’t wince, but instead embrace it. I deserve this penance.
Was I really this dense to truly never see Ferguson’s damage? I think back to our time. To the mornings where she has bags under eyes and told me she was up late studying. Her tense shoulders. Her disregard for blood but her stoic face when a sibling was hurt. She bandaged them, sure, but she never let it affect her.
I rub my eyes, taking another swing. I’m a piece of shit. The signs were there and I ignored them.
A shadow falls over my face, and I startle, looking up into Collins’ ethereal visage. Dressed in nothing but a silk robe, I drink in her pale thighs, tight waist, and the black glasses on her nose.
“I waited up for you,” she whispers, crossing her arms.
Guilt, strong and fierce like a gust of hurricane wind, cracks my heart. She waited for me, and I’m stuck in my head, hiding from her.
But I’m still mad—horribly, terribly mad at her.
“Sorry.”
She bites her lip. “Are you alright?”
Holding up my white bandage, covered in soot, blood and tree sap, I shrug. “I’ll live.”
“How do you feel?”
