Chapter 41

Killian flicks ash at his hand, not bothering to take it. I fight the urge to grab my second knife and stab it.

Not for the disrespect, no. Because he’s too close—his body heat sapping some of the cold away. Because I want him to bleed more—make him feel a small piece of the agony coursing through me.

“I know who you are.”

“And you are?”

Inhaling on the butt, he chuckles. “Not Reese Silva.”

Reese frowns, but I don’t care. All I can see is me picking Killian’s eyes from their sockets and putting them in a jar on my desk.

He’s so smug—so in control, and I’m still here, ready to fall apart.

Where was he years ago, when it was only me keeping the clan going? When Pops was losing money on gambling and strippers, while I fought for deals and kept the family leaping along? He didn’t deal with the stress—he got to be free—off on his missions, while I stayed and fought.

“He’s a family friend,” I bite out, teeth grinding. At Reese’s curious look, I sigh, controlling my temper. “Killian. An adopted brother, if you will.”

Reese nods as Killian turns toward me, eyes bright with humorous rage. “A brother?” he drawls. Plucking the cigarette from his bottom lip, he bends close, whispering, “I have questions about what brothers and sisters do exactly, Princess. Because I don’t think me sliding my tongue deep inside your pussy was verybrotherly.”

Gripping my knife, I twist and pull it as his hand clamps around my wrist, a band of iron. Pinning the blade to my side, Reese completely misses the exchange, looking around the abandoned parking lot.

Turning back, he says, “Let me take you home. It’s getting late?—”

“No need,” Killian interrupts, twisting my arm behind my back. Glaring, I don’t make a noise, plotting his death the minute he lets me go. He’d look good with my gun in his mouth. “I’ll take her.”

“Like fuck?—”

“Have a good night.” Shoving me toward the back of the building, I stumble over the icy patches, heels skidding. Killian takes advantage of the opportunity, grabbing my waist and hauling me up against him. I’m nothing but a suitcase in his hands, held haphazardly.

“I swear to God, Linwood?—”

“Is that any way to speak to your brother?”

“—I will slice every fucking appendage off and shove them down your throat for this shit.” I kick out my leg, catching my heel into his shin.

He swears, missing a step, but his grip doesn’t relax. If anything, he holds me tighter, the press of his muscles and heat battling back the coldness in my veins. Coldness, I need to stay in control.

“If you wanted to use a knife on me,” he murmurs, lips pressed to my ear, “all you had to do was ask. I’d let you cut into me anytime.”

“Fuckyou.” My body shivers, and this time, it’s not from the cold. That fucking wicked desire won’t rest.

Setting me down on the pavement, he pushes me against the car, wrenching the door open. “Did that. I’d love a repeat, but right now, it seems like you’d want me dead, not to devour your pussy like a starving fiend. So.” A heavy hand falls on my head, and he shoves me into the chilled car. “Buckle up.”

The door slams as I scream, kicking the side in anger. He stares at me through the windshield, lighting another cigarette, and I seethe, twisted desires appearing in my mind. I want to see him kneeling before me as I cut off his head—and I want what he promised. Dark fantasies that shouldn’t be—but with Linwood, nothing is ever easy.

Nothing makes sense. Everything is so confusing.

Holding the knife to my chest, I glare at him. Every murderous thought I can conjure shines in my black eyes. I know he sees it—the fucker smiles.

As he enters, I attack. Throwing my leg over his lap, I pin him to the seat, blade to his throat. The teeth of my knife bite into his skin, but I don’t break the surface—not yet.

“I should fucking kill you,” I whisper, words deadly calm.

This I understand. These emotions—this pain, this rage—it’s familiar. It’s comforting to fall back into the dark, to let it fuse into my blood. I’ve spent years angry and hurting—and Linwood always knows how to dig into those wounds, pull them to the surface, to see me unravel. It’s a damn game to him—to see how far he can go. And when he pushes too far—when things become too real—he’ll leave.

Promises broken. Nights alone. Thoughts overwhelming.

The knife draws blood, and my body shakes with anger.