Chapter 8

She finally looks up at me, the vibrant green of uncut emeralds bleeding away to black. A demon possesses her when she’s mad, and she’s barely fighting the temptation to gut me where I stand. Fuck, if it gets her close to me, I might let her.

Let her impale me, slice me, I don’t care. Just fucking look at me.

“We have nothing to discuss.”

“We haveeverythingto discuss,” I argue, appalled. She swallows, but her face remains emotionless. She always tries to appear cold to the world, but I know differently. “We haven’t spoken in over a year. A fuckingyear, Maeve. You don’t think there are things to discuss?”

“Oh, is there?” She snorts, looking away. Biting her bottom lip, her white knuckles grip her elbows tight to her chest. “I don’t want to hear it, Linwood.”

Linwood. Not Killian, and not her special nickname for me. Only Linwood, like we’re kids again, trying to one-up the other and push the other one into a fit of rage.Linwood.

Running a hand through my dark locks, she leans forward, grabbing another stack of papers from the corner. I’m going to strangle this woman if she doesn’t let me explain.

“Maeve—”

“What’s this?” She waves the paper around, and I make out her youngest sister’s name: Sloane O’Brien. “Did you know about this?”

Snatching it from her grasp, I scan the contract.It’s a decree.Everyone in the clan gets their decree on the night before their twenty-first birthday, but Ferguson looked to have Sloane’s ready a few months early. Typical.

“It’s a marriage contract,” she whispers, eyes darting over my shoulder. “Did you know?”

I shake my head. “I didn’t. If I had, you would’ve known.”

She doesn’t believe me. Pushing me aside, she asks loudly, “What is this?”

He puffs his cigar, unfazed by her rage.

Not the first time I’ve seriously considered Ferguson stupid to ignore what his eldest is capable of.

“It’s my decree.”

“For Sloane.” She tosses the papers onto the desk. “You can’t give her away in marriage—not toDoyle.” Her voice cracks, and with it, my heart.

“What I decide formyclan is none ofyourconcern,” he growls, slamming the tumbler to the bar. “If I want to sell Sloane on the street, that’s my purgative. I’m the captain—this is myclan. As my daughter, you should know your place.” He glares down his nose at her, and I shift, subtly blocking her.

That’s my second mistake. Ferguson notices, and his eyes ignite with a cruel understanding. I tense as the wheels turn behind those brown eyes.Fuck. He’s figuring it out.

Maeve forces herself between me and her father, glaring at him as if she’s a six-foot-five man about to brawl with a tiny guy on the street. She has no awareness of her size, and fuck if it isn’t cute, but annoying as shit.

“My place is right here,” she mutters, body tight with rage. “Between you and my siblings. Call off the decree. She can’t marry Doyle—he’llkillher.”

She’s not wrong. Doyle has killed his last few wives. It’s a poorly held secret by the Board.

“I’ll do no such thing?—”

She kicks her heel into his executive desk, sending the large piece inches back. I can’t help but smirk. “Call itfuckingoff. You’d rather give your daughter away to be killed than choose something else?”

He snaps. Ferguson’s large palm grabs Maeve’s neck, picking her up to slam her onto the desktop. Papers scatter, and pens flop to the sides. Her spiked heels kick out, missing their mark.

All I see are her pale pink lips pouting and the flash of fear in her eyes. The fear I know my mother had every night while she lived in that hellish house—the same fear Maeve must have shown whenever cornered by Michael. The fear I could never stop, could never keep from her.

I move—everything sharply focused. There’s no doubt, no uncertainty. Only understanding. Withdrawing my Glock, I level it against my mentor’s temple, body screaming in pain. I don’t feel it. I only see Maeve, pinned and powerless, andfire.

He drops to the ground with a loud thud, and the walls shake. Maeve scrambles up, her skirt lifted high, her dark hair tangled along her shoulders. Her pale face grows gray with shock.

I don’t look at him—I can’t. Forget the anger, the need—I focus entirely on this small woman shaking in terror. Gently, I lift her chin, cataloguing the red fingerprints along her throat and the wild beating of her pulse. Her wide eyes don’t leave the corpse, too surprised to fight me off.

My fingers ghost over her neck, and I curse under my breath. She’ll have a bruise. It’ll be hard to hide. And I want to bring him back, if only to kill him all over again. “Are you okay, Princess?”