Chapter 9

There’s a slight tremble to her lips, and her chest heaves with a heavy breath. But her voice is strong as she says, “You killed him.”

“He hurt you.”

She nods absently, digesting my words. “You know what this means.”

“I do.”

I handed her the throne. No longer hidden or restrained, she’ll unleash everything on this city, and they’ll kneel for her. I’ll be the first in line.

“I’ll have to tell Simon. Get him to sign off on a heart attack.”

I don’t care. She could say he was killed in a car accident, left outside to be eaten by vultures. I’ll agree to anything as long as I get to keep touching her. My fingers soothe her throat, and I step between her legs. Tilting her head back, I soak up her warmth, the feel of her legs around me again, ignoring the reality of what I did.

I killed the only man who gave a damn about me for a woman who won’t fucking look at me. There’s a special place in Hell for me.

After a moment, she swallows and withdraws from me. The loss of her is a physical slap, and I sink into my bomber jacket, looking for comfort.

She takes out her phone, and I light a cigarette. “You’ll also need to get rid of Twyla.” Ferguson’s whore, resides upstairs, only slinking out with the promise of drugs.

Maeve snorts. “That won’t be hard.” She’s never liked the woman, and I can’t blame her.

Blowing out a ring of smoke, I let the nicotine calm the nerves twisting in my gut. The burn of the smoke in my lungs is better than the ache in my heart. Instead, I salute Maeve and lick my lips. “All hail the queen.”

MAEVE

9 MONTHS AGO

Ascream rips free from my throat, burning my lungs, and tears dampen my cheeks.

Jumping up from my bed, I whip around, breathing fast and hard, searching the darkness for an enemy.Michael. He was here—Ismelledhim. Old booze and cigar smoke suffocating me. Dripping face like melted wax, gaping, bloody wounds in his chest, he held me down, laughing while he took. And took, andtook…

I shudder, bile on my tongue, but the room stays silent. The shadows reach overhead, covering my walls, stacked bookcases, gothic skulls, and the taxidermized bugs. All my prized possessions, kept safe in my room, away from prying eyes.

The French doors leading out to the balcony are closed; the thin curtains hide the full moon from view. But the trees outside cast black claws along the drapes, and I swallow against the remnants of fear as I watch them twist.

Holding my breath, I push the hair out of my eyes, waiting, listening. Nothing stirs. No footsteps, no murmurs. Only silence.

It’s always silent. No one bothers with me on the third floor.

I pad to my bathroom, leaving the lights off and splash cold water on my heated face. My heart pounds in my chest, and my ears stay alert, listening for an unwanted presence. It’s hard to let go of old habits. The ingrained fear that seems to coil tight when things feel too right—it never goes away. The abuse might end, but the effects last.

Gazing at my reflection in the mirror, I take in the purple bags under my dull eyes. My lifeless hair falls in tangles around my shoulders, and my collarbone protrudes slightly under the black, silken cami nightdress. My skin is covered in various scars, gray and stark, a blank canvas asking for a bit of color—a bit of life.

A life in the clan isn’t easy—it saps away youth and energy. I am the only female leader with a bounty on my head, and the stress is mounting.Quietly, I rub the knot at my neck, exhaling against the tension.

My only choice is to fight the nightmares and return to something close to sleep, or head to the office. I left only hours earlier, promising Hayes to see Reese to starve off the terrors.

I didn’t. The only thing that quiets the ghosts plaguing my mind is torturing the bastard, Dom, in my basement, who thought he could own my sister. Or sleeping in the arms of the only person I’ve trusted. That’s not an option.

Maybe I will see Dom again.

A flare of red catches the corner of my eye, flickering through the gauzy curtains. Grabbing my concealed knife—I keep one in every room—I head toward the balcony.

Rushing through the door, I level the blade toward the spy’s neck, stopping short of slicing the skin.

Killian Linwood stands there, bored.