The touch is gentle, but still smarts, making me gasp. “I’m fine,” I say, grabbing his wrist.
Killian’s knuckles are already turning purple.
He says, “Put the gun away now, little sister,” and it’s only then that I realize I still have it pointed at the unconscious mess of blood and bone on the floor. “Safety first,” he quietly coaches, placing his hand over the barrel.
He’s always two steps ahead. That’s what makes him different. A leader. A Lord. A future King.
Somewhere in South Side, a building is burning.
But here with Killian, it feels like the heat of the flames could never touch me.
25
Killian
The second we get through the door, Story’s grabbing my elbow and hauling me through the dining room. “Come on,” she says, but it’s completely unnecessary.
I follow her like my body is magnetized.
We’re both still amped up from the thing with Saul, and when we reach the kitchen, she dumps her purse on the counter; the gun clunking loudly against the granite.
Story takes my hand, inspecting it with a frown. “Does it hurt?”
I stare at her unblinkingly, flexing my fist as I catalogue the crease in her forehead. “No.”
She doesn’t look convinced, turning on the tap and guiding my knuckles beneath the stream of cool water. “At least it doesn’t look like you’ll need stitches,” she muses.
It’s the first time I really look at my knuckles, swollen and purpling. One is split, but it’s superficial. I’ve had worse injuries out on the basketball court with Tris and Rath.
I don’t tell her this.
I let her handle my hand—so gentle, feather-light touches, cradling my palm in hers—and watch mutely as she fusses over it. Through the fuzzy fog of soft-warm-sweet, I mutter, “There’s some ice packs in the freezer.”
Her head snaps up. “Oh! Yes, for the swelling.”
“For your swelling,” I correct, eying the welt on her cheek.
But before she can answer, my phone goes off with another text. I fumble it out of my right pocket with my left hand, clumsily thumbing the message.
Rath: gn.
She edges in close to read it, brows pulling together. “What does that mean?”
“Good night. It’s another code,” I explain, watching her mouth. “They’re lying low for the night. Could be there are too many cops out, or they’re worried about being followed back here.” Her eyes spark with alarm, but I soothe it away by thumbing her chin, inspecting the welt more closely. “Don’t worry. If it were something really sketchy, he would have sent a different code.” Or no code at all, I don’t say.
This seems to assuage her fear a little. “lie low? Where?”
“We talked about it last night,” I assure her. “Everyone agreed that the Mercers’ cabin was a good place.”
She nods, grabbing a towel from the drawer and wrapping it over my knuckles. “They’ll be fine then.”
I realize she’s saying it more to convince herself than me, but I still answer. “They’re smart.”
I let her fuss over me for a few minutes, even though my hand isn’t that bad. If the others were here, they’d laugh at me. They’d tell me I was hamming it up to get more of those soft touches, to draw out the concerned hiss that escapes her lips when she presses the ice pack to my hand, so careful that it’s barely touching it. They’d say I was being a little bitch about it.
They’d be so jealous.
After she’s satisfied there’s nothing left to do for my gruesome, truly tragic injury, we climb the steps together, her two ahead of me. I stare at the holes in her stockings, the tear up the back that reveals her pale skin. Her shoes hang loose in her fingertips. Her shoulders might have eased with the text and my ensuing promises, but I know she’s going to be worried until she sees them walk through the door.
It’s been a hell of a night.
When we get to our bedroom doors, she pauses, falling back against hers. “Do you really think that’s the end of it?” The curve of her shoulders looks heavy and as tired as her eyes. “That we unmasked Ted, and all of this is over?”
I take a second to answer, because there’s a nudge in my gut to be wary about it. These men, these Kings, are slippery as fuck. She has no idea. I don’t know if there’s any stopping them until they’re dead. I left Cartwright a bloody mess, but he was still breathing. That means retaliation. It means a grudge that probably won’t disappear until another Duke takes his crown. It means bullshit.