Tristian snaps his fingers, pointing at me. “Send them to Nick as a suspect.”
“If they aren’t already sniffing him down,” Killian says.
“The detective said,” I remember, “they’re checking his inner circle first. They checked Tristian and Dimitri. What are the chances Nick has an alibi more solid than ours?”
“Not fucking likely.” Tristian scoffs, blue eyes glinting. “Nick doesn’t exactly have an overabundance of brain cells. He’s all brawn and fists.”
Dimitri adds, “And does this Ted jackoff strike you as the type to give a shit about his lackies getting caught?”
Killian reaches up to pinch the bridge of his nose. He looks exhausted and spread too thin, and I have no idea how to help, but I’m pretty sure it involves touching him. Before I can, he mutters, “I need to think,” and promptly stalks out of the room.
I blink in his wake.
Tristian says to me, “It’s been a long day.”
He doesn’t even know the whole of it. Not what we went through last night. The fight, quitting the team, carving up his chest. We were physically and emotionally drained before we found out his father was murdered.
“Let me go talk to him.”
Dimitri catches me as I pass, hand curling around my knee. “Wait.” He looks up at me, and even though his brow is eerily still, his mouth moves in a complicated, hesitant maneuver. “About before. I didn’t mean to—”
“I know.”
“Sorry.” His eyes fall closed when my fingers push into his hair, stroking it back from his forehead. “I’m a shit,” he says, hooking his hands around my thighs and pulling me between his knees.
“Yeah.” I give his hair a gentle tug. “But you’re my shit.”
The corner of his mouth tips up, and I bend down to press my lips to it, not missing the gentleness of his touch as his palm sweeps down to my calf. He puts his hand over the patch of skin the flame might have touched, if not for my jeans. “I’m fine,” I assure, giving him one last kiss before pulling away. His fingertips drag against me like he wants to haul me back. But from the look in his eyes, we both know Killian needs me more.
I take the same direction, walking toward the kitchen, and find the back door ajar. He’s in the backyard, slapping a basketball against the concrete pad. I watch silently as he lifts his arms, taking a shot and sinking it.
“Hey,” I say, not feeling reluctant as I approach him.
He glances over, eyes still shuttered. “Hi.”
I toe at a stain on the pavement, wishing I knew what to say. “Crazy stuff, huh?”
He retrieves the loose ball and dribbles it a few times, taking another shot. He misses this time. It spins around the hoop and falls off.
Killian watches the ball bounce and roll toward us, ultimately coming to a stop right at his feet. He stares at it for a long moment, brows pushed together. “God, I really fucking hated him.”
I bend down to get the ball, passing it to him. “I know.”
He takes it without looking, eyes fixed on the trees in the distance. “I hated him, but he wasn’t just a King to me. He was a god. Untouchable, indestructible.” His lips press into a hard, grim line. “Immortal.” He holds the ball between his two palms, squeezing it together. “But you know what I saw laying on that table this morning? Meat. Flesh and bone, just like the rest of us. He looked so…” His face contorts, and I want nothing more than to plug my ears, because I know whatever’s coming next will haunt me. “He looked so fucking mortal. His eyes were gray and his skin was all—”
I don’t mean to make a sound. I might not want to be haunted by it, but I can’t stand the thought of Killian shouldering it all himself. Despite the ugliness of it, I want to take some of the weight. I want to fold it up and tuck it away where we won’t find it.
But he pauses, eyes flicking to me. “Sorry.”
I shake my head. “I can’t imagine what it must have been like to see…that.”
He looks away, jaw clenching. “You want to know what it felt like?” His bruised knuckles strain as he digs his fingertips into the rubber. “It felt like…nothing. He was laying there in this disgusting pile of charred pieces, and I didn’t feel anything at all.” Sightlessly, he bounces the ball. “My dad was dead to me a long time ago, Story.”
I wince at the idea of Daniel’s body. “But still—”
“Did you know he met my mom in high school?” He bounces the ball again, harder this time, eyes tight at the corners.