I’ve had so many shocks today that this one barely penetrates. “They were together that long?”
“If you can call it that,” he says, scoffing. “He came here to FU, became a Lord.” There’s a weight to the ensuing silence, and then it hits me.
“He had a girlfriend while he… uh, had a Lady?” It’s not like it’s a surprise. Daniel never struck me as the faithful type. But still, the thought of any one of my guys doing that…it makes my insides squirm around.
“Yep.” His face twists with more disgust at this than it had describing his father’s burnt corpse. “He spent a year fucking his Lady, then graduated, married my mom, and had me.”
Warily, I ask, “What happened to her? Your mom.” Killian’s never talked about her before, and I’m used to the topic making his eyes ignite in a fury I’ve never comprehended.
Now, he just locks his jaw and slams the ball against the ground. “She didn’t like what my dad was doing even before he started to buy up South Side. It wasn’t clean work.” He slides his eyes to mine. “He ran a lot of drugs with the Counts. Guns with the Dukes. Hooked up with Tristian’s dad. He mowed over this town like a goddamn bulldozer. But you know what got to her?” He stares at me, punching the ball into the pavement with every dribble. “Finding out how he won.”
Frowning, I ask, “How he won what?”
“The Game,” Killian clarifies, pointing his gaze into the distance. “Kingdoms are passed through blood, Story. To win The Game—not just the silly frat stuff, but to really win it, kingdom and all—you have to be born into it, or you have to take it.”
Slowly, I repeat, “Through blood.”
“It’s not as easy as killing the King,” he goes on, a dreariness filling his eyes. “If that were the case, the Kingdom would have been up for grabs as of last night. You have to kill the whole line. You have to kill the father and his sons.”
“What?” I step in front of him to catch his eyes. “Killian, that’s crazy.”
He gives a slow, emotionless nod. “I know. It’s why they all go ape-shit about having heirs. It’s why the Princes kick out babies like a conveyor belt. It’s why my dad gave me my first gun at the ripe age of ten, and it’s why he wouldn’t let my mom take me when she left. He needed me.” He gives the ball another slam against the ground, stressing, “He needed me to carry on the name, not because he wanted me.” He shakes his head and the dribbling finally stops, ball clutched between his palms. “Everything changes now. I thought I would have to fight him tooth and nail to take his spot by force, but now…it’s just mine.”
Is this what’s bothering him? Taking over as King? “I’ve seen you, Killian. Not just on the field, but in front of the cameras. Behind a gun.” I make a strained, frustrated sound. “This whole Kingdom thing is dangerous and barbaric, and I’m not going to lie to you. I think it’s insane. But you were born for this.”
He doesn’t look convinced. If anything, he just looks annoyed. “I was supposed to win it, not inherit it, like those other rich pussies. There are so many shifting rules to this fucking game.” He snorts, tucking the ball under his arm. “Why do you think we have Martin?”
I arch an eyebrow. “To cover your muscular and very attractive asses?”
That earns a ghost of a smile. “Well, yeah, there’s that. But also to make sure tradition is upheld and everything is done right. Technically, Rath or Tris could challenge me. I’m the end of the Payne bloodline.”
“They could?” The idea is chilling. If they turned on one another… well, there’s already enough bloodshed in South Side.
“Yes. But they’d have to kill me and they wouldn’t. That’s why my dad was so hell-bent on us being friends. Having a Mercer in your corner is always an advantage, obviously, but it wasn’t just about that. He wanted us to love each other, like brothers.” He sighs, shoulders shifting uncomfortably. “And the funny thing is that it worked. Still, it won’t be a smooth transition. The other Kings will have something to say about it. It’s going to take time to build influence, get access to my father’s resources. Plus, the law’s gonna be nosing around—even if we do have alibis. ”
“Martin is working on it with Mom,” I assure, taking the chance to reach out and touch his shoulder. “It’ll be fine.”