“Like I’m going to a funeral?” She glances down at her dress. Sure, it may be dark and a bit less revealing than I prefer, but it looks good on her.
It’d just look better on my floor.
“You look beautiful,” I say, giving her a smile I don’t feel the spirit of. This girl is going to kill my dick.
She points to her face. “Even the rings under my eyes?” She sighs, giving her skirt a testing sway. “I heard Ms. Crane before. Maybe she’s right. Why are we going to dinner with a man who’s proven himself to be a despicable, perverse, immoral human being?”
“Because he’s my father,” Killian says, strolling into the kitchen, a limp tie ends hanging around his neck. “And although he is all of those things, he’s also the most powerful player in South Side.” He not so discreetly stops to sweep his eyes over Story. I can’t help but notice the matching bags under his eyes. His nighttime roaming is fucking with him. “People are watching. Whoever shot me is watching, and whoever killed Vivienne is watching. We have to present a unified front—it’s just part of being a Lord.” He reaches up to adjust the tie, grimacing when his elbows lift higher than mid-chest. The pain from the gunshot wound limits his range of motion. “Goddamn it.”
“You’re right. I know it, but I hate it.” She sighs and approaches him. “Here, let me fix that.”
Killian’s jaw tightens, but he relinquishes the ends of the tie and goes still. Carefully, she wraps and tucks the length of the tie together, making a clean knot. Where she learned to do this, I have no idea, but when she finishes she looks up at him and asks, “Is that good?”
He doesn’t even check. “Yes. Thank you.”
Facing her, I say, “None of us are excited about today, but it’s part of being a Lord. I can promise you one thing, though; you won’t be alone in that house for even a second.”
We’d agreed on it.
Her eyes dart to Rath’s and that same undercurrent of stress that has been flowing between them for weeks flickers to life. “He’s right,” Rath says. “No one’s letting you near Daniel alone, got it?”
She nods. “I’ve got it. Thank you.”
It’s been a strange few weeks, but we load up the truck and settle into our seats. Story and Rath sitting awkwardly in the back, Killian and I in the front. The truth ebbs between us.
After everything we’ve been through, we’re determined to come out stronger. We have to.
We’re in this together.
“If Detroit doesn’t get their defense together, they can kiss this game goodbye,” Killian says, frowning at the players in formation on the screen. “Geoff can’t cut it as the QB. It was a stupid move to trade Stafford.”
“They’re rebuilding,” Daniel says, lifting his beer with the arm he doesn’t have in a sling. If he feels any pain, he doesn’t show it. Wouldn’t. Weakness and vulnerability aren’t acceptable traits for a King. “Every organization has to do it. Trading Stafford was a long game move.”
Killian barely hides the curl of his lip. “One I hope the owners don’t regret.”
“They’re building toward the future. You see, son, sometimes you have to make sacrifices now for strength later.” This thinly veiled football metaphoring has been going on since we got here and were ushered into the den. Story, meanwhile, has vanished with her mother into the kitchen. I’d started to follow her in, but she shook her head and nodded for me to go with the others. I don’t like it, but Posey doesn’t offer much of a threat. Killian and his father, however? There could be more bloodshed before pie is served. “That trade for Stafford didn’t just get them Geoff. They also got two first round picks in the future. That’s thinking ahead.” He nods at me. “Tristian, the bottle of Lagavulin I was saving for today is behind the bar. Care to serve it?”
“I’d be glad to,” I say, happy to have something to do with my hands while these two circle one another like wolves. I locate the bottle of scotch and four glasses, opening the freezer to pilfer some ice for mine and Killian’s. Daniel and Rath take their scotch neat.
I pour into each glass, but when I get to Rath’s, he covers it with his hand and says, “I’m good.” Killian looks away from the TV for the first time since we got here and shares my look of surprise. Rath shrugs, not meeting our gazes. “I don’t want to fill up on drinks. Just saving room for all of Posey’s cooking.”