Page 3

And from what I understand, that’s still the case.
I just hate the danger my brother and Lance are always putting themselves in.
To calm my growing temper, I focus on the task at hand, sliding the curved needle into Lance’s ink-stained flesh. And he doesn’t even flinch. Like he’s made of granite, he sits perfectly still as they continue to discuss what happened. Killian in his devil-may-care fashion, while Lance answers with curt yet insightful observations.
Then, as I tie off my fourth stitch, the infirmary door slams open. I grind my teeth, ready to strangle the beautiful dark-haired woman that stalks in because she nearly made me stab Lance with the needle by accident.
But Natasha’s older sister, Tatiana, hardly seems to notice my presence as she sweeps into the room to demand, “What happened? That wasn’t the plan we agreed upon at all.”
And the temperature in the room drops ten degrees as she stares my brother down with a cold fury that could shatter stone.
2
LANCE
“Hey, when shit hits the fan, sometimes, you need to improvise,” Killian says, giving his signature smirk as he takes Tatiana on.
Tucked beneath his arm, Natasha stiffens, her delicate features drawing into a line of tension, and I suspect it’s because Killian’s new wife doesn’t like him arguing with her older sister—even if our alliance is rather fresh on the coattails of an extended feud.
But that’s the Kings for you. Always brazenly making their opinions known. It’s a family trait—stirring things up with controversial statements and to see where things stand once the dust settles. And while I don’t mind it, as his right-hand man, it does make my job of protecting Killian a hell of a lot harder sometimes.
It’s also partly what makes Killian such a force to be reckoned with.
No one can predict him.
Which often leaves his opponents unsteady on their feet. And apparently, his allies as well.
“You weren’t where you said you’d be, and that nearly cost us the mission!” Tatiana insists, crossing her arms and making her already impressive amount of cleavage even more prominent over her flattering peacock-blue silk wrap dress.
The Sokolov girls might be known for their beauty and feminine charms, but since they came bursting into our lives like a wrecking ball, I’ve learned that their public appearance is little more than a thin veneer to hide their true intellect and lethal skills. Still, I can see why they’re considered the most stunning sisters in New York. They’re true Russian beauties—even if neither of the distinctly different sisters are particularly my type of woman.
“Hey, it was your guys who missed the shot,” Killian says. “You should be thanking us for coming in to clean up the mess…” he insists, gesturing to me since I’m the one who technically stepped in and took a knife for the trouble.
Tatiana counters with her own perspective on what went wrong, but I’ve lost interest in the conversation. We got the job done with minimal injuries and no casualties on our side—Russian or Irish. That’s all that matters.
As soon as Quinn is done stitching me, we’ll be up and running once again.
The slight tug on my skin reminds me of her progress. Not the most pleasant sensation, but one I’ve grown accustomed to over the years.
I glance down to see how far along she is in sewing me back together, and I catch a glimpse of her intent face. A smattering of freckles colors her button nose, contrasting the crease between her strawberry-blond brows that appears whenever she’s concentrating.
Her lips thin slightly as she maintains intense focus. They’ve always been a soft peach color and create a perfectly feminine bow shape even now. Her green eyes darken from jade toemerald when she frowns—a detail I’ve picked up on over the lifetime I’ve known her. It fascinates me the way her eyes change color, and something about it draws me in, giving me something to think about when the pain threatens to take control.
Sometime between entering the foyer and following me into the infirmary, Quinn took the time to pull her thick head of blond curls back into a messy bun—a sanitary practice she no doubt acquired during her time in nursing school. But a few strands have slipped free to fall around her face. She ignores them studiously as she works, and I follow her gaze as I turn my attention to her hands.
Hands that never cease to amaze me. Even in the chaos of the situation, they’re steady and confident. She stitches me up with deft precision, each knot perfectly spaced and tied with the right tension, the needle sliding in and out of my skin so smoothly it’s almost painless.
And still, Quinn’s touch remains incredibly tender. One gloved hand stabilizes the two separated pieces of my chest as the other guides the curved sliver of stainless steel. She’s turned sewing flesh into an art form.
She didn’t bother trying to convince me to use local anesthetic this time, and that makes a smile tug at my lips. She’s probably given up because I’ve refused it every time she’s offered.
It’s not that I wouldn’t trust her to numb me properly. I trust her completely—even concerning Killian’s survival. After all, I brought him here when he was on death’s door, not to a hospital, because I knew Quinn wouldn’t let him die.
But I like to be in control of every aspect of my life. After the childhood I endured—being abandoned by my parents when I was eight—I spent years living on the street, just trying to stay alive.
I’ve known extreme hunger, had everything taken from me countless times at knifepoint, gunpoint, or worse. I’ve had the snot beat out of me for the comfort of a tattered, flea-infested, filthy mattress. As a child, I survived countless situations that proved just how helpless and weak I was—how vulnerable that left me.
Never again.