Page 12 of Killaney Blood

My beautiful sister.

Even from here, I can see the dimple in her right cheek, the one I used to poke when she was little, just to make her giggle. She used to try to braid my hair while I read aloud to her, always asking for one more story, one more fairytale.

I don't know who the man is, but I've already memorized his face, his car, his license plate. I even clocked the way he opened the door for her, the way his hand hovered low on her back, not touching, but thinking about it.

I tap my fingernail against the dashboard. It's been two months since I last allowed myself this, a tiny window into her life. A reminder of why I endured everything I did.

She's twenty years old now. A woman. No longer the terrified nine-year-old who clung to me the night our father sold me.

She doesn't know me. Not anymore. Thinks I'm dead.

The Albanians made it clear: run and she becomes their property.

I chose hell so she could have this.

And I don't regret it. Not even for a second.

She's clever. Beautiful. The kind of girl who should have a future. The kind who debates dessert, has a favorite sweater, maybe cries at romantic comedies. Not the kind who counts exit wounds or knows how many stitches it takes to reattach a finger.

That was always going to be me.

I made sure of it.

The man with her leans forward, touches her wrist. I think about how I'll never get to threaten him with all the creative ways I've learned to hurt a man if he ever breaks her heart.

I take a slow breath. I should go. I've indulged this dangerous habit long enough.

I adjust the rearview mirror to check my surroundings, and a flash of movement on the sidewalk catches my attention.

A tall man. Broad shoulders. Dark hair. Something in his walk, confident, borderline arrogant, makes my stomach tighten.

Declan?

I sit up straighter, heat flushing my chest. But as he turns, the illusion breaks, his profile is all wrong. Not Declan.

Of course it's not.

And why am I even thinking about him?

I shake my head. Declan Killaney is just another mafia prince who thinks the world owes him something. His cousin died. Tragic. But how many have died under my hands? How many did I save only to watch them walk out and get shot in the street? How many begged for one more day and got ten more minutes?

He blames me. I don't like it. I don't know why. Maybe because I keep wondering if he's right.

If I'd helped that night, if I'd defied orders, would it have changed anything?

Would she still be safe?

They promised to make her an example. Said they'd send her in pieces. They told me that as they held a razor to my throat and made me watch them beat a girl to death who tried to run.

I chose my sister. Every time.

I glance back at the window. She's biting her lip now, teasing the man with something coy. Her scarf slips from her shoulder, and she laughs as he reaches to fix it.

I sink lower in my seat, though I know she wouldn't recognize me even if she looked directly at me. I'm not the sister she remembers. That girl died in an Albanian compound, surrounded by the devil and chaos.

And another thing, the way he looked at me. Like I was worth holding accountable.

Like I was still human enough to hate. It's crazy what you’ll look for when you don't know love. When you only know about taking orders and doing what you're told by people who wouldn't think twice ending your life.