Page 25 of Velvet Betrayal (The Dark Prince of Boston #3)

“Hated it. Smelled like rot and bleach. But it was the only time he didn’t treat me and Tristan like employees.

He’d get Cokes from a busted vending machine and let us drink them before breakfast. Some days he’d just sit there, not talking, for hours.

Like he wanted to remember what it was like to be ordinary.

” He licked a fleck of blood from his lip, eyebrow twitching.

“Nobody’s ordinary in our family. But I wanted it. So bad.”

I pictured it. Two boys, sitting on a pier, string in the water and nothing to show for it but the hope that maybe, today, their father would just say good job, son. I could see the chicken wings dissolving in saltwater, the ritual of waiting for something that would never come.

“It’s weird, wanting something you know you’ll never get,” I said.

Kieran opened his eyes. “You get used to it. Then you want it for someone else, and it’s worse.”

We sat there, letting the city’s neon leak through a slit of window. Tristan’s voice echoed from the hall, a bandsaw of numbers and threats, relentless and sharp. For once, it was comforting. He was an asshole, but he always got results.

When the silence got too heavy, Kieran said, “Thanks. I didn’t think you’d bring me here.”

“I panicked,” I said, which was true, but not the whole truth. “Also, you said you didn’t want a hospital.”

“You could have left me.”

“You know I couldn’t,” I said, staring at my shoes.

He gave me a look—tired, almost young, like the kid on the pier finally getting a break. “You can’t do it, can you? Give up on me.”

“I should. I’ve tried. Doesn’t stick.”

He smiled, thin and crooked. “You always did like experiments.”

Years ago, I’d have kissed him. But I didn’t want to make it easy.

I wanted him to feel the cost, the risk of coming back for me, every time.

“If you do something that stupid again, you lose your veto. I’ll drag you to the ER and put ‘Mickey Mouse’ on your chart just to see if you like waking up in cuffs. ”

He laughed, then winced, hand to his stitches. “You’d be a nightmare nurse.”

“I know. Now let me see your ear.” I scooted closer, fingers gentle on his temple, remembering the first time I’d patched him up—cheap iodine, a bathroom lit by a flickering bulb.

Back then, he thought scars were free. Now, in the harsh office light, I could see what time had carved into his face—every fight, every secret, every wound mapped in new lines.

“It’s clotting,” I said.

“You’re a regular Florence Nightingale.”

“You’re remarkably lucid for someone with a probable concussion. You reading the medical diplomas on the wall?” I pointed at the only plaque: a liquor license and a motivational cat meme—HANG IN THERE, BABY.

Kieran grinned. “Our family’s always had a thing for cats with bad boundaries.” He glanced at my hands. “You’re shaking.”

“I always shake. It’s called ‘dealing with your family.’” I grabbed a bottled water, twisted the cap, and handed it to him. “Drink. Dehydration plus head trauma equals more time with me. Nobody wins.”

He drank, Adam’s apple moving under the stubble.

I watched, remembering the last time we’d been this close, and hating how much I still wanted it.

“Promise me you’ll let Tristan’s guy take a look at you,” I said.

“If you’re bleeding somewhere inside that idiot head, I’d rather not be the one who has to explain it. ”

“No one ever compliments my head,” he said, closing his eyes. “You don’t have to babysit.”

“I’m not. I’m making sure you don’t die and leave me holding the bag.” I propped a foot on the rung of my chair, determined to outlast him. The skin around his brow was already swelling, cartoonish and angry. I let myself look, really look, at the mess. “Why do you think this is worth it?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Because you are.”

I huffed, the sound too loud in the room. “If you make this about self-sacrifice, I will actually hurt you.”

He smiled, just a flicker. “I meant it.”

We sat, side by side, while the city went dark behind the frosted glass. It would’ve been peaceful, if not for the wind and the sound of Tristan in the hall, playing chess with the city’s worst people.

I thought about the job boards, the men who’d cycled through my life, the contract on my own head now just another gig on someone’s phone.

I wondered what would happen to Rosie. I wondered if the only way out was to disappear, become a mom in the suburbs and hope the memory of Ruby Marquez faded behind some bigger scandal.

I didn’t want that. I hated that I wanted anything else.

Kieran reached over, tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. His pupils got wider when he looked at me. “I’d never let anything happen to you. You know that, right?”

“That’s your problem,” I said, but my pulse slowed, the weird tenderness of his touch softer than stitches or ice. “You still think the world works like that.”

He shifted, breathing easier now that the bleeding had stopped. I let my shoulders drop, waiting for Tristan to reappear and tell me how badly I’d managed his favorite disaster.

But Kieran didn’t check out. He just watched me, like time had collapsed to this shitty office, this moment. I almost wanted him to crack a joke, break the tension, but he just sat there, and I let myself be seen.

Then he leaned in and kissed me. I tasted blood, and cheap liquor, and something that felt almost like hope.

It was so gentle, so at odds with everything that had brought us here, that for a second I thought maybe I’d imagined it.

But he pulled back, searching my face for shrapnel, like he was hoping the damage could be fixed.

“You’re a mess,” I said, because it was the only thing I could say.

He grinned, black eye sparkling. “Only for you, Rubes.”

Before I could say something reckless, Tristan came back, flanked by a doctor so thin he looked like he’d been pressed in a book.

“This is Dr. Mehta,” Tristan said. “Kieran, he’ll need ten minutes. Ruby, you can use the office upstairs. Or stay.”

I hesitated, then shrugged like it didn’t matter. “I’ve already missed two meetings. Nobody’s expecting me now.”

Tristan didn’t press. He disappeared down the hall.

I stayed.

Not because I had nothing better to do—God knew I did—but because there was something about the way the room felt, heavy with the hush of criminal efficiency, the quiet intimacy of watching someone be put back together by a stranger’s steady hands.

The doctor worked without commentary, unpacking his kit with the calm of a man who’d sewn up worse. Kieran didn’t flinch—just sat there, jaw tight, while Dr. Mehta glued his scalp shut and tested his pupils.

I told myself I was watching to make sure he was okay. But the truth was simpler: I liked being here. Liked being let in.

And that scared the hell out of me.

“He’ll live,” Dr. Mehta said, glancing at me with what might have been a joke. “You did a good job cleaning it. I’ll check his pupils again in an hour. If he starts vomiting, call me or 911, whichever works.”

“Can I go home?” Kieran asked.

The doctor looked at Tristan.

“Yes,” Tristan said. “But you shouldn’t be alone.”

Tristan pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re both benched for forty-eight hours. I’ll keep the Crew busy.”

Kieran arched a brow. “What does that mean?”

“It means I order in a dozen dirty contracts and let them chase ghosts from Brockton to the Cape. If anyone inside 495 so much as breathes your name, I’ll know.”

“Not a lot of margin,” I said.

“The city never gives more,” Tristan replied.

Dr. Mehta scribbled notes in a real notebook. I wondered what he wrote: alley fight, recurring patient, spouse at bedside—recommend counseling.

Spouse. What a joke.

“I’d really like to go home,” Kieran said.

“As long as your wife can stay with you, you’re fine,” Dr. Mehta said.

Kieran flashed a bloody smile. “Great. She will. Won’t you, honey?”

I rolled my eyes, but the word hit different. Like after a day of watching him almost die, I was the only one left who knew he was alive. “I’ll stay,” I said. “Keep him out of trouble.”

Tristan snorted. “You’ll be the first.”