Page 2 of Relentless Knight

It’s no surprise that Killian’s explanation lacks any useful information.

And of course, Lance doesn’t say a word as he leads the way to my infirmary, his broad shoulders swaggering despite his injury. No one personifies the word masculine better than Lance. Even his surly silences and dangerous scowls make him seem more manly and tough in the sexiest way.

It wouldn’t surprise me if he could kill a man with his pinky finger alone.

That combined with the fact that he’s considerably older than me—thirty-six compared to my twenty-three years of age—not to mention, Killian is hell-bent on carving a less violent path for me considering our family’s history of dying young, should be enough to remind me of why my foster brother is off-limits.

Never mind the fact that he’s practically family.

Killian might hope that putting me through college will help me find a nice young man to settle down with, who will make money throughlegalmeans and won’t bring me deeper into our family’s mafia ways.

But to me, other men are like distant stars in the night sky—and Lance is the sun.

When he reaches for the nape of his neck to tug his T-shirt over his head, my mouth goes dry. He tosses the soiled fabric into the trash without even looking at his target. And though I know he took it off so I can get a better look at his injury, I can’t help but admire the rest of him while I’m at it.

Every last inch of him is rippling with muscle, from his powerful shoulders and thickly muscled chest to the washboard eight-pack that tapers into a V before vanishing into his low-slung jeans. God, he’s so gorgeous, it makes my chest ache and my cheeks flame.

And though the rest of Killian’s men remained in the foyer, the room still suddenly feels crowded as my brother and Natasha step inside behind me.

“Sit,” I order Lance, gesturing to the treatment table before I turn to wash my hands. That will give me the time I need to collect my unruly emotions as I sanitize.

It’s honestly mortifying how much I like Lance. Because, as my brother’s best friend and practically family himself, Lance no doubt sees me just like Killian does—as an annoying kid sister. At least, that’s what my brother calls me.

But my relationship with Lance has never involved the familiar snarky back-and-forth I have with the rest of my brothers. Probably because I can barely look Lance in the eye without blushing over how hot he is. And his propensity toward silence makes our conversations brief more often than not.

I don’t mind it, though. Even if it’s a contrast to my four rowdy and typically carefree older brothers. Lance has always been quiet—or at least, he has ever since our parents picked him up off the streets when he was thirteen. My mother told me once that his tendency to brood is because he had a troubled past,though they never told me exactly what that means. And if they knew, they took his secret to the grave.

Unlike my three other brothers—Jamie, Finn, and Henry—who have all flown the nest and left the family business in Killian’s hands in order to pursue their own interests, Lance has stayed close to home. As Killian’s right-hand man, he’s the one my brother calls when he needs a dirty job done right. In short, he’s invaluable to the King family.

He’s invaluable to me.

But in a much different way.

Taking a deep breath, I snap my latex gloves into place and turn back to Lance. And immediately, my cheeks start to flame once again.

His bloody hands are resting palms up in his lap, and he’s not bothering to put pressure on the wound anymore. Which means his impressive pecs and the canvas of tattoos that cover his chest and shoulders are on full display.

Focus, Quinn,I scold myself, and I step between his knees to get a better look at his cut.

Several thick rivulets of blood trickle down his abs from the diagonal slash. A laceration that must be seven inches long and over a quarter inch deep. It definitely needs stitches.

My stress skyrockets when I see just how deep it is. Whoever he was fighting fully intended to kill him. And the thought of losing Lance is almost more painful than I can bear. Setting my jaw to stop myself from calling him a slew of names, the least of which would be idiot, I get to work thoroughly disinfecting the wound.

I know better than to offer him any form of local anesthetic. In the numerous times I’ve had to stitch Lance up, he’s turned the offer down for every single one of them. He did when he broke his clavicle during a football game and the doctor had to set it. And I suspect it’s for the same reason he doesn’t drinkor do drugs—though why he’s so set against even painkillers for serious injuries, I’ll likely never find out.

“Are you going to tell me why you’re bleeding all over my table?” I ask softly as I work. “Who did this?”

“The Italians,” Killian says, speaking for Lance because we both know our foster brother won’t say it himself.

I’ve listened in on enough conversations between Killian and Lance to know the Italians are responsible for my brother’s lethal stab wound a few months back—and the death of Natasha’s parents. That’s why my brother has allied with the Russians to fight the Italian don. But I don’t know much more than that because Killian prefers to keep me in the dark.

“We should have barricaded the back door and kept more reinforcements at the front,” Killian adds, this time to Lance.

“The plan worked, didn’t it?” Lance counters, succinct as always.

“I did love seeing the look on that bastard’s face when he realized you were waiting for him…” My brother smirks, his expression cocky as I catch it from the corner of my eye.

And I have to bite my tongue as I thread my needle because no one wants to hear how little I like that they’re risking their lives for a battle that’s not technically theirs to fight. Sure, the Italians hurt Killian. But that’s only because he was protecting Natasha—not because they have a feud with our family.

---