Page 72 of Relentless Knight

“I don’t think so,” Killian says flatly, stalking toward the door.

“Excuse me?” I ask, giving him an incredulous look.

“You’re not going to see him,” he states bluntly. “And I don’t have time for this. I’ll deal with you later, but right now, I have more important things to think about than my pain-in-the-ass little sister.”

My heart plummets as I hear the key twist in my lock, trapping me inside my room. “You have got to be kidding me!” I scream, racing across the room to pound on my door. “Killian, you can’t keep me in here! Unlock this door right now!”

All I’m met with is silence, and I hammer on the door with the flat of my palm.

“Answer me, damn it!”

Grabbing the doorknob, I try to twist it, jerking it violently as I will it to give. But it’s no use. I can’t believe he locked me in here. Like some kind of prisoner.

Slowly, I sag onto the floor, wrapping my arms around my knees. And I bury my face as I start to sob. What a mess. I don’t know how I’m supposed to make this right.

I feel terrible.

I know Lance was most worried about Killian finding out that way, and now I see why. In my wildest dreams, I never imagined my brother could come unhinged quite like that. Then again, Killian’s been through so much. I’m not quite sure heisin his right mind at this moment.

Still, I feel the aching emptiness in my chest with Lance’s absence. And I wonder just how bad the pain might get if I never see him again…

Dark eyes leerat me above a cruel smile, and strong hands grip my shoulders when I turn to run.

“Let me go,” I plead, struggling against the painful hold he has on me. I try to use one of Natasha’s moves. Only this time, it doesn’t work. Every time I drive my elbows down to break his hold, he strikes me across the face, and I see stars.

Then Lance is there, looming over my attacker, and relief floods me. He’s here. I’m safe.

“I don’t think so,” Killian says, cocking his gun as he raises it.

“No, wait!” I scream, but it’s too late.

The bullet explodes from the tip of the gun, hitting Lance between the eyes. He drops.

I scream. And I scream. And I scream. Until my throat is raw and burning.

I jolt upright in my bed, the cry dying on my lips, and I’m drenched in a bone-chilling sweat that makes me shiver uncontrollably.

But more than that, I feel the bile rising up my throat like a volcano about to explode. I’m going to throw up.

Throwing off my covers, I launch myself out of bed and race toward the bathroom. I make it with seconds to spare, collapsing onto my knees and pulling back my hair before I regurgitate every last bite of the dinner Cheryl brought me.

It’s the third day in a row that I’ve thrown up like this, and I’m starting to wonder if it’s actually a stomach bug or if I’m just so upset and brokenhearted that it’s making me sick. Whatever the case, I can’t bring myself to eat most of the three square meals a day Cheryl brings me.

My nightmares have come back in full force with Lance’s absence. And what’s worse is that he keeps making cameo appearances. Only every time I see him, he ends up dying—usually at Killian’s hand.

A fresh wave of nausea hits me, and I lean over the porcelain once more to retch, but nothing comes up. I’ve been able to keep so little down that when my body does decide to purge, it only takes one good round before I’m just dry heaving.

Breathing heavily, I lean my forehead against my forearm as I hug the toilet miserably.

“Quinn?” Sharp knocking on the far side of my bedroom door accompanies Killian’s arrival.

“Go away,” I moan, tears springing to my eyes. Because the last person I want to see right now is my brother. He just shot the man I love, and in such vivid detail, I’m still not 100 percent certain that it was a dream and not a memory. But the events around it don’t quite make sense, chronologically, which makes me lean toward it being a bad dream.

“Are you sick?” Killian’s voice is much clearer now, and I realize he’s entered my room and is standing in the bathroom doorway.

“What do you want?” I ask miserably, refusing to look at him. I know I’m being a brat, but day by day, I find it harder to forgive my brother when he’s still refusing to be reasonable. And all the while, I feel the gaping hole in my chest growing more massive. If I don’t find a solution soon, I’m scared it might just swallow me whole.

“I thought I heard screaming,” he says gently, a note of concern tinging his tone.

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