Page 37 of Mafia Crown

I glance back once, my gaze lingering on the man lying motionless in the dirt, and a chill runs down my spine. Kieran saved me. But the look on his face—the cold, detached way he killed that man—makes me wonder if he’s the bigger danger after all.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

HAZEL

INSIDE THE HOUSE, Kieran pulls off my coat, but I shove at him, struggling to break free.

“Stop,” he snaps. “I’m checking if you’re hurt.”

I freeze, breathing hard as he brushes his fingers over my arms. There’s a long scratch near my elbow, but it’s nothing compared to the damage I thought I’d have.

“You’re fine,” he says, nodding like it’s final. He turns to leave, and something twists in my chest. Guilt. I see the blood on his face, the way his brow is split open, and it hits me—I did that.

“Kieran…”

He ignores me, heading toward the cupboard. My breath catches when he pulls out a rifle, the cold metal glinting in the dim light.

“Stay here,” he says, loading it without looking at me. “If you come outside, I’ll shoot you.”

I swallow, my throat dry. There’s no doubt in my mind that he means it. He’s not bluffing. His face is too hard, his eyes too empty. I nod, and he disappears out the door.

The waiting is torture. Minutes stretch into what feels like hours. My legs won’t stop shaking, and my hands tremble as I pace the room, Charlie matching my steps. When the door finally creaks open, I whip around, relief flooding me as Kieran steps back inside.

He doesn’t say anything as he sets the rifle down and wipes the blood from his brow.

The wound is so deep it shocks me. The guilt has me rushing to the kitchen, and I grab a cloth, running it under the tap, my fingers brushing over the soft fabric as I clench it tighter than I should. My pulse hasn’t settled since we got back inside, and it’s not just from the attack. It’s from him—Kieran. His presence fills the room like gravity, and no matter how much I try to stay grounded, he keeps pulling me in.

He sits on the edge of the couch, his forearms resting on his knees, blood slowly trickling from the cut above his eyebrow. His gaze is distant, hard, like he’s already calculating his next move. I should leave him alone. I should go to my room and lock the door.

But I can’t.

With hesitant steps, I walk toward him, the cloth damp and cool in my trembling hands. He doesn’t look at me, not at first, and I take the chance to study him: the sharp angle of his jaw, the way a strand of dark hair falls over his forehead, the dried blood crusting along the edge of the cut.

“Let me help,” I whisper, more to convince myself than him.

He finally meets my eyes, and for a moment, something flickers there—something softer, something buried so deep I wonder if even he knows it’s there. He doesn’t say anything; he just leans back slightly, giving me room to work.

I sit beside him, close enough that our knees brush. My fingers hesitate before I press the cloth to his wound. He winces, his breath hitching for half a second, but he doesn’t pull away.

“Sorry,” I murmur. The apology feels strange leaving my lips, especially because I did this to him earlier, but guilt still knots in my chest. I was trying to survive, and he was trying to save me. And now, here we are, stuck somewhere between gratitude and confusion.

Silence stretches between us, heavy and suffocating. I can hear the steady rise and fall of his breathing, feel the warmth radiating off him, smell the faint scent of woodsmoke clinging to his clothes. It’s too much.

“Who was he?” I ask softly, breaking the silence.

Kieran’s jaw tightens, his eyes darkening. “I don’t know,” he says, his voice low and controlled, but there’s an edge to it—something simmering beneath the surface. “But he won’t be the last.”

A chill slides down my spine, the weight of his words sinking into my bones. I should be terrified. I am terrified. But it’s not just fear that’s making my heart race. It’s him. It’s the way he’s looking at me now, like he’s seeing more than just the girl who hit him with a stick.

His gaze drops to my lips, and I see the shift. The way his breathing changes, his chest rising and falling just a little faster. Tension coils between us, thick and suffocating, but this time, I don’t want to run from it. I wet my lips, the motion instinctive, and his eyes darken further.

The moment I do, he moves.

Kieran’s mouth crashes against mine, and the world tilts. Heat floods my body, igniting every nerve as his hands slide to my waist, pulling me closer. This kiss isn’t careful. It isn’t calculated like the first. It’s raw, desperate—like neither of us can hold back any longer.

My fingers fist the fabric of his shirt, clinging to him like he’s the only solid thing in a world that’s constantly shifting beneath my feet. His hands tighten on my waist, dragging me against him until there’s no space left between us. The warmth of his body, the taste of him—it’s overwhelming, intoxicating.

I don’t know where this is going, but right now, I don’t care. All I care about is the way his lips move against mine, the way his hand slides up my back, tangling in my hair. My head spins, and a small, desperate sound escapes me, swallowed by the intensity of the kiss.

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