Page 38 of Mafia Crown

But then, Charlie barks.

The sound jolts me like a bucket of cold water dumped over my head. Kieran pulls back, his breathing ragged, his forehead pressed against mine. For a moment, neither of us moves, caught in the aftermath of whatever just happened.

“You’re not making this easy,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough, like he’s barely holding himself together.

There’s no anger in his tone, but there’s something else—something raw and dangerous that sends shivers down my spine.

I should be scared. I should be pulling away, setting boundaries, anything to protect myself.

But I’m not.

I’m sitting here, breathless and trembling, wanting him to do it again. Wanting him to keep going until there’s nothing left to think about. And that’s what terrifies me the most.

“Where’s your first aid kit?” I ask, my eyes darting to the blood dripping from Kieran’s eyebrow. It’s reopened, the dark red trickling slowly down his temple, staining the curve of his cheekbone.

Kieran waves me off like I’m asking him something ridiculous. “I’m fine,” he says, his tone dismissive, as if the blood on his face is just a minor inconvenience.

“No, you’re not.” My voice comes out sharper than I intend, but I’m tired of him pretending he’s invincible.

He studies me for so long that my skin prickles, and I shift my weight, uncomfortable under the intensity of his gaze. His eyes are sharp, calculating, like he’s peeling back layers I’d rather keep hidden. I swallow hard and try to hold my ground, but my body betrays me. My fingers fidget at my sides, and my breath quickens under the pressure of his silence.

Finally, he nods. “In the bathroom. Under the sink.”

Without another word, I turn on my heel and head down the hall, grateful for the excuse to get away from him, even if it’s only for a moment. I glance at my face in the mirror. I’m not bleeding, but the big red mark on my cheek is promising to bloom with bruises soon. I glance away, my heart pounds as I open the cabinet, the small first aid box sitting right where he said it would be. I grab it, turn around—and nearly drop the whole thing as a squeal lodges in my throat.

Kieran is standing right behind me.

“How do you move so quietly?” I mutter, clutching the box like it’s my shield.

He ignores the question, his expression unreadable. “Do you have any other enemies you want to tell me about?”

The weight of his words presses down on me, and I grip the box tighter. My pulse races, but I force a steady breath and answer, “Of course not. Only you.” The words come out sharper than I intend, but I don’t take them back. It’s the truth. Right now, he’s the only threat I know how to deal with.

Kieran’s eyes darken, and before I can react, his hand shoots out and wraps around my wrist. His thumb slides over the inside of my wrist, brushing my pulse. I stiffen, my breath catching at the warmth of his touch and the way his grip feels both firm and oddly gentle.

His voice is low, careful. “Have you witnessed any other murders?”

I want to pull my arm away, but something about the way he’s holding me makes it impossible. My throat feels tight, like I’m standing at the edge of something dangerous. “No,” I whisper. “Just the one.”

He nods, but the questions keep coming. “Do you owe money to someone?”

My patience snaps. His grip isn’t painful, but the weight of his interrogation presses against me, suffocating. I yank my arm free and step back, creating just enough space to breathe. “No,” I bite out.

For a moment, neither of us speaks. His eyes flicker down to my wrist like he’s considering grabbing me again, but he doesn’t. Instead, he exhales and nods, like my answer was exactly what he needed to hear.

“Sit on the toilet,” I say, my voice softer this time.

He doesn’t argue. He sits, leaning forward slightly as I open the first aid box and dig for what I need. My hands are steady—thank God—because the last thing I want is for him to see how much his presence rattles me. I dampen a piece of gauze with antiseptic and press it to the cut above his brow.

He winces, his jaw tightening, but he doesn’t move.

“I’m almost done,” I say softly, dabbing at the blood until the wound is clean.

His gaze lifts to mine, and for a moment, everything is quiet. No questions, no accusations—just him watching me in that way that makes my stomach twist. I force myself to focus, taping a small bandage over the cut and stepping back. “There,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

But Kieran doesn’t move. His hands rest on his knees, his head slightly lowered, like he’s thinking about something heavy. When he finally speaks, his voice is low and measured. “Someone lured Charlie out of the cabin. They must have followed us.”

I freeze, the words settling over me like a weight I can’t shake off. “You think someone else will come?”

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