Page 55 of Killaney Blood
Like I need him.
I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling, where a water stain spreads.
And yet, I don't hate that he's here per se.
A part of me feels relieved he's here. Not because I trust him. Not because I think mafia princes are built for protecting broken girls like me or that men like Declan Killaney actually care aboutothers. I'm not that naive. But I make him money. I fix his fighters. Maybe that's enough incentive for him to at least stop the Albanians from putting a bullet in my head.
It's a business arrangement. Nothing more.
I squeeze my eyes shut and see her face.
Three days ago, I stand outside another restaurant, watching. My sister is inside, laughing with that same man I saw her with before.
I take a little solace in how happy she looks. Normal. Untouched by the ugliness of my world.
I watch for seventeen minutes before forcing myself to leave. Each second I stay increases the risk of her seeing me, the ghost sister, risen from the grave.
I mean, what do you say to someone who buried you?
My sister fades and Declan's words claw at me.
"Nobody navigates life alone… You're human. You need people..."
He doesn't get it. Every girl I got close to while working for the Albanians was either killed or taken one night and never seen again.
Ana. Katya. Sabrina. Tatiana. After a while, I stopped learning names. Stopped making eye contact. Stopped caring.
I have to be alone to survive. Right or wrong, it's my life. I've forced myself to be alone and like it for so long I don't know any other way.
But now he's here.
And if I'm completely honest with myself, which I rarely am, I don't know of any other man who would stay to protect me like Declan is, even if it's just to make sure his precious medic who fixes his fighters and his stupid pretty face is safe.
I sigh and push back the blanket.
I should at least check on him.
The floor creaks under my bare feet. The apartment is dark except for the yellow glow of a streetlamp coming through the window.
Declan lies on my couch, shirtless, one arm thrown above his head, the other resting on his stomach. In the darkness, I can see every damn sexy quality about the arrogant asshole: his tattoos, the hard planes of his chest, the defined muscles of his abdomen, the trail of hair disappearing beneath the waistband of his boxers.
I see some scars, too, that I never noticed. One across his ribs, another on his shoulder.
His face is different in sleep. Gentler. The hard lines around his mouth softened. No trace of the cocky smile, though I kind of like it now. He looks almost peaceful.
"Are you watching me sleep?"
I nearly jump out of my skin. His eyes are still closed, but that damn smile plays at his lips.
"What? No. I was—" I turn toward the kitchen, fumbling for the light switch. "Water. I was getting water."
"Sure." He sits up, the blanket falling to his waist. The muscles in his shoulders flex with the movement. "Like what you see?"
I laugh, aiming for casual dismissal but landing somewhere between nervous and breathless. "You wish."
In the kitchen, I grab a glass from the cabinet and fill it with water that I don't want. I commit to the thought, and drink it anyway.
I feel his eyes on me, following every movement. Heat crawls up my neck.
