Page 88 of Killaney Blood
"Thank fucking god," I breathe, slumping back against the headboard.
As my vision sharpens, I get a better look at the stranger. He's got the same beautiful features as Declan, but where Declan's built like a boxer, this guy is leaner.
"You must be his brother?" I ask.
He nods. "Yes, I'm Callum."
I shake my head, trying to clear the persistent fog, wiping my palms down my face.
"I'm—"
"Oh, I know who you are," he interrupts, sitting forward slightly.
Something in his tone makes the hair on the back of my neck stand. "You do?"
He smiles. "Lyra Cassidy. Twenty-five. Former nurse for the Albanian mob in Boston."
I freeze. My last name. He knows my last name. Of course he does. The Killaneys wouldn't let their precious prince near someone without a thorough background check.
"Yep," I say.
"Your father's dead, which given what he did, I'm assuming you didn't cry over. Your mother moved to California, though she still keeps in touch with your sister, Nora. Who, interestingly enough, thinks you're dead."
My breath catches. Nora. My spine straightens, every muscle in my body tensing. How deep did they dig? What else do they know?
"How the hell?—"
"She's engaged, by the way. Recently," Callum continues, his tone conversational, as if we're discussing the weather. "To a Max Perkins. Did you know that?"
A slow, cold panic trickles through me. How the fuck does he know that? How close was he watching me, or her?
"You can leave my sister out of this," I say, my voice low and tight, a protective instinct sparking to life in my chest.
Callum tilts his head. "You wouldn't want anything to happen to her, would you?"
"What the fuck do you mean by that?" Heat flushes my face, anger pushing through the lingering weakness.
He leans back slightly, his eyes never leaving mine. "It's a simple question, Lyra. Answer it."
"No, of course not." The words feel torn from my throat.
He nods, satisfied. "Okay, so we both agree putting our siblings in danger isn't a good thing."
"I didn't put Declan in?—"
He holds up a hand, silencing me mid-sentence.
"This is how I see it." His tone shifts, colder now, less charming. "You used to work for the Albanians. How you came to them is irrelevant."
"Is it?" I can't help the bitterness in my voice.
"For me, yes. Was it shitty and fucked up for you? One hundred percent. Would I do it? No. If I had kids, I'd kill every motherfucker on earth before I'd let someone take my daughter." He pauses, clearing his throat. "But I don't know you. I know of you, your whole Ghost Angel thing, what you did, how you became the nurse for my brother and his damn fucking fighting shit that he refuses to quit. But now he's laid out on a dining room table because someone came after him."
"I saved him, you know," I say, jabbing a finger toward my chest. "Me. I stitched him up. I gave him my blood."
"I know," Callum says smoothly. "That's why you woke up."
His thinly veiled response hangs in the air between us. If I hadn't saved Declan, I wouldn't be breathing right now.
