Page 12 of Knuckles & Knives
My temple spikes dangerously. This bastard—this beautiful, arrogant bastard—is standing here making veiled threats about rewriting history while my father’s blood is metaphorically on his family’s hands.
“Some stories are harder to rewrite than others,” I say softly, letting him hear the steel beneath the silk. “Especially when the main character refuses to stay dead.”
“Resurrection can be temporary,” Kieran replies, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. “Especially for those foolish enough to challenge forces beyond their understanding.”
“Is that what you think this is? A challenge?”
“Isn’t it?” His hand comes up to trace along my jaw, the touch feather-light but somehow scorching. “Vincent Blackwood’s daughter returned from the grave to reclaim her birthright. It reads like a fairy tale.”
“Fairy tales usually end with someone getting eaten by wolves.”
“Or with true love conquering all.” His thumb brushes across my lower lip, and I have to fight the urge to bite him. “Which story are we telling?”
The sexual tension crackling between us is undeniable and completely infuriating. This man—this enemy—shouldn’t be able to affect me like this. He shouldn’t be able to arouse me with nothing more than a touch and that knowing smirk.
“We’re not telling any story,” I say, stepping back from his touch before I do something spectacularly stupid. “This isn’t a negotiation or a seduction. This is a reckoning.”
“A reckoning.” Kieran seems to roll the word around in his mouth like fine wine. “How dramatic. How… final.”
“Some things deserve a dramatic ending.”
“And some things deserve a second chance.” His expression shifts, becoming something almost vulnerable before he locks it away behind his perfectly controlled mask. “Your father and I… we had our differences, but I respected him. Even admired him in some ways.”
“Funny way of showing admiration. Having someone murdered in their own home.”
Kieran’s composure cracks just enough for me to see the flash of something raw and angry beneath the surface. “You think you know what happened that night? You think you understand the choices that were made?”
“I understand enough.”
“You understand nothing.” His voice goes hard, cold as winter steel. “You were a sheltered princess playing at being dangerous while real monsters moved in the shadows around your father’s empire. The fact that you’re standing here proves how little you actually know about the world you’re trying to reclaim.”
The condescension in his tone makes my vision go red around the edges. “Sheltered princess? Is that what you think I am?”
“Aren’t you? Vincent’s precious daughter kept safe and innocent while he built his kingdom on blood and bones. What could you possibly know about real power? Real sacrifice?”
“I know what it feels like to watch everything you love burn,” I spit back, letting him see the fury I usually keep locked away. “I know what it’s like to rebuild yourself from ashes and pain,and I know exactly what I’m capable of when someone threatens what’s mine.”
“Touching but passion without power is just noise.” Kieran’s smile turns predatory. “And you, little bird, are all alone in a very dangerous world.”
“She’s not alone.”
The voice cuts through our confrontation like a blade, and I turn to see Dom approaching with murder in his dark eyes. He moves like a force of nature, all controlled violence and protective fury, and suddenly the air between us becomes thick with the promise of bloodshed.
“Vega,” Kieran acknowledges coolly, though I notice he doesn’t back away from me. “How good of you to rejoin us.”
“Step away from her,” Dom orders, his voice carrying the kind of authority that comes from years of being feared. “Now.”
“Or what?” Kieran’s amusement is obvious and insulting. “You’ll add another Sterling to your body count? We both know how well that worked out the last time.”
Interesting. I didn’t know there was history between them.
Dom’s hands clench into fists, and I can practically see him calculating the best way to cave in Kieran’s skull.
“Dom,” I say quietly, stepping between them before this escalates into actual violence. “It’s fine.”
“Like hell it is.” His attention snaps to me, and I see hurt mixing with the rage in his expression. “This bastard’s family killed your father, and you’re standing here letting him put his hands on you like some lovesick teenager.”
The accusation stings because there’s just enough truth in it to bite. “I can handle myself.”
