“Killian?” A grin spread across the woman’s face. “I knew he’d come.”
Panting, Juliette tightened her grip as they shuffled to the stairs. “Don’t forget the plan.”
Maraveet growled under her breath. “It’s a stupid plan! Let Killian kill them all.”
“No! You promised!”
Maraveet shook her head. “There’s something wrong with you. Fine,” she muttered when Juliette stopped walking. “I’ll follow the plan.”
Relieved that Killian would be one less thing she would need to worry about, Juliette started onward, dragging Maraveet up each step carefully. Her mind was a painfully organized compartment of everything she needed to do before the sun came up, everything she’d dutifully worked over and practiced in her head for the last two weeks. It didn’t even dawn on her that it wasn’t normal to be that calm about such a situation. In a reality, she should have been a mess. And she would be. Just not in that moment.
The revolting crack of flesh on bone greeted them at the top. The shrill cry of pain with every clap. The grunts that followed. Certain Cyril’s men had somehow gotten the upperhand, Juliette hurled herself and Maraveet through the door and into the second level.
Arlo stood exactly where she’d left him, by the patio doors, holding his gun out at men who weren’t even moving. Frank was at his shoulder, calmly watching the scene unfolding in the sitting area where Killian had Cyril pinned to the carpet. One knee was gouged into the younger man’s thin chest, spearing him to the ground as Killian beat all ten, balled fingers into his beautiful face, or what used to be beautiful. It was a broken, bloody mess.
“Killian!”
Juliette’s cry jarred him from the spell he seemed to be under, the one that had his face as dark as his eyes and his teeth bared like a wolf’s. His head snapped up, his nostrils flared as though anticipating the thought of beating the hell out of someone else. When he spotted no other threat, he let his hands drop. The torn and bleeding fingers unfurled at his sides.
“Mar?” Killian’s face went slack with shock. He pushed up, making sure to put his weight on the knee crushing Cyril’s chest. The boy gasped and curled onto his side. His entire body jerked with every cough. Blood speckled the ground by his face. Killian didn’t notice as he bound over the body and hurried to his sister. “What the hell are … what did they do to you?”
Maraveet groaned. “Had a tea party. They served the wrong tea. Things got real.”
“I’m going to fucking kill him!” he snarled, already turning back.
“No!” Juliette cried. “Maraveet needs a doctor. She’s hurt badly.”
That made him pause. His murderous gaze shot from Maraveet to Cyril, his mind visibly torn between helping his sister and killing the bastard who put her in the position. The right choice won when he reached for Maraveet with a frustrated growl.
“Come on.”
“God bless you.” Maraveet went into her brother’s arms. He scooped her up against his chest, and while the gesture was gentle, Maraveet cried out. “Gentle!” she snapped. “I’m fragile.”
Her teasing was met with a frown from Killian as he carted her to the patio doors. Another figure moved in as though anticipating and took Maraveet from him. He set her gently into the arms of one of his men and instructed him to take her straight to the car. Then he turned and motioned Juliette over.
“Go with them,” he ordered.
Juliette shook her head. “No, Marco—”
“I know.” His gaze flicked away from her, but not before she caught the pain in them. It radiated along the set slant of his jaw and ticked in the muscle in his cheek. “He’s not around anymore.”
Juliette tensed. “Did … did you…?”
Killian looked away, his jaw set. “No, he did it himself. Guilt and shame, I guess.”
She didn’t want to know what that meant, but she had a feeling that hurt Killian more than Marco’s betrayal had.
“Come with me,” she urged. “We’ll phone the police and—”
Frank stepped into the space behind Arlo, his massive frame filling the threshold.
“The ship has been cleared, sir. There were only the…” he trailed off as he studied the unmoving bodies strewn throughout the place with more than a little surprise. “Five men,” he finished lamely.
Killian nodded. “Get everyone restrained. Take Juliette to a car and drive her to the hospital straightaway. I will meet you there once I am finished here.”
“No!” Juliette turned to him. “I’m not going anywhere.”
It was ridiculous, only moments earlier, she couldn’t wait to get off that ship without a body bag. But she knew if she left, Killian would kill Cyril and all his men and, while they might deserve it, they didn’t deserve that piece of him. There had already been too much killing. It needed to stop. Someone needed to make it stop.
“You need to be seen,” Killian said firmly.
“I’m fine,” she insisted. “But please don’t do this. There has already been so much bloodshed and pointless deaths and it will never stop if you don’t stop it.”
“I say kill him,” Arlo piped in, his gun barrel never wavering from Cyril, who had struggled to his feet, his face bloody and his pretty suit ruined. His right eye had already swollen shut. “Toss him overboard and let someone find him in the spring.”
Killian never took his eyes off Juliette, his features thoughtful, his gaze searching. “If I let him live, he will come back. He will never stop. This is the only way.”
“No!” Her fingers tightened on his sleeves. “No, just call the police, let them take him in. I will testify. I will make sure he goes in—”
“He won’t stay there forever, Juliette,” Killian broke in. “And he deserves to die for what he did to you.”
And Molly and Maraveet, the voice in her head chimed.
“He and his family don’t deserve another piece of you,” she whispered. “Don’t give him what he wants.”
Killian frowned. “Family?”
“Fascinating, isn’t it?” Cyril’s voice broke through the silence that followed Juliette’s plea. “You can almost believe for a moment that she really could save you.”
Killian raised his eyes over Juliette’s head and pinned them on the man standing five feet away. He seemed to really be looking at him for the first time. Juliette couldn’t help wondering if he’d even said two words to Cyril before beating the shit out of him.
“Who…?” It seemed to dawn on him slowly. She could see the confusion melting into shock and confusion. The lines deepened as his eyes widened and his eyebrows lifted into his hairline. “Erik Yolvoski. How is this possible? You’re dead.”
Cyril smirked around a swollen mouth. “Perhaps I am a ghost.” He spread his arms out to his sides. “How else can I possibly be here, hmm?”
Killian’s shock wore down to annoyance that tightened the corners of his mouth. “I was at your funeral. I watched them put you into the ground.”
Cyril blinked. His head bent to one side as he regarded Killian with a new sort of suspicion.
“You went?” His lips curled back. “Why? To gloat?”
“You were fifteen. What pleasure was I to derive from your death?” Killian countered. “I went to pay my respects to a child who died too soon.”
“Or was it guilt?” Cyril spat back. Blood dribbled from his lip in a long, pinkish ooze of spit to stain his ruined top. “After all, you were the reason I needed to die, needed to erase myself from the world and start fresh.”
Killian’s shoulders lifted in a deep inhale that flared his nostrils. “I can’t help being disappointed,” he said at last, sadness weaving through the tight confession. “In my mind, I always saw you as that thirteen year old boy who threw himself in front of danger to protect his mother. The boy with so much potential. I honestly believed you would better yourself, change the course laid out before you. I thought perhaps seeing what happened would show you just how senseless this life really is. But here you are, doing exactly what your father would have.”