Killian felt his vision waver. The edges frayed to a dull gray. He struggled not to blink, terrified that he might close his eyes and find himself on the ground.
“Sir.”
There was a hand on his shoulder. A massive hand with long, thick fingers that could cover a man’s entire face. It was gentle, but the weight of it held Killian in place and he realized he’d started towards the house.
“I must insist you leave this matter to me,” Frank finished, his voice oddly distant. “I will bring you my report tomorrow.”
Killian shook his head. “I’m not leaving.”
Frank knew better than to push it. He quietly accepted Killian’s decision and waited.
Juliette was another matter.
“There’s nothing you can do here,” she whispered. “Come home. We’ll call the police and—”
“We’re not calling the police.” Killian muttered, watching as his men stumbled out of the house one by one. “Clean it up, Frank.”
Juliette stiffened. “No, you can’t touch it. The police—”
“There is nothing they can do.” He finally forced his neck to the side to peer down at her. “This was a message for me and I need to handle it.”
“Handle it? What are you talking about? This is a job for the authorities!”
Any other time, the bewilderment on her face would have been comical. It was clear that she had faith in the system. She honestly believed they would be able to handle this and he didn’t have the heart to tell her they couldn’t. He didn’t have the energy to do anything.
“You should go home,” he decided.
Juliette immediately recoiled like the very idea disgusted her. “No! I won’t leave you like this.”
But he didn’t want her there. He didn’t want her to see him like that. He couldn’t think or let himself grieve properly when he worried about scaring her or letting her see a side of him he never wanted her to see. He couldn’t be himself when she was there.
“You need to leave,” he told her with as much patience and cogency as he could muster without actually snarling at her. “You need to leave now.”
She shook her head. “No, please, don’t.” Tears crystalized along her lashes. “You don’t have to do this. You don’t have to … you’re not alone this time. I’m here. Please let me … no!” She tore away from the hand Frank settled lightly on her arm. “I’m not leaving, damn it! Please just talk to me! Let me in. We can get through this. Please, Killian!”
Get through this.
He wondered for a moment what that meant. What was she thinking? Did she honestly believe he could walk away? That he could let this go unanswered? Did she really think he’d be able to sleep knowing he’d failed Molly twice? Maybe she expected him to grieve like a normal person, to take flowers to Molly’s headstone once a week and pray she was in a better place. That was what people expected, he supposed. They put their faith in the authorities and trusted their problems would be solved.
It didn’t work that way in his world. They couldn’t do a damn when his mother had been kidnapped. They hadn’t done anything when his father was shot. He really didn’t believe they would do anything now and Molly deserved better.
Small hands curled into the soft material of his lapel. Wide, brown eyes peered up at him imploringly.
“You’re better than this.”
He froze at that. Not because of the words themselves, but because of the absolute conviction in her eyes. She genuinely believed he was worthy of redemption. No doubt she worried about tainting his soul further, but he still wasn’t so sure he had a soul and if he did, it was beyond saving. Truthfully, he couldn’t give a shit about it. Let the devil take it. What good was it to him anyway? The only one concerned about it was her and she needed to stop. She needed to stop trying to save him. She needed to stop being there. Her insistence to stay by his side infuriated him beyond reason. It made him want to punch a wall. How could she still want to stay after this? How could she not see that Molly had stayed? She had fought him too. She had refused his every demand she stay away. Now, there was no one left. He was alone. Again.
“Killian…”
“Leave.” The single word ripped from his very gut. It rang low, but with an unmistakable clarity. “Now.” Juliette started to open her mouth. He could see the protest and refusal and he snapped. “Leave!”
His snarl had the required affect. Her mouth closed. Her fingers loosened their crushing grip on his coat. She seemed to rock back onto her heels. The motion barely put a sliver of space between them, but it could have been the world for the way his insides dipped. Color that had nothing to do with the cold kissed her cheeks pink under the stray wisps of hair drifting lazily across her face.
Her hands dropped to her sides with her deliberate step back. It was just a foot, but, with the absence of her heat. The space seemed to crackle with ice.
“There is nothing down this road for you,” she whispered at last, filling the void with a white plume of breath. “But I’m here and I care about you.”
With that, she walked away from him and climbed into the back of the SUV. Frank said something to Marco. Then they were gone. She was gone. He should have been relieved.
“Sir—”
“Don’t.” The warning sizzled in the air between them. “Find who did this. Then find out where I can get my hands on them.”
Maraveet was gone when Killian got home. He knew she would be. His sister wouldn’t stay to face another death, especially not when she’d warned him it would happen. For years Maraveet had been chiding him for his attachment to things. She’d berated him for his weakness, his need for a semblance of normality.
“We’re not normal,” she was forever telling him. “We can’t afford to pretend.”
She’d been right. If he had listened, Molly wouldn’t need a pine box.
Frank hadn’t let him go in. Killian could have anyway. Ultimately, he was the boss. But he hadn’t. He couldn’t. Torn to pieces was not how he wanted to remember her. That was how she was brought out, in thick, black bags along with her husband. They had filled too many to be one whole piece.
Someone had taken their time. Had enjoyed themselves. They had made sure there was no doubt in Killian’s mind that he’d pissed someone off. It was an unmistakable message and Killian knew all about leaving this type of message.
He’d been sixteen when his father’s throne had become his. He hadn’t even lost his virginity and yet he was responsible for an entire empire and expected to run it as well, if not better. But he had accepted. He had claimed his future out of sheer greed and vengeance. It was with the knowledge that with his family’s extensive contact list and resources, he would find the people responsible for the slaughter of his parents and put an end to them. He was certain that had it not been for Frank and Molly, he would have gone crazy. That the darkness would have driven him even deeper into that place no child should ever have to face. But they had held him grounded. Frank had protected his body, but Molly had been his sanity. She had saved his life.
No one understood the pain of walking into the place he had always considered his haven and feeling the walls shift around him. No one understood why he couldn’t even walk past his parent’s bedroom or why the places their pictures had once hung lay barren. They weren’t there the nights he’d wake up and swear blood was oozing from the cracks in the ceiling. Molly had begged him to leave the estate, to sell it, to get away from that life before it was too late, but that was just it. It was already too late. There was no help for him.
By nineteen he’d already had more blood on his hands than anyone his age ever should. He had basked in the deaths of his enemies. He had thrived on their pleas, on their suffering and, oh, had he made sure they suffered. He had left no one.
Word of what he’d done spread like gasoline on open flames. It ignited a frenzy of rumors that were beyond ridiculous, everything from him bathing in their blood to putting their mutilated bodies on spikes outside their homes. None of which was true, but he never corrected them. Before long, he was The Scarlet Wolf and he never corrected that either.