Page 4

He was a miserable guy, and I hope he’s rotting in hell.

Ben: Be there soon.

Hurry up. I’m freezing my nuts off.

Ben: You’ll live.

Rolling my eyes, I slide the phone into my back pocket and throw the hood up over my head. Long umber strands fall into my eyes, shielding them from the flakes. I learned a long time ago how to make people stop being interested in me. Bangs in my face, a black sweatshirt, and I’m a hoodlum on the street. No one wants that.

Thankfully, it stops people from noticing my telling trait. In Boston, it’s my eyes. They’re uncut emeralds that shine in the dark. My sisters and I all sport them, inherited from our mother, and it’s become synonymous with the O’Brien name. In this city, hell, world, where I’m hunted for monetary sport, it’s best if no one sees them.

“Cold?”

My body stiffens, but I continue looking out into the busy street. Pedestrians hunker into their coats, bracing against the wind. The slush of yesterday’s snowstorm lodges under their boots. I wonder if any have fallen? It’d be funny if they did.

“What are you doing here?”

Killian Linwood leans against me, shoulders brushing. The sharp scent of mint coupled with tobacco wraps around me in a familiar hug, but I don’t turn.

“If you’re cold, you could just come home.” He tugs on the puffy black vest over my arms, lips curling. “For a rich hacker, I expected better clothing choices to endure Boston’s winter.”

Yanking away, I glare at him. He’s two inches taller, but Killian has always seemed larger than life to me. He was the only male figure I looked up to—having come into the clan when he was a young teen, and I was still a kid. I remember all the stories he told my sisters and me during the thunderstorms. Rich Korean mythology—tales he said his mother used to read to him when he was scared.

Times were easier back then.

“You didn’t track me down to criticize my clothing.”

“No?” His brow raises, and his black, almond eyes harden. They’re soulless, and many find them unnerving. I don’t.

I’ve looked into the faces of actual killers. Killian Linwood might be an assassin for hire; he might enjoy it, but we’re both products of our environment. He just learned to enjoy the carnage, whereas I left it behind.

I made myself a promise—I refused to become my father; another angry man, a blight on this world. My oldest sister took to our world, one sister hid from it, and another was forced into it. But I won’t let it take me, too.

“I mean, you might have. You have a weird fascination with people.” I look over his shoulder. “Is my sister here?”

“No.”

“Maeve kick you out of her bed again?” I tease. “Just a few months and already--”

“She’s home,” he says, pulling out a cigarette. “It’s Saturday. She’s trying this new thing. Family dinners. Everyone is there.” He looks up at me, butt hanging from the corner of his mouth. “She wants you there.”

“Kind of defeats the purpose of me hiding, if I show up on O’Brien territory and eat with the captain.”

He gives me a bored glare. “You’re good at sneaking around. Do that, and you should be fine.”

He’s not wrong. But there’s so much more than just assassins keeping me away.

“Did you come out in the middle of the night to give me a message?” I snort. “Whipped looks good on you, Reaper.”

Something glints in his eyes. Killian has never shied away from anyone thinking Maeve is his owner. In fact, I think he likes it that way. But he certainly doesn’t like me teasing him about it.

Oh well. Annoying little brother and all that.

“She doesn’t know I’m here.”

“Then go home, before you miss dessert.” I flick my fingers. “I’m busy.”

“I know you’re busy. You’ve been busy all over town.” He tosses the cigarette away, gripping my shoulder, and pins me to the brick wall. “Running around to different stores. Restaurants. Throwing cash at bars and running away. A few big purchases, too. You’ve plastered your face in clear view of anyone to find you.”