Quick note before you proceed (sorry I added more words to the previous chapter, Because the new chapter I initially planned and wrote was too short so I joined it with the previous chapter, so please go back to read so you can understand this new chapter)
Enjoy! ♡(´ε｀ )
KIERAN:
She looked at me like I'd just sentenced her to life in prison.
Or worse, like I'd eaten the last cup of her precious ramen and licked the bowl clean in front of her. Poor thing.
"I'm not leaving," I said again, just to hear the way her breath caught. She looked like she was calculating whether she could commit a murder and get away with it.
I leaned back on the couch, letting the scratchy blanket fall from my shoulders. This thing had smelled like lavender and baby powder when they'd first tossed it over me ten days ago. Now it smelled like blood, ointment, and too many sleepless nights.
I had to admit, the past week and a half had been… an experience.
Between Rocco's endless humming (he had ten versions of the same damn song and sang them all off-key) and Kyle's need to test every fire alarm in the building with his cooking, my recovery had been anything but peaceful. They treated my temporary hideout like a college dorm with free wifi and no adult supervision.
And the apartment, hell. The first time I looked around properly, I thought someone had already ransacked it. Then I realized, no. That was just the interior design.
Her kitchen faucet leaked like it was trying to confess something. Half the lights flickered like a horror movie was about to start. Her rice cooker should be declared an act of war. The couch I was sleeping on had a spring that kept finding new ways to stab me. And I'm pretty sure the ceiling in the bathroom dripped when it rained.
But it was hers.
All of it was very… Kina.
A weird combination of cute clutter, peeling wallpaper, and quiet desperation that made me stare too long sometimes. She had one pink mug with a broken handle she still used like it was fine. A post-it on the fridge that said "You're not a loser. You have a plant." (The plant was dead, by the way.)
She was trying. And failing. And still trying.
And I hated how familiar that looked.
I spent most of the first five days in a haze—feverish, stitched, sleeping in short bursts and dreaming of blood. But three days ago, I could finally move. Not far. But enough.
That morning, she'd left for work after tripping over Kyle's boots and muttering threats under her breath. Kyle had gone out to restock the "correct cereal" like his life depended on it. Which left me alone in the apartment with Rocco.
Well. Not alone for long.
I was trying to sit upright, pain pulsing through my side in time with my heartbeat, when I noticed Rocco lingering by the window. Watching the street.
He didn't say anything at first.
Just tapped his fingers against the sill, his shoulders tense in a way that didn't match his usual sunny disposition. Then he checked his phone. Glanced toward the door. Waited another full minute like Kyle might suddenly walk back in.
Then finally, he turned to face me. And just like that, the mood shifted. No jokes. No humming. No chaos.
Just quiet.
"You planning to ignore the elephant in the room forever?" he asked.
I looked at him, jaw clenched. "What elephant?"
Rocco gave me a look. The kind that cut straight through the bullshit.
"The one that bleeds," he said. "The one that nearly got you dying in this poor girl's apartment. The one that's putting us all at risk every second we stay here."
I didn't answer. Because he was right. And I hated that.
He stepped closer, arms folded. "You wanna tell me who paid to those roaches to pull the trigger?"
My fingers twitched against the couch. The bullet wound throbbed like it had been waiting to join the conversation.
"I don't know yet," I muttered. "I've got a number of men who'd pay to have my head on a plate."
It wasn't a lie. Not fully. I had suspicions. Faces that weren't so hard to believe had turned on me. People too close. People I'd fed. Raised. Trusted. In my line of work, getting stabbed in the back was a regular Tuesday but no one dared to... not with me, not until that night at least.
But I didn't have a lead.
Not yet.
Rocco crouched beside me. His voice dropped. "Kieran… you're the King. You can't play dead forever. Whoever did this, they're not done."
I looked past him, toward the hallway. Kina's bedroom door was cracked open. Her slippers were still by the bathroom. Her towel hung crookedly on the hook.
She didn't know who I was.
Not really.
She didn't know how many people wanted me dead. Or how many I'd put in the ground to protect what was mine.
And the worst part?
She didn't deserve to know. This place, her life, wasn't built for men like me.
But I was here anyway. Wounded. Cornered. Hunted. And I was starting to realize… I didn't want to leave.
"Any news?" I asked, my voice low as I shifted against the pillow, propping myself just enough to see Rocco better.
Rocco didn't blink. "You mean the whispers? Or the ones with teeth?"
"All of it."
Rocco didn't answer right away. He pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket, fished one out, and lit it with a flick of silver. The smoke curled around his head like some kind of crown. That smug bastard.
"Some of my boys sniffed around the Vault Sector," he said finally, exhaling slow like he was savoring the moment. "Went by Blackhall."
Blackhall. That place was practically its own little kingdom. One of the more aggressive nests under my jurisdiction, loud, bloody, and filled with men who liked chaos a little too much.
"What'd they find?" I asked, though I already had a feeling.
Rocco gave me a long look, like he wasn't sure I wanted the truth. But he'd never been the type to sugarcoat shit.
"Lot of noise. Your name's on everyone's tongue. Some say you're dead. Took a bullet to the head and the people after you dumped your body in the river." He paused to take another drag. "Others say you're in hiding. Like prey. Injured. Playing ghost. But the loudest rumor?" He looked at me through the smoke. "They think you went missing on purpose. The king got tired. That he's watching. Planning. Biding his time to show up and raise hell."
I snorted.
"Smart bastards," I said, letting a laugh curl out of me. "Guess they're about to be right."