Page 138 of Crown of Lies

But right now, all we’ve got is a pile of old drawings and a target on our backs.

I push aside the sketchbook and go back to massaging my temples. The Saint and the remaining Princes of Carnage—two threats, each ominous in their own right. We’ve managed to hold them at bay so far, but it’s a delicate balance.

There’s no doubt in my mind that we’re spread too thin. One attack could leave us vulnerable to the other.

Zoey and Stefan haven’t made a move yet, but they’re out there, biding their time. Our scouts report their growing numbers, their weapons. We may have dealt them a blow, but they’re not finished. Not by a long shot.

Meanwhile, The Saint, ever-elusive, is like a ghost that’s still haunting us. I shake my head, trying to clear the ominous thoughts. We can’t let our guard down, but the more we focus on defending against the remaining Princes, the less we watch for The Saint. It’s a game of cat and mouse, and we’re struggling to keep up.

My hands are restless, tapping against the table. I scan another sketch, this one a detailed drawing of a city street I don’t recognize. As I move to set it aside, my fingers catch, tearing the page.

“Shit.” I frown at the torn paper, a mix of emotions washing over me. Regret for damaging my father’s work tangles with the frustration of our current situation.

“Why didn’t you tell me about this, Dad?” I ask the air, my voice tinged with grief. “Why leave me with this mess?”

The unanswered questions hang heavy, adding to the weight on my shoulders.

I smooth the torn page, trying to will away the damage. It’s a wasted effort. The rip only serves as a reminder of how little I have left of him.

Sighing, I return to the task at hand, flipping through more sketches. But my heart isn’t in it anymore. The same shapes and lines blur together, offering no answers.

The silence is broken by the sound of footsteps. Killian walks in, his eyes immediately going to the chaos of papers. He takes in the scene, that observant gaze never faltering.

“Still no luck finding the symbol?” he asks, his voice low and steady.

I let out a frustrated huff. “It’s not here.” I gesture to the mess on the floor. “Years of his work and nothing. No clues. Just useless pretty pictures.”

He steps farther into the room, his eyes never leaving mine. “What do you want me to do?”

“Not much left to go through at this point. So… whatever.” I shrug, feeling defeated. “Whatever you think will help.”

I watch as Killian considers my words, his eyes scanning the mess of papers one last time. Then he nods, a look of determination crossing his face. He strides across the room toward me, his movements purposeful.

Without a word, he takes my hand, his grip firm but gentle. I feel a jolt of surprise as he leads me out of the room, leaving the scattered pages of my dad’s artwork behind.

“What are you doing?” I ask, not even trying to hide my confusion and curiosity.

He doesn’t answer, just continues to guide me through the house. My mind races as we climb the stairs, trying to figure out what he’s up to.

We reach my room, and he heads straight for my closet. I watch, bewildered, as he rummages through the hangers. After a moment, he pulls something out—a familiar outfit that makes my breath catch.

It’s an outfit I wore to Le Bal Masque. The memories of that night flood back—the music, the masks, the need for release.

Killian holds the outfit out to me. “Put this on,” he says, his voice low and intense.

I look up at Killian, my heart stuttering in my chest. His eyes are intense, focused entirely on me. It’s like he can see right through me, past all my defenses.

“That look on your face,” he says softly. “It’s the same one you had when you used to go to the club. When everything got too much and you needed a release.”

I swallow hard, surprised by how accurately he’s read me. It’s not just that he noticed—it’s that he remembers, that he’s paid such close attention. I’m not used to having people around who see through me so completely, who know me so deeply.

“I…” I start, but the words catch in my throat. How do I express how touched I am by this? How do I tell him that his understanding means more to me than I can say?

Instead, I reach out and take the outfit from him, my fingers brushing against his.

Killian nods, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “I’ll give you some privacy,” he says, turning to leave. “I’ve got something of my own to change into.”

As the door closes behind him, I look down at the outfit in my hands. Memories of nights at the club flood back—the pulsingmusic, the anonymity of the masks, the freedom to just… be. I slip into the familiar clothes, then step out into the hallway once I’m fully dressed.

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