Page 25 of Crown of Lies

8

QUINN

I won’t repeatthe same mistake twice.

That’s the mantra that I recite as I head upstairs and into my bathroom. I won’t let the Princes get close to me. I won’t let my guard down.

Things won’t go back to the way they were—or at least, the way Ithoughtthey were before my whole world imploded.

I have to keep my guard up, I know that. We might be working together, but that doesn’t mean anything, not really. They were willing to throw me under the bus before I found out the truth, so what does knowing the truth change?

I have to assume, nothing.

That thought only expands the empty feeling in my chest as I start pulling out first aid equipment to treat my wrists with. My father raised me with the hope that I would always be able to hold my own, no matter the situation. What would he say if he could see me now? If he knew what position I’d gotten myself in?

He’d help pick me up, no questions asked.

I miss him so fucking much.

Thinking about him, my mind slips to what Atlas asked earlier.

Could my father have something to do with The Saint? And if so, why wait this long before making a move?

“You’re not cleaning your wounds.”

I practically leap out of my skin at the sudden sound of Killian’s voice. I turn to him, glaring.

“Fuck off.”

“No.”

He steps into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. It’s so easy, how he turns a simple, small room into a cage with just his presence.

“I said fuck off,” I snap, stepping back. I bump into the sink, knocking over a few bottles, and bite back a curse. Perfect. Killian doesn’t move, and his lack of reaction only fuels my frustration further.

“I heard you.” His even, almost casual tone is infuriating. That’s the only casual thing about him though. I can tell by the way he’s looking at me that he’s taking in every detail, every bruise and scrape. “But you’re hurt, and you’re not going to be able to bandage?—”

“I don’t need any help.” I cut him off mid-sentence, turning my head away. “Not from you or anyone else.”

“Always has to be the hard way with you,” he mutters. It’s a statement, not a question, and I hate that it’s mostly true.

I start to open the first aid kit, then stop myself. My hands are still half-numb and shaky from being bound above my head for so long, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to give Killian the satisfaction of watching me struggle.

“Fine,” I say through gritted teeth. “But that’s all you’re doing. Just help and get out. Got it?”

He doesn’t answer, but I’m pretty sure I can see the hint of a smirk playing across his lips as he takes the kit from my hands and starts preparing the items with an efficiency clearly born from experience.

“Hold still,” he tells me, moving closer until my body is trapped between his large frame and the sink.

His movements are slow and careful as he cleans my cuts, his face intense with concentration. I find my eyes trailing over his features—the strong line of his jaw, the hint of a five o’clock shadow, the way his bicep flexes slightly with every subtle move he makes.

The bathroom falls silent except for the quiet sounds of our breathing and the steady work he’s doing—the rip of medical tape, the crinkle of bandage wrappings. I watch his face, the slight crease between his brows as he concentrates. His lips are set in a tight line, jaw clenched.

Finally, he breaks the silence. “You fucked him.”

It’s not a question, just a simple statement of fact.

My heart lurches in my chest for some reason, but I shove down that reaction, bristling at his blunt words. “That’s none of your business.”

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