Page 61 of Crown of Lies

The implications of that statement hang heavy in the air. If The Saint isn’t buying our ruse anymore, we’re in deeper shit than we realized.

“He might have figured out we’re working together,” I say, voicing the fear that’s been gnawing at me since the attack. “If that’s the case, we need to reevaluate our entire strategy.”

Atlas runs a hand through his hair, his expression grim. “If he knows, we’ve lost our biggest advantage. We’re back to square one, with the added risk of him coming after all of us now.”

I blink, trying to focus on the conversation, but my thoughts keep slipping away before I can fully grasp them. The room feels too hot, too small. I’m not sure if it’s the after-effects of all the adrenaline in my system or some sort of PTSD response from all my old trauma, but I need to get it under control.

The last thing I need right now is for my body to start giving out on me.

“We need to…” I start, but the words trail off as a wave of nausea hits me. My skin prickles, a cold sweat breaking out across my forehead.

Atlas is saying something, but his voice sounds distant, muffled. I nod, pretending to follow along, but the truth is that I’m barely holding it together.

“Quinn?” Killian’s voice cuts through the fog. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

I open my mouth to reassure him, but the lie won’t come. My legs feel wobbly, and I reach out to steady myself against the wall.

“I’m fine,” I manage to croak out, but even I can hear how unconvincing it sounds.

Killian steps closer, his eyes narrowing as he examines me. “You’re pale as a fucking ghost, and you’re shaking.”

I want to brush off his concern, to be the tough-as-nails Quinn they expect, but my body betrays me. A tremor runs through me, and I can’t stop it.

“It’s nothing,” I insist, but my voice wavers. “We need to focus on what this means for?—”

“Shit,” Killian interrupts, his gaze fixed on my side. “You’re bleeding.”

I look down, surprised to see a dark stain spreading across my shirt. How did I not notice that?

“Your stitches.” His expression is as carefully schooled as ever, but the tightness in his voice betrays at least a hint of emotion. Is he worried about me? “They must have torn during the fight.”

I stare down at my bloodstained shirt, feeling oddly detached from the situation. It’s like I’m watching this happen to someone else.

Killian’s voice cuts through my daze. “Come on, I need to take a look at that. Upstairs, now.”

I blink, trying to focus. “But we need to talk about?—”

“We’ll talk later. First, we deal with this.”

I glance at Atlas, half-expecting him to object. But he just nods, his gaze flicking from me to Killian and back again. “Go. I’ll clean up down here.”

Killian’s hand on my arm is surprisingly gentle but still insistent as he half-guides, half-pushes me up the stairs. I follow, my legs feeling like lead with each step.

We reach my bedroom, and I wince at the mess. The overturned dresser, shattered glass, and scattered belongings take me right back to the fight, right back to the trauma.

“I think I might throw up,” I say, more to myself than Killian.

He steers me toward the bed, steadying me for those last few steps. “Sit. I need to take a look at those stitches.”

I perch on the edge of the mattress, grateful to be off my feet and suddenly very aware of how close he is. He kneels in front of me, his eyes level with mine.

“I need you to take that shirt off for me.” His tone is even and commanding, and his deep voice soothes the wild panic inside me, just a little. “Can you do that, or do you need help?”

I shake my head, my fingers fumbling with the hem. “I’ve got it.”

I manage to shrug off the shirt, hissing quietly as the movement pulls at the opening wound. Killian’s eyes narrow as he examines me.

“Yeah, you definitely tore a few stitches,” he says, then disappears into the bathroom for a moment before returning with the first aid kit. “I can patch it up, but it’s going to hurt.”

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