Page 39 of Crown of Lies

Killian takes another step closer, his eyes never leaving mine. I tighten my grip on the knife, but he doesn’t seem fazed.

“Look, Quinn,” he says, his voice low and steady. “I won’t deny that we were enemies, rivals with Enigma. But celebrating your father’s death? That’s not who we are.”

I start to say something but he continues, undeterred.

“When he died, we assumed everything here would fall apart. But it didn’t. You stepped up, took control with a steady hand. Nothing crumbled. If anything, you made the gang stronger. That’s not something we could ignore or take lightly.”

His words hit me like a punch to the gut, ripping open old wounds and soothing the ache in my chest at the same time. The tears that I’ve finally gotten in check are threatening to fall again, and before I can stop it, a sob escapes my lips.

Then another. And another.

I cover my mouth with my free hand, trying desperately to hold back the flood of emotions threatening to overwhelm me.

Killian watches me for a few moments, silently observing like he always does as I struggle to get my shit together.

“What does it feel like?” he finally asks. “To miss someone that much?”

The question catches me off guard, and I find myself answering before I can think better of it.

“It feels like a part of you is missing that will never come back. There’s this hole inside you, this emptiness that threatens to swallow you up if you get too close to it.”

My voice cracks, and I hate how vulnerable I sound. But once I start, I can’t seem to stop. “Every day, you wake up and for a split second, you forget. And then it hits you all over again, likea sucker punch to the gut. And you have to learn how to breathe again, how to exist in a world where they’re gone.”

Killian nods, his face an unreadable mask. His composure grates on my already frayed nerves. Here I am, spilling my guts out, and he’s standing there like we’re discussing the fucking weather.

Anger flares up inside me, hot and sudden. “What about you, huh?” I snap, my grip tightening on the knife. “You ever lose a parent, Killian? Do you even know what it feels like? Or did you just not give a shit when they died?”

I watch his face closely, searching for any crack in his chiseled features. Part of me wants to see him hurt, to make him feel even a fraction of the pain that’s tearing me apart inside. But another part—well, I don’t know what the fuck that part wants, if I’m being honest. And lashing out like this is a hell of a lot easier than therapy.

A look I can’t read passes over Killian’s face. His eyes darken and his jaw tightens as he begins to speak.

“Both of my parents are dead,” he says, his voice flat. “But it’s not the same. My mother tried to kill me when I was eight years old. When I killed her instead, all I felt was relief.”

I blink, the shock of his words jolting me out of my own feelings, if only for a few seconds. “What?”

His gaze doesn’t waver as he continues. “My father was never in the picture. It was just me and my mother. She…” He pauses, swallowing hard. “She was violent. Mean. Abusive.”

My grip on the knife loosens as I listen, stunned into silence.

“When I was eight, she tried to drown me in the river,” Killian says, his voice eerily calm. “I fought back. In the struggle, I ended up drowning her instead.”

I feel the blood drain from my face as I try to process what he’s telling me. The image of a young Killian fighting for his life against his own mother is almost too much to bear.

“After that, I left her body and lived on the streets,” he continues. “Did what I had to do to survive.”

I stare at him, my mind reeling. The knife in my hand suddenly feels heavy, and I let it clatter to the floor. This quiet, violent man I thought I knew—there’s so much more to him than I ever realized. A deeper pain than I could have imagined.

My throat feels tight as I try to process everything he’s told me. The abuse, the struggle for survival, the weight of taking a life when he was so young—even if it was self-defense. It’s almost too much to comprehend.

I open my mouth, but no words come out. What could I possibly say? How do I respond to something like that? The silence stretches between us, thick and uncomfortable.

Before I can figure out what to say, he steps closer. His hand reaches out, gently tilting my chin up so I’m looking directly into his eyes.

“Quinn,” he says softly, his voice low and intense. “As painful as mourning is, it’s a gift in a way. You loved someone enough to be sad when they were gone. I never had that with my own mother.”

His words hit me like a punch to the gut, knocking the air from my lungs. I feel fresh tears welling up in my eyes, and Killian’s thumb brushes them away gently.

Without thinking, I find myself leaning into his touch. My chest aches with a confusing mix of emotions—grief for my father, sympathy for Killian, anger and apprehension at the situation we’re all in right now.

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