Page 442 of Rage

My father shrugs. “I have two other daughters. They’re more than willing to serve the clan, their father, without question.”

On the outside, I’m a mask of cold disinterest. Inside, my chest feels as if it’s been sliced open with a rusted blade.

If I don’t take his decree, he'll impose it on one of my sisters. My beautiful, bright, sisters who don’t know an ounce of darkness in this world. Because I’ve kept it from them, let them live ignorant lives. I took the hits so they could thrive.

My father would shackle one of them to this monster before me and at their ages, they would agree. Just to make Ferguson happy.

I can’t let that happen. I can’t let my father break them. Not like how he broke me.

Lifting my chin, I snarl at them both, “Fine. I accept your decree.”

It’s better if it’s me, instead of them. I can handle the abuse, the shame.

Because even though Michael would control me, I’m not done fighting.

Once I have a plan, I’ll take back my power and my throne from them both.

Chapter Two

Killian

4 years ago

“Rough night?” I ask, teasing slightly.

Maeve looks up at me, bored.

There are dark circles under her eyes and her dark dripping strands fall across her oversized band tee. I don’t have the heart to tell her that it’s mine. Probably a mix-up from the housekeeper.

I came into the O’Brien clan at fourteen years old. At the time, Maeve was barely thirteen and yet, she was a legend on the streets. Cold, ruthless, she ran the boys better than men four times her age.

Her father took me in, gave me a bed and hot food. More than I had on the streets, where he found me, covered in some guy’s blood. It was a justified kill; the man had tried to take from another girl and as much as I didn’t care, I did.

Ferguson began to train me from that night on. I could defend myself, but he taught me what it took to live in this life, to be as cruel as those who would take from you. I became a protégé of sorts to the Captain. I gladly lapped up the attention and the status in his ranks.

Maeve and I got on as well as fire and gasoline.

Now, at sixteen, she was a powerhouse in her own right. The heir to a lucrative business, Maeve was poised to take over for her father. She ran the books, knew of all the shipments and could control all the main players without breaking a sweat. She was good with a gun but better with a knife.

I would never tell her this, but she scared me a little.

Maeve didn’t like me and I didn’t really care. She was a rival, one who I knew intimately well. I knew how she took her coffee. I knew her favorite poet. I knew her favorite bug. I made it my life’s work to know Maeve O’Brien.

“Something like that,” she deadpans, flipping a page in her book. A steaming mug of coffee sits at her elbow and the early morning light filters into the kitchen, highlighting her big green eyes. They look like twin emeralds, sitting in a pale, elfish face.

I see the slice in her cheek as she moves, the purple imprints along her long neck.

Fingerprints.

Someone grabbed her neck—a neck no one should have been touching.

Going to the fridge, I wrap a towel around some ice and hold it to her neck. She winces and I can’t tell if it’s from pain or fear.

Maeve doesn't fear anything. She never has; she certainly never fears me like she should. Whatever she experienced has left a lasting impression.

I shouldn’t care. She’s my childhood rival, someone I work to unnerve. Do you know how hard it is to work at every single skill because a girl younger than you is just better, naturally?

A better shot. A better leader. Better at everything.

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