Page 444 of Rage

I groan, even though I don’t want to. Any bit of movement kills.

Killian leans against the doorway, a black bag at his feet.

I shoot him a dark look. “Don’t you have a flight to catch?” I’m not bitter about his ability to leave the house. His freedom to go about his life, killing in far off exotic locations.

Because that’s what Killian was trained to do. He’s a reaper, a hitman, and he’s damn good at it.

I am desperately, terribly bitter.

After my decree, my father forbade me from leaving the state. I was expected to be a good,obedientwife to Michael. That meant serving him in ways only a wife should and not traveling like Killian.

Killian, the boy who my father took off the street, who he allowed into our home. The boy who took my spot. Once Killian was here, I became obsolete.

I try turning to ignore the reaper but I wince, pain radiating through my torso.Definitely bruised.

Dropping to the spot next to me, Killian tugs at the hem of my shirt. “Let me see.”

“Fuck you,” I growl. This is a dance we’ve done before; Killian finds me broken and heals me. It’s not something I particularly like.

This means vulnerability. And I can't be vulnerable in this life.

I lean away from his touch, but I don’t get far. Everything hurts too much for me to actually do anything. Black spots dance in my vision and the world turns on its side.

Killian is on me before I can argue, yanking my shirt high.

He sucks in a deep breath.

Those cold black eyes shift from my face to my bandaged hand, then to my exposed ribs.

I see the flash of anger before he smothers it.

“What happened?”

I shake my head. “Nothing.” I lie.

Killian is my rival for my father’s affection, the son he wished he had with his first—the son he wishes he still had.

He’d use this against me. Tell my father. Tease me for it. Hell, he might even judge me.

I carry enough shame; I don’t need Killian Linwood adding to it.

He sits next to me, ignoring my protest as he lifts my shirt to inspect me closer. He pokes my side, and I yelp in pain before I can control it.

Probably cracked. Dammit.

“Someone used you as a punching bag, Princess.”

Glaring, I kick out with my boot-covered foot. The reaper easily bats it away with his shin. “Don’t fucking call me that.”

Leveling me a bored look, Killian pokes my ribs, earning a harsh shriek of pain for his effort. He smirks. “No.”

Digging into his bag, the reaper pulls out wraps and metal clasps.

He doesn’t look remorseful as he gestures to my ribs. “I’ll need to wrap them.”

Lifting my chin, I glare at him. “I can handle it.”

“I have no doubt about that, Princess.”

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