Page 2 of Killaney Blood
"She's pretty good, from what I hear." He grins, lowering his voice. "Also fucking hot."
"That right?" I raise an eyebrow, wincing as it pulls at the cut.
He nods. "Wouldn't be surprised if you tried to fuck her while she stitched you up."
"Wouldn't be the first time."
He laughs.
"Fine. I'll go."
He turns and points. "Down that hallway. Last door. I'll stay and collect."
People congratulate me as I push through the crowd, the towel slung over my shoulder.
Some chick in a leather dress grabs my arm, eyes wide and eager.
"Declan, you're a fucking animal."
I wink. "Sweetheart, you've got no idea."
I keep moving, and a couple of guys from rival families nod with grudging respect. They know better than to start shit here. I've earned my reputation one broken nose at a time.
I walk down the hallway that smells like sweat and antiseptic. I flex my hands, feeling the familiar ache in my knuckles.
I push open the door marked "Medical" without knocking.
The room is small, cramped, with shelves lined with supplies that look suspiciously like they fell off the back of a truck.
A woman stands with her back to me, wearing black scrubs, sleeves rolled. Latex gloves on. Her hands are busy organizing gauze and tossing bloodied towels into a red trashcan.
Her dark hair is pulled back in a tight ponytail. Slim waist. Curves in all the right places. My mind immediately shifts gears from fighting to fucking. She's got a nice ass, the kind that would fit perfectly in my hands. She looks like she'd be a fun woman to ruin. I'd?—
She turns, and every thought in my head crashes to a halt. My pulse spikes hard. Not from the fight. Not from the blood loss.
Rage. Raw, undiluted rage coils in my chest.
Those green eyes with flecks of gold in the middle. That cold, quiet face I've only ever seen once.
Without a doubt, it's her.
That fucking girl.
The one they called the Ghost Angel.
The medic who let my cousin die three years ago while working for the Albanians.
The girl I swore if I ever saw again, I'd…
She sees me. Freezes. Just for a second. Then her mask slides into place, like I'm no one. Like she didn't stand there and watch someone in my family die.
"You've got blood in your eye," she says, calm as ever. "Sit down before you pass out on my floor."
I don't move.
"You've got some fucking nerve being here," I say, voice low and dangerous. My hands curl into fists at my sides, reopening the splits in my knuckles. "Where are your Albanian friends, huh? Hiding?"
"I don't work for them anymore." She gestures to the folding chair. "You're bleeding. Either I stitch you up or you bleed out. Your call."
