Nix. (Den of Mercenaries Book 3)(70)

“I’m sorry,” Kit said, sounding shockingly calm despite the way Abigail stood over him with wild, watery eyes.

He had long since learned not to plead his case when she was in one of her moods—and he had long since stopped calling her mum once he realized that if he did within hearing distance of her, she smacked him on the back of his head.

And also because he would rather not assign a title like that to a woman who didn’t deserve it.

“I told you to watch after your brother, but no! You cant even manage that. Stupid! Useless! Boy!” Each word was punctuated by a sharp crack of the spoon.

She struck with abandon, without fear. She didn’t care that she hurt him, only that in her mind, he had hurt Uilleam.

It didn’t matter that Kit wasn’t responsible, that he had warned Uilleam not to climb onto the roof after him.The boy did what he wanted, whenever he wanted, and this wasn’t news to anyone that shared a home with him.

But because Kit had been out there too, the fault lay at his feet.

Uilleam’s fall onto the balcony below where they had sat was an accident, a slip of his grip on the stone’s edge. Kit’s heart had felt like it dropped out of his chest as he’d reached to catch him, his hands catching air.

But when he heard Uilleam’s scream of pain below, he had never been more thankful for anything in his short life.

He knew what would come later.

He knew Abigail would punish him, but he accepted it, because the punishment he would have received if Uilleam hadn’t drawn another breath would have been far worse.

Abigail continued to wail on him, changing her target until she had grown weak and was too tired to continue. Once she was gone, ushering Uilleam up the stairs for bed, she ordered that Kit remain exactly where he was for the remainder of the night.

As he was leaving, the physician hesitated. “This … this was not your fault.”

Kit didn’t respond.

It was his fault because Abigail was right.

He should have protected his brother.



Kit entered the warehouse with a brief look around.

There were a few nurses on standby, though they were engrossed by their own conversation to pay much attention to Kit’s entrance.

He didn’t go unnoticed by Skorpion, however.

How long had it been since he had last seen the mercenary?

A couple of years?

At one time, the man had been Uilleam’s personal guard, but has since taken on more jobs with the Den as opposed to with Uilleam.

The mercenary jerked his chin in Kit’s direction, but didn’t move from his vantage point that allowed an unobstructed view of the room.

Returning the gesture, Kit slipped behind the curtain that divided where Uilleam rested and the rest of the floor. Uilleam was watching him, but the usual playful arrogance was gone from his eyes.

A white sheet covered his lap, and beneath the dotted gown he wore, Kit could just see the edge of bandages.

“It’s good to see you’re awake,” Kit said, hanging his coat on the back of a chair before sitting.

Uilleam frowned, pressing a button on the remote in his hand to lift the bed so he was sitting up. “I wish I wasn’t.” His voice was rough, tinged with pain. “How on earth did you manage this?”

“I make it a point not to get shot, Uilleam.”

Sure, he’d been winged a few times, but he had managed to kill those that attempted to kill him.

Grimacing in pain as he shifted to get a better look at Kit, Uilleam asked, “What are you doing here anyway, brother? It almost feels as though you care.”

“Despite what you lead yourself to believe, Uilleam, you’re my brother and I love you—even when you’re attempting to get a rise out of me.”

“Your love is due to obligation and nothing more.”

“Is that how you look at it?” Kit asked. “Who am I obligated to exactly?”

Their father was dead.

Their sister a distant memory.

And their mother … no one hated Abigail Runehart more than Kit.

“I won’t pretend to understand what goes on in your head,” Uilleam said with a slight shrug and wince. “But you wouldn’t have come here if you didn’t have any information.”

“Luna tells me that the shooter rode a motorcycle and shot you from a considerable distance. Did you get a look at him—particularly, the jacket he wore?”

Uilleam narrowed his eyes, as though in thought. “No, I was too busy getting shot to pay attention to whatever the f*ck he was wearing. Your point?”

Kit’s lips quirked in a corner. “They call him the Jackal.” When Uilleam didn’t comment, Kit went on. “He’s been quite prolific over the last five years. He was also the one responsible for what happened to your mercenary last year.”

Uilleam frowned. “And you’re only telling me this now?”

“I don’t involve myself in your affairs unless I need to.”

Kit didn’t care about the mercenaries under his control, and had it not been Uilleam that had felt the unforgiving hand of the Jackal, he wouldn’t have gotten involved now.

“Who’s his handler?”

“No one knows.”

“That’s not good enough.”

Kit arched a brow. “You must be mistaking me with one of your mercenaries, brother.”