Chapter 11

Killian

The click of my office door closing behind me barely registered over the sound of keystrokes. Dom's fingers danced across his laptop, his focus laser-like—unbreakable. I didn't even try to get his attention; he was lost in that digital world of his, where numbers and strategies reigned supreme.

Jonah stood by the window, phone pressed to his ear, his voice low but sharp enough to slice through steel. That permanent scowl was etched deeper than ever—a testament to the late-night negotiations that were part of our lifeblood.

I leaned against the cool mahogany of my desk, arms crossed, waiting.

Silence fell as Jonah ended his call with a curt "We're done here." The device clacked against the tabletop, as if it bore the weight of the conversation it had just carried.

"Brothers," I started, my voice steady despite the turmoil brewing inside me. "I'm getting married."

Their reactions were immediate, their gazes snapping to mine like magnets to steel. Dom's hands stilled mid-air, the ghost of a command left hanging in the digital void. Jonah's eyebrows drew together, the deep lines on his forehead a roadmap of concern and skepticism.

The room held its breath, waiting for the next move. My declaration hung between us, an unexpected gambit in the intricate game we played. It was more than a statement—it was a revelation of intent, a signal of change.

"Married?" Dom finally echoed, the word foreign in this den of wolves.

"Exactly," I affirmed, pushing off from the desk to stand full height. "Marcella."

I watched them process the information, saw the gears turning behind their guarded eyes. They knew what this meant—protection, power, a bond that would tie us to innocence and light. And yet, they hesitated, unsure of how to balance the darkness we inhabited with the brilliance she radiated.

"Killian," Jonah began, his voice betraying nothing of the inner conflict I knew he felt. "You sure about this?"

"Completely," I lied, the word tasting of recklessness and resolve.

"Alright then," Dom said after a beat, acceptance flickering in the depths of his normally impassive eyes. He closed his laptop with a soft click, a silent nod to the gravity of the situation.

The air crackled with tension. I leaned against the mahogany desk, arms crossed over my chest, meeting Jonah's glower with a calm I didn't feel.

"Killian, are you out of your mind?" The words rumbled from his throat, each syllable a boulder crashing down a hill.

I smirked, unfazed. "Not at all. It's strategic."

Dom snorted, still not bothering to look up. His light laugh did nothing to cut through the thick atmosphere. I eyed him, finding dark amusement in his skepticism.

"Strategic," Jonah spat the word as if it tasted foul. He stood rigid, the muscle in his jaw ticking.

"Exactly." My voice was steel wrapped in velvet, unwavering. "Marcella needs protection. And i need to get married. I am off age now. It's simple."

"Simple," he echoed, sarcasm dripping like acid. His hands clenched into fists. "You're playing with fire."

"Sometimes," I said, stepping toward him, "fire is the only way to purge the rot."

Jonah shook his head, a silent storm brewing behind his eyes. "And what about her? What does she want?"

"She wants safety," I replied coolly. "I can give her that."

“Does she know she wants safety? And from whom? That girl is clueless in all this.” He glowered. When i didnt respond he finally said. "Just don't burn her down with you."

"Enough." My reply was terse, a single word to convey the certainty I wanted them to believe. Yet doubt clawed at my insides, a beast with sharp teeth and an insatiable hunger.

Jonah's jaw clenched, the muscle there ticking like a time bomb. "She's sunshine, Killian. Pure and untouched by our filth."

"Which is why she needs protection." I pushed away from the desk, moving toward the window. The first blush of dawn teased the horizon, but it couldn't dispel the gloom that clung to my soul. Marcella deserved more than shadows, but all I could offer her was the promise of my darkness standing guard.

"She doesn't need the kind of protection that comes with a ring," Jonah argued, his voice low and rough, like gravel kicked up in a storm.

"Maybe not." I watched as the city began to stir, lights flickering on one by one. "But she'll get it anyway."

"Because she's yours?" Dom quirked an eyebrow, skepticism laced with a hint of admiration for my possessive streak.

"Because she's mine," I confirmed without hesitation. There was no room for doubt on that front—Marcella would be my wife, my queen in this game of chess we played with human lives.

"God help her," Jonah muttered, but whether it was a prayer or a curse, I couldn't tell.

"God has nothing to do with this," I said, turning back to face them. "This is about survival. Hers. Ours."

"Then may the devil have mercy on us all." Dom closed his laptop with a soft click, accepting if not entirely approving.

"Mercy is for the weak," I replied, knowing that in our world, it was strength that kept you alive—and love, perhaps, that made it worth living.

________

The pre-dawn silence clung to the room like a shroud, thick with thoughts that raced through my mind. The faintest light teased the edges of the curtains, a promise of the day to come—a day that could change everything.

I sat at the edge of my bed, fingers drumming on the worn leather of the journal I kept for moments when sleep became elusive and the darkness of my thoughts needed a place to rest. But tonight, it was not the past that haunted me; it was the future, Marcella's future. My mind reeled with the possibility, the solution that had barreled into my consciousness with the subtlety of a bullet.

Marry Marcella.

It sounded like the plot of some twisted fairy tale. One where the princess didn't need saving from a dragon but from her own blood. Her ex-fiancé and sister, they'd sold her out without a second thought, leaving her exposed to vultures like Tony.

I rose, my movements silent as I paced the length of the room. The idea of them touching her, sent a wave of nausea roiling through my stomach. No. I wouldn't let it happen.

The resolve settled like iron in my veins. It was insane, impulsive—a flash of madness—but it was right. She was a pawn in a game she never asked to play. I’d make her the queen. My queen.

My jaw clenched at the thought of Tony laying hands on what was mine. The brutality of the world we inhabited was no secret, and Tony was a master at manipulation. But so was I. And I would manipulate the board until Marcella was safe, until she was irrevocably mine.

The decision was made. Not just to keep her from harm's way, but because somewhere along the line, the darkness inside me had recognized the light in her. Marcella, with her stubborn chin and eyes that saw too much—she was sunshine in a world shaded by sin. A world that I commanded, a world that would bow to my will.

I would marry Marcella. Protect her. Claim her.

The barest hints of morning crept through the gap in the curtains, casting a sliver of golden light across the floor. The city would be waking soon, unaware of the storm that brewed within the walls of the fortress I called home.

And as the sun dared to rise, I found myself daring to hope. Hope for a bond forged not in weakness, but in strength. For a union that would speak of possession and protection in the same breath.

"Killian," I whispered to the silence, testing the weight of my conviction. "You're about to do the one thing you swore you'd never do."

But as the darkness gave way to dawn, I realized I had already crossed lines for her I never imagined approaching. What was one more?

Marry Marcella. Make her mine.

Not just protection. Possession. An anchor in a tumultuous sea—for both of us.

The decision, wild and reckless, felt like the most sane thing I'd done in years.