Wildblood

Chapter 27

27

For the second night in a row, Kai came home covered in blood. Miya was by the door when he strode in like a portent from the underworld, eyes dark and face spattered in scarlet. She jolted at the sight, swearing at God and the devil alike as he caught her by the arms and held her upright.

“My bad.” His voice was low, soft, regret woven into his features.

“Christ—where have you been?” As his grip on her eased, she backpedaled to take stock of the mess.

Kai looked past her at Caelan, who sat demurely on the couch with Ripper curled up in her lap. The cat had taken to her quickly. Both girl and feline perked up, volleying Kai’s stare.

“Dealing with Sergei.” His gaze shifted back to Miya. “We should talk.”

Miya’s stomach lurched, her heart dropping through her ribs like a stone. Grabbing Kai’s hand, she hauled him toward the bedroom. “Stay here,” she told Caelan.

With the plywood door as their flimsy barrier, Miya clasped the knob behind her back. Kai hadn’t bothered removing his clothes, which remained suspiciously unmarred compared to the rest of him.

“What happened?”

He stood by the bed, hands shoved in his pockets. “I killed someone.”

Miya flattened her tongue against the roof of her mouth to keep the nausea from climbing up her throat. Questions tangled in her mind, but only one broke free. “Why?”

Kai lowered his head, though she couldn’t tell if he was worried, ashamed, or something else entirely. “To send a message.”

“Kai—” She took a harsh step forward, her hands hovering as a thousand emotions competed for expression. Moral outrage battled her maddening impulse to absolve him—to understand his choices and the ease with which he made them. “I don’t understand. What message?”

“Sergei was there.” He prowled the room, a predator confined to a cage, gaze fixed on something beyond the wall. “He needed to see it.”

“Why?” Miya whispered.

“Breathing room, and Sergei’s cooperation. The guy I ended was a rat—a dead one.” He stopped, finally looked at her with torrid eyes. “Trust me, it was a mercy killing.”

“You wanted Sergei’s silence,” Miya clarified, “so you killed a man to scare him into shutting up?”

“Like I said, it was a mercy killing.” His voice was steady, his posture relaxed. Miya had always known what he was capable of—he’d shown her enough times—but that didn’t make it any less unsettling. “If I hadn’t done it, he would’ve been tortured, interrogated, then tortured some more. It would’ve been slow, painful.”

“And you think what you did wasn’t painful?” With the blood crusting his neck and the lack of evidence on his clothes, she had a hunch about how this rat died.

Kai shrugged. “It was gnarly, but it was quick.”

Miya swallowed down the bile. He appeared so calm—callous even. “Do you really feel nothing?”

He went statue-still, his eyes never leaving hers. He seemed to consider his answer, riffling for a feeling he could point to. When he came up dry, his mouth twisted, and he shook his head. “I killed at least a dozen people to keep you safe in Black Hollow. What’s one more?”

“I thought we were past that.” Her fists clenched and unclenched as cold settled into her marrow. “Your problems don’t have throats you can slit with a knife.”

His brows drew together, hurt warping his stoic fa?ade. “It’s not like I killed him for fun.”

Kai had spent his whole life with a single tool for his quandaries: violence. But it was a broken tool, one that destroyed as much as it resolved. He was still nurturing other ways to cope, and the pitfalls of his aggression were a karmic lesson he had yet to fully learn.

“I know,” she conceded. “I just wish you’d told me the truth sooner. Maybe we could’ve found another way.”

His approach was tentative, his hands skimming up her arms when he halted in front of her. He clasped her chin between his thumb and forefinger and gently tilted her head. “Just because spilling blood comes easy to me doesn’t mean it’s always the wrong choice.”

He had a point. Not every instance of violence was a careless indulgence. She’d assumed he’d lashed out, but if it’d truly been a mercy killing, she had no reason to doubt his judgment. Kai lacked social mores, but he knew what propelled people from civility to barbarity better than anyone. Where human decency ruptured, Miya trusted him implicitly. Kai may have appeared utterly wild, but amid pandemonium, no one was as steadfast or as trustworthy.

Her eyes trailed the blood smeared across his jawline. He’d probably wiped it from his mouth with the back of his hand. “You were a wolf.”

He nodded. “No way to trace it back to me even with a witness.”

Her gaze lifted to his, those mahogany eyes retaining their warmth despite the chill in his voice. “Is it weird that I feel better knowing you killed a man with your teeth?”

At that, he cracked a smile. “Because wolves are supposed to kill, and people aren’t?”

“I guess it’s pretty stupid when you put it like that.”

He ran his thumb over her lower lip, touching his forehead to hers. “I’m a wolf in sheep’s skin, Miya…”

“…and I’ve mistaken you for part of my flock?” she supplied, nostalgia tugging at her lips.

He’d said those words the first time they’d fought—the first time she’d reckoned with who and what he was. He’d been bloody then too, the kill still fresh, the body not yet cold.

“At least you’ve learned that much, Lambchop.”

Miya snaked her arms around his midsection and buried her face in his chest. “I still don’t like it.”

His nose fell to her hair, and he gave her a gentle squeeze. “I know.”

A phone buzzed, and Kai reached into his pocket, one arm still around Miya’s waist.

“What is it?” she asked.

Kai stared at what she assumed was a text message, his expression unreadable save for the tiniest twitch of his mouth. Before Miya could ask, he blacked out the screen with a tired sigh. “Looks like I found a therapist.”