Page 59 of Empress of Ruin
I’m still trying to wrap my head around anassassinnearlykillingKillian. “I don’t understand… What did he do to warrant an assassination?”
“He exists as a billionaire connected to a web of the most powerful people in the world,” Locke says drily. “Andhe came into conflict with one of those people.”
The organization Killian told me about. The Eyes.
“Silas Cornell did this,” I say. He’s the only other member of The Eyes I know by name, though I suspect I saw many other members at that dinner party a while ago. “Right?”
Locke casts me a sharp look. “How much has Killian told you?”
“Everything,” I lie, then list off the picture I’ve pieced together based on tidbits Killian’s fed me. “He told me about They Eyes, and his rivalry with Silas.” I swallow. “He told me Silas leaked the tape, and that he made Silas… mutilate himself.”
“He should’ve killed Silas then and there,” Locke mutters. “Now it’s The Eyes who’ll decide if Silas or Killian come out of this alive—and that’sifKillian lives to the tribunal.”
I briefly squeeze my eyes shut, fighting the wave of nausea that arises at the rush of new information. Tribunal. The Eyes deciding if Killian or Silas dies? Has their rivalry escalated into an all-out war? Obviously, but why the fuck does the organization they belong to choose who wins?
The answer is simple: the rituals amongst the rich are fucking insane. I touch a hand to my forehead, processing.
If Silas went after Killian, and The Eyes are set on deciding who wins, isn’t that cheating? Wouldn’t The Eyes punish Silas?
“The… tribunal.” I swallow. “Where The Eyes decide who live and who die. If they knew Silas tried to have Killian killed tonight, wouldn’t they side with Killian?”
Locke works his jaw for a while. “Almost certainly. Members are forbidden from going after each other at all times, butespeciallywhen a decision as severe as which member to keep and which to kill is forthcoming. If the judges saw concrete evidence that Silas did this, they’d have to order his death. Killian requested to have him killed months ago, but the request was held up in committee—a more senior ally of his had to sponsor his request to force the tribunal. In response, Silas is now demanding not only Killian’s head, butyoursby association.” He lets out a deep sigh. “The problem is actually findingproofthat Silas did this, but we’re working on it.”
Dead god. This goes much deeper than I imagined, and it’s much, much worse than I possibly could’ve fathomed. Atribunal? Requests tokill?Counter requests to kill that can be likened to counter-suits?
Whatever this organization is, it’s far more advanced than I initially imagined. It sounds like its own political bubble,complete with courts and judges. Judges that can hand out death penalties freely.
“I… see,” I murmur, attempting to keep a straight face. I don’t want Locke to figure out that he’s just given me lots of new information to go on. I clear my throat. “Killian’s wound—how bad is it?”
“Biggest concern is blood loss,” Locke says. “Doc will probably have to give him a transfusion. Once he’s sewn up, he should be fine.”
I swallow. “Is his world… always like this? Soviolent?” With assassins coming after him, death threats against his loved ones, and more?”
“No.” Locke shakes his head. “His world only became like this after you entered it.” He gazes at me meaningfully. “But if you asked him, he’d accept all the danger and turmoil, so long as it meant keeping you.”
A few hours pass as the doctor works on Killian, who’s either passed out or pretending to be, eyes closed, body still. He’s still on the dining room table—I tucked a pillow under his head when I returned, so he should at least be comfortable.
I still can’t reconcile how much seeing him like this bothers me after everything he’s done to me. But I can try to unfuck that later. For now, I need to just go with the flow.
When the doctor finally strips off his gloves and packs up his bag, discarding all the used medical supplies in a plastic trash bag, Killian’s eyes slowly open. His gaze finds mine almost instantly. “You’re still here,” he says gruffly.
It takes me several beats to respond. “Yeah.”
“Why?”
That’s the question of the century. I should be praying for Killian’s death, not sitting beside him like a fiancée who fears for his life. “I don’t know,” I finally say.
A long silence ensues. Finally, Killian murmurs, “I’m glad you’re here.”
“Yeah,” I say again, quieter.
“Bed rest for at least three days,” the doctor says, coming back. “I put a waterproof bandage on the wound so you can bathe; it’ll need to be taken off, aired out, then switched tomorrow. Plenty of fluids, and foods that are gentle on the system. You can walk after that, but no exercise for at least a week. The stitches will dissolve over the course of a few weeks. No strenuous activity for the first week. After that, take it easy. If something hurts, don’t push too hard.” He gives a pointed look between me and Killian.
“I’m not going to stop fucking my fiancée,” Killian mutters.
I feel my entire face heat, and promptly hide it in my hands.
The doctor sighs. “Nothing that tugs on the wound too much, then. Take it easy, Mr. King. That’s a nasty gash. I’m afraid it’ll scar.” He looks at me. “Monitor him for spikes in temperature. I’ll leave a list of antibiotics for him to take. No alcohol while he completes the five-day course.” With a nod at Killian, he leaves.
