In Peace Lies Havoc (Midnight Mayhem 1)

“Okay!” I snap. “I get your point.” I sigh, reaching for my door handle as the rest of them start to climb out. The warm air whisks through my red strands, flicking them all over my face.

“Come on,” Killian murmurs, nudging his head.

I start following behind him, searching around the house for other clues on what this party could be about when I realize that Kill, Keaton, and Kyrin are all walking in front of me and King is walking directly behind me. I feel like a caged wild creature, either desperate to break free or terrified to be unleashed. Either way, some weird, twisted part of me knew that even though these men have done things to me. Horrible, at times questionable things, in this very moment, I feel like their protected prey. They can feast on me, but if anyone else tried, they’d be torn apart.

I don’t know how that makes me feel. Scared? Yes. Confused? Definitely. But do I feel empowered? I’m not sure. I should feel that way, but I don’t.

We reach the front door, and Kill pushes it open, exposing a vast, pristine white foyer. A glass chandelier hangs from the ceiling, and I instantly smell sweet lavender mixed with ash.

“Where are we going, and why are there no people here?” I turn to watch as King shuts the front door with his back, his eyes on me. “Let me guess. You guys brought me here to kill me.”

“Quite the contrary, Little Bird.” King smirks, waving me to continue walking. I follow his silent instructions and follow the three merry men as we all move through the house and pass the sitting room. It has two dark leather chairs that face a large U-shaped sofa. The chairs twist and turn high at the back, inviting yet cold.

“Stop looking, Little Bird. You might end up in trouble,” King whispers from behind me, his hand on my ass. I suck in a breath at his connection.

Killian opens a glass door, and we step through, out onto a large patio that dips into a field. I hear people chatting when I find around a dozen standing around a large fire pit. This is more like a bonfire, as the flames assault the night. It’s as though everyone stops as we enter, all eyes on us. I drift around to each of them. Some wearing suits, some wearing casual clothes, and that’s when I realize they’re all men.

“Welcome, Kiznitch. So nice of you to—” A woman’s voice is cut when her eyes land on mine. Her hair is long and black, dropping to her butt, and her eyes are slit in perfect almonds, but shaped with black liner. So black I can barely make out her eyeshadow. She’s tall and lean, with a golden tan and sharp collarbones, and it’s not until she starts speaking again that I notice what she’s wearing. A lace red gown that’s completely see-through, with her cleavage pouring out of her dress. “What is this?” she asks, her words faltering as a smile about as fake as her hair plasters over her face. I can’t decide how to peg her. What to categorize her as.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Killian’s tone is playful, and I just know he’s going to hit her with a smart-ass comment. “I wasn’t aware that it was invite only, Mother.”

His mom? No fucking way is this woman his mother. She looks to be in her mid-thirties, if that, and I know all about Botox and all the type of shit you can get filled into your face, but there’s no way this woman has anything to do with that. Furthermore, why the hell am I here?

“Killian,” she grates through her teeth. “A word.” She sashays past us and heads straight for the house, Killian smirking from behind her.

“Okay, someone has to fill me in here,” I say, loud enough for them to hear me but not for the strangers. “What is this party, and is she really his mother?”

King ignores me, moving straight past me and heading for a group of men who are around the bonfire. They’re older men, all classically handsome from what I can see, and wearing sharp, excellently tailored suits.

One in particular catches me eye, mainly because he’s already watching me. He has graying hair that’s cut short on the sides and slicked back on the top. He’s wearing a dark suit with no tie, the collar loosened around his neck. A cigar dangles from between his two fingers, with a red pocket square folded into his front pocket. It’s not until King is standing directly in front of him when he finally pulls his attention away from me.

“Who’s that?” I ask, nudging my head toward the man, or men, who King is talking to.

Keaton follows my line of sight, and then looks back at me. “It’s no one.”