The fuck are you doing? I mouth.
Kian ignores it.
And neither one of the masked assholes notices my obvious shock.
They’ve both turned their attention to Kian.
The guy who spoke walks forward. He stares at Kian—and then his baton flashes out in a move so decisive that I don’t even have time to roar.
The crack of bone is unmistakable.
Kian bellows in agony as he crumples to the floor with a hard thud. I don’t even have to look to know that the damage is bad.
It’s very fucking bad.
“Go hlfreann leat!” I thunder, my voice cracking in rage. “You motherfucking—”
“Brody Murtagh sends his regards,” the asshole cackles over Kian’s prone body.
Then they strut out of the dining room, happy as hell with themselves.
I’m about to grab one asshole by the scruff of his neck and strangle the life out of him.
But then Kian makes a sound from the floor.
“Brother!” I roar, leaving the attackers to their own devices and running towards him. “Why the fuck did you that?”
He’s sweating and gritting his teeth in agony. I spare the tiniest glance down at his leg to see a gruesome, bloody mess. A shard of bone is pointing in a direction it is very much not supposed to be pointing.
“I just saved your ass and you’re yelling at me?” he hisses.
“I could have handled it, you fucking idiot. It’s my leg they wanted to break, not yours.”
“Handled it, my ass,” Kian scoffs through a clenched jaw. “You know, I thought he was gonna kill you.”
“Is that supposed to be reassuring?!” I demand in disbelief. “You’re the heir, Kian. You’re the leader.”
He shakes his head.
“What?”
“Not anymore.” Kian says grimly. “Da’s gone, and I’m not walking anytime soon. I’m not leading shit. You are.”
I don’t have time to properly process that before more men are spilling through the doors.
But this time, they’re our men. O’Sullivan men.
Quinn rushes toward Kian and me. “Master Kian!” he says in alarm.
His expression betrays little but I can see the concern in his eyes. He kneels down beside Kian as the O’Sullivan men sweep the area.
“How the fuck did they manage to get in?” I demand.
“They had warrants,” one of them guards answers. “They held us up in the front while they came in for you. Speaking of which, who the fuck are you?”
“Watch your tongue,” Quinn hisses, his head snapping up towards the guys who spoke. “You’re talking to Master Cillian O’Sullivan.”
The man’s expression curdles into pale horror as he looks at me. “I… Master Cillian…”