“What the fuck is this? Shitting in my parade day?”

I glare at Killian as he strides past me without so much as a glance, heading straight for the fridge like he owns the place. My fists clench, and the rage simmering under my skin demands an outlet. The first thing my hand finds is my Zippo. Without a second thought, I hurl it at him.

It doesn't hit him directly—of course, because Killian is too damn quick. The bastard tilts his head just enough, and the Zippo slams into a bottle of vodka on the counter. Glass explodes, vodka splashing everywhere in a glittering, reeking mess.

From the stairs, Jeremy’s voice cuts through the tension. "I'm assuming you'll clean it up and replace my vodka." His arms are crossed, his expression as smug as ever.

"It's my vodka. Fuck off," I snap, barely sparing him a glance. The ache in my jaw flares as I press an ice pack against it and prop my foot on the sofa’s edge.

Killian leans against the counter, all calm and casual, like he didn’t just lose a fight that was supposed to be mine. "Bad mood?" he asks, his voice oozing fake indifference.

"And you're not?" I snarl back. "That loser won against you."

He shrugs, the asshole. Like he doesn’t care. "I won something better than a meaningless match."

I narrow my eyes at him, the anger curling tighter in my chest. "What's better than winning, motherfucker?" My voice is a low growl now, barely controlled. "Next time, don’t take my fight if you’re going to lose it. My image is at stake here, Satan’s heir."

Killian just smirks and lights a cigarette, blowing the smoke toward me like it’s a goddamn peace offering. "What, with your stupid little lotus flower?" he quips.

I stare at him, my knuckles itching for a fight. The smug bastard always knows how to press my buttons.