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“In a way, we have.” Killian nods, looking pleased with himself. “I like to think of it as the forgotten world. Sometimes I feel like I’m the only one who remembers it’s here.”

I step deeper into the space. It’s impossible to take it all in with one glance.

“But what exactly is this?” I ask, gesturing toward a man darting out of a pub dressed in clothes from a time long before zippers were invented. He looks like an extra who just wandered off the set of some historical drama. “Like that guy—does he live here? And why haven’t I heard of this place before now?”

Killian grins. “It’s the best-kept secret in all of Gray Wolf.”

“So how did you find it?” I turn to him, noting how the spark in his gaze instantly snuffs.

“I used to live here,” he says.

I stare at him, waiting for more. But he just places a hand on my elbow and steers me toward a pub with a sign overhead that readsThe Hideaway.

“While I promise to answer your questions,” he says. “Or at leastsomeof them. The first order of business is getting me hands on some coffee and sumptin’ to fill up me belly.”

We enter the sort of old-fashioned tavern I’ve only seen in movies. The lighting is sparse, the floors are made of rough wooden planks, and the cream-colored walls look as though they were molded by hand. And there’s no missing the way everyone smiles and waves the moment they see Killian.

“What are you, some kind of conquering hero?” I ask as Killian leads me to a small table situated by the far wall.

It’s not until we’re settled and Killian’s ordered us coffees that he leans toward me and says, “You have no idea just how close you are to the truth.”

The words float between us. But exactly which truth is he referring to?

The truth of him being a conquering hero?

Or something else I might’ve said earlier?

Before I have a chance to ask, the waitress is back. Only this time, the corseted top of her bar wench uniform is pulled so low, her abundant cleavage is precariously close to spilling out.

She plops my mug before me, sending a splash of foam dripping over the sides. Though it’s not like she’s noticed. She’s focused entirely on Killian, taking great care to serve him his latte as the two of them speak in a language I don’t understand.

At one point, Killian pauses the conversation to say, “How do you feel about shepherd’s pie?”

I shrug. “Does it make for a good breakfast?” I ask, realizing I got so sidetracked, I missed that meal entirely.

“It makes for a good everything,” Killian says. When he returns to the waitress, I assume he’s placing an order, but honestly, I can’t say for sure. Though I do catch the lingering look she gives him as she walks away and the wink of appreciation he shoots her in return.

As soon as she’s gone, I say, “Good friend of yours?”

Killian tips his mug toward me, then takes a slow sip. Using the back of his hand, he wipes a smudge of foam from his lips. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were jealous, Shiv.”

I roll my eyes, take a tentative sip of my own coffee. Then, after blowing a cooling breath across the top, I chase it with another. “What language were you speaking?”

Killian regards me with a look of amusement. “What language do you think it was?”

I shrug. “I thought I recognized a word or two, but—”

“We were speaking English. Just not the sort you’re used to. Not your standard Southern California drawl.” He pronounces that last part like some stereotypical surfer after one too many hits of a bong. “My friend Maisie there”—he jabs a thumb in the general direction of the bar—“she hails from Scotland.” He finishes with an exaggerated brogue.

“And you—are you from Scotland, too?”

“Aye.” He nods. “I’m from here, there, and everywhere.”

I study him for a moment. Where Killian’s concerned, the truth is always so slippery, and he works hard to keep it that way.

He settles back in his seat and savors a few sips of his drink. Then, peering at me from over the top of his mug, he says, “And to answer your question, yes. Maisie is a good friend. Unlike the posh world where you reside, I have many friends in these parts.”

I’m struck by what he just said. Though I’ve never visited Killian’s room, I guess I assumed he occupied his own luxury suite. “What do you mean, whereIreside?” I ask. “Don’t you live there, too?”