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I didn’t flinch. I welcomed it—the heat rolling off him, the way his rage lit up the room like sparks off dry tinder. I needed it as much as I needed fire.

I stalked past him, knocking the gun to the side with the back of my hand. He didn’t stop me, just growled low in his throat. I reached the door, slammed it shut with a brutal crack that made the frame rattle.

The silence that followed buzzed with tension.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Killian snapped, voice hoarse with rage, the gun trembling slightly in his hand.

I turned to face him slowly, deliberately, and unafraid, his pulse thrumming under my skin like a war drum. His eyes were wild, his chest heaving, every inch of him vibrating with fury—and I wanted it. I needed it. The way he looked at me was as if he might destroy me and love every moment of it.

“Whatever it takes to make you snap,” I said, voice low and guttural. “To make you push me to my knees and fuck my face like you mean it.”

Then, moving fast, reckless, and unhinged, I was on him before the words finished echoing, close enough to feel the heat of his breath, to taste the violence in the air between us.

I wished he’d stayed to watch the burn with me.

He could’ve taken me right there, with the inferno lighting the sky behind us.

He could’ve shoved me to the ground and fucked me while the air still smelled of ash and victory.

That was how sharp it had been in my veins—fire and fury, smoke and need.

And I was still hard. Still wired from the bathroom and the fire. Still not done.

I lunged, catching him off guard, shoving him back hard enough to make the breath punch out of his chest. I twisted the gun from his grip, the barrel cold and slick in my hand, and tossed it across the room.

He stumbled, caught himself too late, and sprawled across the sofa, one hand braced on the cushions, the other curled like a claw ready to strike.

“Force me to my knees!” I barked, my voice raw, demanding, almost a dare. My hands were fists, shoving, grabbing, shaking with adrenaline and hunger. I wanted him furious. I wanted him to snap. I wanted to be the match that lit him up from the inside out.

“No!”

I grinned, all teeth, feral and bright. “Come on, Killian. Show me what you’re made of.

Rage suits you better than that smug courtroom mask you hide behind.

” He surged up from the sofa, but I met him halfway, pressed in close, taunting.

“Push me down!” I yelled at him, took his hand, and bit him, scratched at his skin, and he grew angrier, louder, and violent.

He was a bigger man than me, could easily hold me in place while he fucked me and fixed me and made me feel.

I laughed—low, breathless, defiant. “Make me.”

He lunged like a storm breaking loose, his hands on me in a flash, fists full of my shirt, slamming me back to the sofa. My spine jarred on the edge, half on the cushions, half off, legs tangled, knees buckling under the sheer force of him.

“You want to be broken, Pretty?” he growled, eyes blazing. “You want to see how far I’ll go?”

His hand found my throat—not squeezing, just there, a warning, a promise—and I arched under the touch, already gone, already giving in.

“Do it!”

“You’ve got no fucking idea what you’re asking for,” he spat, pinning me.

I scrabbled and bit and fought, clawing at his arms, dragging my nails across his skin to feel him react. He twisted my leg and shoved me down, the air knocked from my lungs with a gasp.

He was hard as iron, the heat of him scorching through layers of clothes, and I could feel the way he trembled—not with hesitation, but with the effort of restraint. His breath hitched as he hovered over me, and my heart pounded. I was on fire again—and this time, the inferno had a name.

Killian.

“You need to stop!” he ordered. His eyes—blazing, dark, wide with temper, one breath from giving in, from letting the fury take over. He looked at me as if I was both the trigger and the target.

“Use me.” I snapped, and his hold on my throat tightened. “Do it!” I tried to scoot down, to get my hands on his cock, to inhale him, swallow him, choke on him, but he wriggled back and threw me away from him in disgust.

This was what I needed. His hatred, his anger. He took a step from me, and I whined—was he leaving me? I fumbled for my zip, lowering it and pushing my hand inside to grab my cock. If he wasn’t doing it to me, then I was getting off on my own, right here in his cozy fucking home.

“Hands off,” he growled and yanked my hand out of my pants with a vicious snap of his wrist. Before I could blink, he was tearing my T-shirt over my head and pinning my arms behind my back, his grip bruising, desperate.

“Open your mouth.”

There was no room to argue—he didn’t wait.

He shoved his cock between my lips with a violence that stole my breath, one hand fisting in my hair, the other braced on my shoulder to hold me in place.

He drove in deep, raw and relentless, until my throat convulsed around him and tears blurred my vision. I gagged, fought, then surrendered.

Panic and fear flashed white-hot across my nerves—but under it, the exhilaration, the spark of being wanted like this, used like this, owned.

It broke me open and pieced me back together all at once.

My chest heaved, pulse thundered, and every broken part of me sang as I choked around him, grateful for every inch.

He didn’t slow down. The grip on my hair tightened, and he used me like a weapon, like a punishment, as though he needed to purge something violent from his soul, and I was the only person to help him.

His hips snapped forward with precision, and every thrust scraped something open inside me—fear, need, belonging .

My fingers curled into the cushions as I fought for air, tears streaking down my face, spit slicking my chin. And I didn’t want it to stop. I wanted to drown in him, in the weight of his rage, in the proof that I was still real, still wanted, even if it came through violence.

He hissed my name, guttural, low, then pulled back just long enough for me to inhale, to drag in one ragged breath, before slamming forward again, deeper, harder.

He wasn’t kissing me. He wasn’t touching me gently. He was fucking my mouth as if he hated me—and maybe he did. But despite the hatred, there was heat. Connection. Fire.

His orgasm slammed into him, and he held his cock in my throat, yelling his release, then easing it out and stumbling back. “Get the fuck out,” he snapped, then stalked through another door.

I squirmed in the grip of my twisted T-shirt, desperation clawing through my veins. I got my hand on my cock and stroked hard, fast, frantic. My orgasm was brutal, ripping through me in a flash of relief and fury. I doubled over, gasping, shaking, every nerve frayed to ash.

Panting, I wiped the come off my stomach with the same shirt Killian had torn off me, dragging it across my skin like a final insult.

I let the damp fabric fall from my fingers, grabbed my backpack—the one with the tools I’d used to break into his life—and slung it over my shoulder as if nothing had happened.

And then I left. Shirtless. At peace. Back to Redcars.

Back to somewhere that stopped me from bleeding out in slow motion.

From chasing fire that burned me raw. From begging Killian to tear me apart to feel something as good as fire.

Because that was what it was, in the end.

Need. Not love. Not lust. Not even revenge.

Just the desperate hope that someone, somewhere, could burn hot enough to cauterize the holes in me.

Killian’s fury, his touch, the violence of his release had grounded me. Made me real. There was no shame in it, not for me. Shame came with pretending I could want gentle, could be touched with care, when all I’d ever understood was pain wrapped in need.

The garage didn’t ask for explanations. Redcars didn’t care why I flinched at kindness or why fire felt like peace. It was the only place that held me without condition. It was all tools, oil, and broken men who didn’t expect me to be whole .

I didn’t look over my shoulder. If I had, I might’ve run back to him.

And I didn’t trust myself not to beg.

And now, I had to face the music, and when I told Rio what had accidentally happened, he was going to kill me.