Page 22

FIFTEEN

Jamie

I didn’t know why I was here.

The street was clean. Like, aggressively clean.

Not a scuff on the pale sidewalk, no graffiti, not even a loose bit of trash floating past on the breeze.

Just the hiss of traffic, the occasional chirp of a crosswalk signal, and the echo of designer heels clicking on polished concrete.

Across the street from me, a boutique coffee shop already had a line stretching to the corner, all sleek suits and curated leather bags, phones pressed to ears as if they’d been born conducting million-dollar deals.

Beside it, several high-end boutiques blinked awake, metal shutters rising on clean glass and white-lit displays.

A curated kind of chaos. Perfect on the surface.

The building Killian worked out of stood tall among them—an old thing, probably a hundred years or more, but renovated and modernized in all the right ways.

Stone pillars, polished brass fixtures, and the kind of heavy glass doors that didn’t open for just anyone.

It reminded me of the LA I’d only ever seen in movies—old money, old power, and the kind of shine that masked every rotten thing underneath.

Killian’s office was on the seventh floor, and he had a private elevator.

I pictured him inside—tie loosened, sleeves rolled, tearing someone apart across a conference table with that razor-sharp voice and cold smile.

Probably looked fucking good doing it, too.

Untouchable. Controlled. Everything I wasn’t.

Coffee cooling in my hand, my hoodie pulled low, I watched the people come and go.

Leaning close to the door, flush to the building, with the keypad, I examined it closely.

It was biometric, and if I spent too long standing here trying to mess with it, people heading into work would eventually notice.

I didn’t exist for them at the moment, but then, they’d never see the things I did.

They wouldn’t clock the guy across the street loitering with his phone upside down, casing the jeweler’s shop one block over.

Wouldn’t notice the battered old Corolla parked at the curb, windows tinted so dark you couldn’t see who was inside.

The way the engine idled too long, as though someone was waiting for something-- -or someone—to make a move.

They wouldn’t see the shadows in the corners. But I did. Always had.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

The snarling voice didn’t surprise me—I’d hoped for him to find me. But I didn’t expect my cock to be so happy, stiff and desperate just from Killian’s anger as it cracked something open inside me—ragged heat, memory, want. I’d only seen him last night, but I needed to see him now, and I hated it.

I didn’t want that. I wanted him to take it all back—the control, the way he stripped me bare without touching me.

I tried to erase the desperation curling hot and tight in my belly, the part of me that ached for more even as I fought it.

I wanted to snuff it out like one of my fires, leave it in ash and ruin.

But I couldn’t. Not when the truth that I wanted more burned.

More of the way he looked at me as if I were worth wrecking.

More of his hands on me, rough and unforgiving.

More of that dark promise in his voice when he called me Pretty, as if he knew exactly how fucked up I was and didn’t care.

More of his anger at what I’d done, putting me in my place.

My skin buzzed with the memory, my pulse racing.

I didn’t want to want it—not the rush of heat low in my gut, not the hunger curling like smoke through my veins—but I did, every inch of me traitorous and aching for more of what he could do to me.

I sipped my bitter lukewarm coffee, then, “How far have you got?” I asked. Can I destroy it all yet?

He didn’t look at me as he used to. Not with that unreadable heat or the smug tilt of his lips.

Today, his stare was cold. Controlled as if he’d shoved every emotion behind a wall just to stop himself from breaking something.

Or someone. And yet, I braced for it anyway—half expecting him to yell, to shove me to the glass, to kiss me as if he had no choice.

“I should haul your ass out of here,” he muttered, voice low and venomous. “You don’t get to stand outside my office. Do you know how many cameras are pointed at this fucking place, and if someone sees an ex-con, a fucking murderer , standing outside here. What the fuck, Jamie!”

I kept still. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t answer.

Because what could I say? That I needed to know I could burn?

That there was something about him that made me want to crack?

That I didn’t know where else to go this morning because I wanted his touch as much as I wanted to burn, and I didn’t understand any of it?

“You wouldn’t be standing here with me if you didn’t already know that this is a camera blind spot,” I said, and I swear he growled.

“You think this is a game?” he snapped, stepping closer, and for a second, I thought he might grab me. Shake me. Pin me to the wall as he had before—not with fury, but with lust.

“I need to keep my family safe,” I said.

Lied. I needed to keep them safe, but it wasn’t enough.

Not even close. I needed vengeance like oxygen.

I needed to watch something burn. I needed fire licking up the sides of my soul, the kind that turned everything else to ash.

I needed it in my bones, in my blood. I needed it now .

“Fuck!” He snapped and placed his hand on the scanner, and the elevator doors opened smoothly. He yanked me inside, and I didn’t argue. If he was taking me in there to kill me, I wasn’t going to make it easy—he had the height, the smooth moves, and a lot more weight on me, but I’d still fight.

The doors closed, and I expected him to press the inside hand scanner to take us up.

Instead he stared at me and the elevator didn’t rise.

We were private, contained, but I didn’t kid myself that we weren’t being recorded in here.

This was spy-level shit, and I might not know cameras and recording devices as well as I knew the insides of code, but I wasn’t stupid .

Fear lit something up in me. It wasn’t just adrenaline—it was raw, wrong, arousal. The kind that hit low and hard and came from how he looked at me as if he knew me. As if the nights of sex meant he had a window into my soul.

No one knows me.

“What have you found?” I asked again.

He stared at me, eyes dropping to my mouth, his pupils flaring wide.

Then, his tongue flicked out to wet his lower lip, slow and deliberate, as if he didn’t mean to do it—or maybe he did.

The air between us thickened, dense with something unspoken, raw and electric.

He didn’t understand me, not really. But I didn’t need him to.

All I needed was an answer to the one question that mattered—was I free to destroy the people who had hurt my family?

“Just because I’m fucking you doesn’t mean you get to come here and cause issues with me and the team.”

“What have you found?” I repeated.

He stepped closer, hustling me into the corner. “We’re still plotting all the links.”

Frustration bit deep, hot and restless under my skin.

My fingers itched for something, anything.

I slipped a hand into my pocket, curling it tight around my lighter.

Cold metal. Familiar shape. I clutched it like a lifeline, as though it could ground me—or spark the chaos I needed.

One flick and I could breathe again. One flick and maybe the pressure would bleed off enough to make the waiting bearable.

I blinked at Killian, who crowded me. “I just need to fix things,” I blurted.

Killian cut me off with a sharp look, voice steel-edged.

“No more bullshit, Jamie. I know what you need.” His voice was hoarse with restraint.

His hand drifted low, adjusting himself with a tension that crackled in the small space between us.

Of course, he knew. Killian wasn’t stupid.

He was furious—and confused—and fuck, that was worse.

I’d expected him to rage. I hadn’t expected the ache beneath it. “Do you need it now?”

I whimpered. I bit down hard on the sound, but it slipped out anyway—raw and desperate—before I could catch it. I had to have kept that inside, right? But his breathing hitched, and I knew he’d heard me.

He dragged a hand through his hair, breath sharp. “Talk to me, Pretty.”

I opened my mouth. Closed it. He deserved the truth, but all I could offer was, “I need to hurt them for what they did to Robbie,” I blurted. “I need to hurt them, burn them to ashes.”

His jaw flexed .

And still… he didn’t press that damn button to take us up, or let me out.

He placed a hand on my shoulder, exerted only the tiniest amount of pressure, and I fell to my knees and pressed my face to his groin, inhaling the fresh scent of his suit and the warmth of him.

I nuzzled his hard cock, and then it was his turn to whimper.

His hand curled in my hair, unyielding. “Open,” he said, voice like smoke and steel, and I obeyed, my knees aching on the elevator floor as I looked up at him.

He unzipped slowly, deliberately, watching every twitch of my expression, every ragged breath I took. When I leaned forward and took him into my mouth, his grip tightened just enough to remind me who was in charge.

“That’s it,” he murmured, low and possessive. “Good boy.”

I moaned around him, the praise sparking something wild in me. I hollowed my cheeks, let him guide the pace, let him use me. All the noise in my head quieted, the fire simmered down to something sharp and focused.

He didn’t thrust hard—yet. This wasn’t fast and filthy, not yet. This was control. Dominance. A reminder. My throat burned, my eyes watered, but I didn’t stop.