Page 31

TWENTY-TWO

Killian

A call woke me from a doze—head in my hands, elbows braced on the kitchen counter, the cold laminate pressing into my skin. My phone buzzed against the inside of my forearm, sharp and insistent. I blinked at the screen, heart stuttering once before settling into a slow thud. LASSITER .

Of course.

I swiped to answer and forced some steel into my voice. “McKendrick.”

“You’ve been too quiet.” Lassiter said, smooth and cool as though we were old friends catching up over drinks.

I straightened, rubbed my face with my free hand. “Long week. ”

“I expected results by now. What have you found?”

I paused a beat too long, still not fully clear-headed. “Still piecing things together. Trail’s messy. Shuffled names, dead ends. You know how this goes.”

There was a beat of silence on the other end, then a sharp inhale. “I hope you’re taking this seriously, McKendrick.”

I flinched at the tone—polite on the surface, but hard beneath. Not a threat. Not quite. But close enough to make something in my gut coil.

“I am,” I said flatly, trying to sound calm and controlled. “But the kind of mess I’m digging through doesn’t resolve in twenty-four hours. I’m working it,” I said, voice sharpening before I caught myself.

“Good.” The word was clipped, final. “Because my friends don’t like waiting. Keep me posted.”

The line went dead.

I stared at the phone for a long second, then set it down, knuckles white where I gripped the edge of the counter. My head still ached, but the haze was gone. Replaced by something colder. Clearer.

Lassiter was watching. And he was getting nervous.

Good.

But fuck, I was wide awake again and Jamie was in my room until late afternoon, so I had a lot of time to fill with research that led nowhere.

The sound of my bedroom door creaking open made my spine straighten.

I didn’t turn around at first. Didn’t want to crowd him.

I waited, listening to the shuffling of bare feet across the hardwood.

Jamie appeared in the hallway a moment later, clinging to the wall as if gravity had turned against him.

He was wearing my dress pants—the same pair he’d bitched about earlier when his legs had refused to cooperate—and one of my old button-downs. Pale blue, soft with age, the collar frayed. It swam on his frame, hanging off narrow shoulders. He was pale, drawn, but at least he was upright.

“I’m going home,” he said, voice flat.

I didn’t argue. Not immediately. Instead, I reached for the small duffel bag I’d packed earlier, half-hoping he wouldn’t be this stubborn. Inside: his lighter, his wallet, no cards, just a bundle of cash I’d found.

I handed him the bag and a printed set of instructions. “Aftercare. I googled everything Doc didn’t bother to say.”

He blinked at me, thrown. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” I replied. “Keep the burns dry. Watch for infection. Don’t pop the blisters. Hydration. Rest. Take the painkillers with food, or you’ll throw up. No soaking them, no friction, no tight clothes.” I hesitated. “You’ll need help changing the dressings after forty-eight hours.”

Jamie’s mouth twisted as if he wasn’t sure if he should be grateful or furious.

He glanced toward the door, then looked down at the shoes I’d left for him—his own, somehow untouched by the flames.

He leaned on the wall, hands trembling as he shoved his feet into the worn Nikes.

I watched as sweat beaded along his hairline, jaw clenched tight with effort.

Even though he looked as if he might collapse at any second, he finished tying his laces, then pressed a hand flat to the wall, catching his breath.

Every part of me wanted to reach out. Steady him. Say stay.

Instead, I picked up my keys.

“I’ll drive you.”

“I’ll call a cab.”

“I’m driving you.”

Jamie shot me a sideways look, a flicker of something hot in his expression. Then, he relented with a sharp exhale and headed cautiously toward the door.

I followed, letting him keep his pride. I could’ve scooped him up in one motion, but that wasn’t what he needed. He wasn’t fragile. Not the way he thought I saw him. But he was hurting. More than he’d ever admit.

I helped him into the passenger seat of the Audi. He didn’t fight me this time. Just let me steady him as he lowered himself into the seat, his hand curling over the doorframe as if it hurt to let go.

The silence between us stretched as I pulled out of the basement parking and headed for the street.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said, voice barely audible above the engine’s hum.

“I know.”

“You act like I’ll shatter if I’m not wrapped in cotton wool.”

I snorted. “I think you’re walking around with fresh burns and a fever and trying to act like it’s a normal Tuesday.”

“I’m not yours to worry about, Killian.”

I gripped the wheel tighter. “You are.”

He looked out of the window as if he didn’t know how to respond to that. As if the idea of belonging to anything—or anyone—made his chest tighten.

“Doesn’t mean you get to decide.”

“I’m not deciding. I’m driving.”

More silence. Then, softer: “You printed instructions. ”

“Yeah.”

He didn’t answer. But when we hit a red light, I saw how his eyes drifted shut for a second, still gripping the seatbelt to keep it from his shoulder.

His fingers weren’t burned—how the hell had he walked out of there with nothing on his hands?

When we reached his apartment, he didn’t get out.

Just sat there, breathing, eyes still closed. I didn’t move.

“You didn’t have to find me last night,” he said.

I stared ahead. “I know. But I did.”

His laugh was broken. He opened the door, paused. “You’re a fucking idiot Killian,” he snapped, then got out, and I watched him until the door closed before climbing out and following him.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he asked.

“Making sure you’re inside okay, and then, I’ll leave,” I said.

The apartment was empty—no sign of Rio—and I glanced around at the evidence two men lived here.

The apartment was small but efficiently laid out.

Three doors branched off the main space—one open to reveal a bathroom with white tiles and a shower curtain that had seen better days, the other two likely leading to bedrooms. The lounge area was compact, with two overstuffed sofas arranged around a scratched coffee table, forming a rough square with a large TV in one corner still glowing faintly with standby light.

A laptop sat open on the dining table beside a half-eaten bag of chips and a tangle of phone chargers.

The air held a faint scent of smoke and cleaning products, as though someone had tried to scrub out the chaos but hadn’t finished.

It was lived-in, cluttered, but not messy.

Practical, with no attempt at decoration or warmth.

A space designed for function, not comfort.

I clocked the exits, the layout, the blind spots.

Old habits. Always assessing, always planning escape routes, even now.

“You leaving now?” he asked me.

I shrugged. “I could stay a while.”

He shoved the door shut trapping me in with him, his fists twisted in my shirt, and he yanked me forward.

And kissed me.

Hard. Desperate. All fury and hurt. His fingers clawed at my skin.

There was nothing gentle in it. Just heat and violence and everything he didn’t know how to say.

I didn’t want to hold him, didn’t know what hurt, but I bit his lip, and he moaned, half pain, half want.

He shoved me back into the couch, hands under my shirt.

“Hold me,” he snapped, and, careful of the bandages, I held him .

He yanked my shirt off. Tore it, I think. Didn’t care. His hands shook as he scraped them down my back.

“I need it hard,” he gasped. “I need—fuck, Killian, I need to feel something.”

I kissed him again, deeper this time, but still roughly. “You feel this?”

I grabbed his hips and dragged him toward me. His head tipped back. Eyes fluttered. God, he was so fucking raw.

We stripped fast, frantic. His pants hit the floor. I had enough sense left to grab the lube, slick my fingers. I pushed one in, and he gasped, clenching around me, body jerking like I’d hit a live wire.

“More,” he ground out.

I gave him two. Three. He took it all, his hands fisting in the cushions, jaw clenched, breath ragged. He didn’t want slow. He wanted to burn.

So, I gave it to him.

I pushed in, burying myself in one rough thrust. He cried out—high and sharp—but didn’t stop me. He pulled me closer instead, legs locked tight around my waist as if he’d fall apart if I let go.

We rocked hard and fast. The couch shifted.

Our skin slapped. My fingers dug bruises into his hips.

He bit my shoulder, dragged his nails down my back.

He wanted it brutal. Punishing. Needed to be used as if he didn’t deserve anything different.

I refused to hurt him more. I was so careful of his shoulder and his burns and slowed everything down, then, mid-thrust, I kissed him.

Slow. Deep. He froze, as though it broke something in him.

Then, he shattered.

He came first, body convulsing, a sharp gasp tore from his throat. I followed, fast, buried so deep in him I didn’t know where I ended and he began. My heart pounded. My whole body ached.

But I didn’t move.

He was breathing as if he’d run ten miles. Face turned away. Silent.

I pulled out, carefully. I twisted one hand in his hair, the other over the thin stretch of his back. He didn’t stop me, not even when I gathered him in my arms, not even when I kissed the side of his head and whispered his name.

He didn’t cry, but he was shaking, and his breath hitched as if he wanted to scream and couldn’t.

So, I held him.

Held him as if he mattered. As if he wasn’t smoke and fury and pain wrapped in skin.

And he let me.

For a minute, he let me stay.