Page 61 of Killaney Fire

I've never been this afraid before.

I've faced fire, lost men, bled for orders, but nothing feels like this.

My hands tighten on the wheel, and I push the accelerator harder.

I don't just want to protect her. I want to claim her. Keep her. Have her.

And God help anyone who tries to take her from me.

16

KEIRA

The first thing I feel is pain.

A dull ache that's everywhere: my ribs, my head, and the side of my thigh. Then the second thing is warmth.

Soft blankets tucked around me. A pillow under my head.

I open my eyes and the ceiling is blurry.

I blink, trying to clear the fog from my vision, but everything stays soft around the edges. The smell of smoke clings to my skin and hair.

I shift slightly, and pain radiates through my side.

"Fuck," I whisper, the word scraping past my dry throat.

I blink again, and the ceiling sharpens into focus.

I'm home.

I'm not at the family estate I've been staying at. I'm in my own bedroom, in my own bed.

The pale gray duvet twisted around my legs, the pillows piled behind me like they always are.

How did I get here?

I try to piece it together. The event, the orchids, Octavian's arm around my waist, the heat of his hand against my hip, but it fractures into broken fragments. Screaming. Loud noises. The floor giving way beneath me.

Then nothing.

I shift slightly, and lightning shoots through my side. I wince loudly.

"Careful," a voice comes from the corner of the room.

I turn my head, feeling my muscles pull at something tender in my neck, and that's when I see him.

Octavian sits across the room in a chair by the window. His massive frame folded into it like it was built too small. His jacket is gone. His sleeves are rolled up, revealing the dark tattoos that wind up his forearms, and his tie hangs loose around his neck. His hair is disheveled, strands falling across his forehead, and there's a smudge of soot across his shirt.

His eyes look different. Gone is that detached, tactical observation he usually does. This is different. His dark eyes are locked on mine, and there's something raw in them, something that tells me maybe he was thinking the same things I was.

He stands and moves toward the bed.

"You alright?" he asks. His voice is low, rough, like he's been shouting. Or maybe he hasn't spoken in hours.

I nod, though I'm not sure it's true. "I think so."

He stops at the edge of the bed, his eyes scanning my face, my neck, my shoulders. I can feel his gaze like a physical thing, cataloging every scrape and bruise.