Page 65 of Killaney Fire

17

OCTAVIAN

Everyone's gone now, and I'm sitting here watching her stare at the ceiling.

Even in pain, she argues. Even bruised and shaken, she wants to be involved. I shouldn't be surprised. That's just the type of person she is, fire incarnate, refusing to be smothered.

She's lying in bed, quiet now, but only just. Her fingers twitch every so often, and I know it's taking everything in her not to sit up and do something, seek out answers.

I like that about her. I like knowing that even bruised and furious, Keira Killaney is dangerous.

Not just to her enemies. To me, too.

So I'm thankful her family showed up when they did and saved me.

What the hell was I about to tell her? My feelings?

That I almost lost my mind when I thought she stopped breathing? That carrying her limp body out of that ballroom made something break inside of me?

That never happens, but with her, everything shifts. My control breaks. My discipline fractures. I don't recognize the man who sits in this chair, staring at a woman who drives him insane in ways that have nothing to do with duty.

Am I just being wrapped up in the moment? Confessing something I don't even fully understand myself.

Nah, I never say shit like that. I don't feel shit like that.

But something about her makes all my walls look like goddamn tissue paper.

Maybe it was a gracious act from the universe, so it's probably for the best. Better to keep it all wrapped up until after all this is over. Besides, if I tell her how I'm feeling and it makes her uncomfortable, one word to Callum and I'm gone.

And I don't want that. Not anymore, clearly. On the way over here, I've never checked a rearview mirror so many damn times. I was so worried, so stressed. My hands gripped the wheel until my knuckles turned white, my eyes darting between her unconscious form in the backseat and the road ahead. Every time a car got too close, my finger twitched toward the gun, worried someone was coming for her. Every time she shifted, even slightly, my heart jumped.

She mentioned not liking being at the main house, so I brought her here. To her own place. Where I know she'd be most comfortable. I carried her inside, gently laid her in bed, and made the calls I needed.

I should've left after. Should've walked out and waited in the hallway or anywhere but here.

But I didn't.

Because every time I try to leave, something in me freezes at the thought of not being able to see her breathing.

So I sit and wait, my eyes never leaving her face, watching the rise and fall of her chest like it is the only thing keeping me sane.

"Octavian," she says, her voice cutting through my thoughts.

I look at her. "Yeah?"

She shifts, wincing slightly as she turns toward me. "What do you think we should do?"

She looks so small. So fragile in a way she never allows herself to be when she's standing, talking, breathing fire into every room she enters. Her red hair flows across the pillow, still tangled with debris I couldn't get out. Her green eyes, though tired, shine.

"What do you mean?" I ask, leaning forward.

"Well, like, someone targeted me. So I need to do something."

I exhale slowly. Here we go.

"Let your brothers handle it."

"What?" she asks and raises her head up sharply, staring daggers at me.