Page 36 of The Final Contract

“Hungry?” Killian asks after the tour, his voice rougher than usual.

I shake my head, offering a faint smile. “Not really.”

His mouth quirks like he doesn’t quite believe me. “Building doesn’t have the amenities yours does, but I can make a mean grilled-cheese sandwich in a pinch.”

That actually earns a laugh from me, small but real. “I’m okay. Just tired. I think I want to sleep.”

He nods once—no argument—and guides me to the room where he dropped my bags. His room.

“Bed is brand-new, actually. Mattress too.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Haven’t had a night here yet to break it in.” He gives me a wink, and my stomach flips, butterflies tangling in my chest at the thoughts that evokes.

He opens the en suite door, gestures toward the towels stacked neatly. “Fresh. Shower if you want.”

“Where are you sleeping if I’m in your bed?” I ask, unable to stop the words.

Something flickers across his face at the way I said your bed. Something I can’t name but feel all the way down to my toes.

“Out here.” He tips his head toward the living room. “Don’t argue. It’s decided.”

I nod, pretending not to notice the stubborn finality in his tone. He leaves, pulling the door shut, the slow close saying more than he realizes.

Alone, I take a moment to look around. A few framed photos rest on a shelf. His mother, I think—the same eyes, the same set to the mouth. But no one else. No girlfriends smiling at his side, no lingering traces of another woman’s claim. I didn’t expect relief, but it’s there all the same.

The bed is huge. Pressing down on it, it’s soft, the fluffy covers cozy. But a detail on the footboard makes me squint—then chuckle.

A ring, bolted to the corner post. I lean over, check the other side. Sure enough, a matching one.

“Killian Shaw,” I murmur to the empty room, “what a kinky man you must be.”

I unzip my bag and frown. Of course. I didn’t pack anything to sleep in.

Feeling ridiculous, I crack the door open and peek out. Killian’s at the bar across the room, whiskey in a crystal glass, the amber catching the low light. He looks carved from stone, but softer too, as he lifts the drink to his lips.

“I, um…” My cheeks heat. “Didn’t bring anything to sleep in. You wouldn’t happen to have a silk pajama set lying around?”

The chuckle that rumbles from him is unexpected, low, and genuine. I like it. I like him like this—lighter.

“Not quite my style, angel,” he says, disappearing to his closet for a moment before returning with one of his shirts. He hands it over without comment and turns away, leaving me the room again.

Angel. The word clings, softer than baby had been, heavier somehow. I thought it had only been a slip, but this is very intentional.

It shouldn’t mean anything, but my chest gives a traitorous little squeeze all the same.

The cotton is soft when I pull it over my head, brushing against bare skin. It hangs loose, the hem brushing my thighs. The smell of him clings to the fabric—clean, sharp, faint whiskey—and my nipples pebble immediately against the inside. Silk pajama sets may never compare again.

I climb into his bed, switch off the lamp, and sink into the sheets. They smell like him too, and I hug the pillow, inhaling deeply. I stare at the ceiling, telling myself sleep will come easy. That my mind won’t stay caught between fear of what waits outside and the warmth of the man who just gave me his shirt.

But my body knows better.

Athud jolts me awake.

Somewhere between staring at the walls and pushing out thoughts of Killian and my stalker, I must have dozed off.

My heart hammers, chest rising too fast, the sheets tangling around my legs as my eyes adjust to the dark. It takes a moment to remember where I am. Not my room. Not my bed. The space smells like whiskey and cedar, and the ceiling above me isn’t familiar.

Killian’s place.

I whisper his name into the shadows. “Killian?”