Page 4 of The Final Contract

He doesn’t hesitate. He shoves us into the current of people, cutting a path as if the crowd itself senses better than to resist him.

I stumble against the weight of my gown, nearly topple, but Killian doesn’t slow. He simply sweeps me up, skirts and all, as though I weigh nothing. His stride quickens, cutting through the tide of bodies, down a side staircase, and out into the night air.

The music fades, replaced by the slam of a door as he barrels us into the night. Cool air slaps my face, sharp, bracing.

The limo waits at the curb. Felix stands stiff beside it, holding the door open, eyes scanning the street.

“Killian—put me down,” I gasp, shoving at his shoulder.

He doesn’t. Not until he’s reached the car. He stuffs me inside, gathers the mountain of gown after me, then climbs in close, the door sealing us off from the world.

Felix slides behind the wheel. The city lurches forward.

Killian doesn’t say a word.

But the iron set of his jaw, the barely leashed violence in every line of him, is louder than any promise.

He’s ready to spill blood.

Blood.

It’s everywhere.

Across my hands. Smearing her dress. Glazing her arms up to the elbows.

“Where are you hurt?” I growl, dragging her against me as my fingers search frantically. Neck. Ribs. Waist. I don’t care if I have to rip every inch of this fucking gown apart to find it.

Her protests are noise. I don’t hear them. I only see red.

My Irish brogue thickens the way it always does when I’m at my limit—pissed or drunk or buried deep in a beautiful woman.

But that’s not what this is. This is panic clawing at the edges of me.

“Tell me who the fuck did this, Seraphina. Now.”

She shoves at me, twisting, and when I don’t stop—when I pull my knife and get a fistful of satin—her palm cracks against my cheek.

“Killian Shaw!”

The sound rings sharper than the strike itself. It barely stings, but it halts me. Shocks me enough that my grip loosens.

Her chest is heaving, eyes blazing through the mask still clinging to her face until she rips it off and flings it across the limo. “I’m not hurt, you giant bulldozer.”

For a beat, the limo hums with nothing but Felix’s steady driving and her ragged breaths. Mine are worse.

I put my knife away, drag my hand through my hair, and look at her properly. No pain in her face. No tremor in her voice. Just fire in those blue eyes.

I clamp my hands around her wrists—not soft, not cruel, but firm enough to still her. Her skin is sticky—red smeared against pale.

“Then explain this,” I snap, holding her hands up between us. The bloodstains look like evidence. Proof of something I can’t yet name.

Because if she’s not bleeding… then whose blood is this?

“It’s just paint, big man.” She fights with the endless amount of fabric, settling herself further into the black leather seat. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Paint?” I grind the word out like it’s poison. “You expect me to believe this is nothing?”

She twists, trying to push me back with that cool façade she wears when she wants the world to think she’s untouchable—calm, collected. But I’ve spent a year with her. Almost every fucking day.