Page 14 of The Final Contract (The Black Ledger Billionaires #5)

T he second we walk through the door, I know.

Killian didn’t say where we were going, but I can tell it immediately when he unlocks the door and ushers me inside. His place.

The air hits me first. It smells like him—clean, sharp, and threaded with whiskey. It’s disarming, like walking into a space I shouldn’t be allowed in, private and unguarded in a way he never is.

He carries my bags down the hall toward a room, leaving me standing in the middle of his living space. My eyes roam before I can stop them.

“You collect records?” I ask, a little surprised, noticing the shelves stacked neatly against one wall.

“Eh, I’d warn you against hearing me sing to them though,” he calls back. “My Irish tends to come out and it’s a bit frightful.”

The corner of my mouth lifts before I can stop it. “That Irish coming out a little wouldn’t be so bad, huh?”

It’s meant to be casual, teasing—but the words come out softer, heavier, like I’m hinting at something else entirely.

He reappears, one brow raised. “I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.”

I let out a breathy laugh, grateful for the banter, even as heat coils low in my stomach.

He gives me a short tour, his hand brushing along a light switch here, a wall there, as if reminding himself the space belongs to him.

It’s beautiful in a way I didn’t expect. All rich browns and leathers, dark grays and metal accents. Masculine, sleek, but lived-in.

Either he has an eye for interiors, or he hired someone with one. Either way, I like it. It tells me something about him—that even with the chaos of his work, he cares about the space he comes home to. Even if, from the look of things, he hasn’t been home much since he took on guarding me.

The realization tugs at me.

So does the guilt.

I should have told him sooner. About the stalker. About the notes, the roses, the way I’d brushed it all off as if ignoring it would make it go away. Na?ve. Stupid. And now—after tonight—I know better.

It’s not just me at risk anymore. I see how wrong I was, and the weight of it presses down on me until I can hardly breathe. Someone could get hurt. Maybe even him.

And that thought cuts deeper than I want to admit.

“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.

A thud 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?”

No answer.

The silence makes everything worse. I know I heard something. My mind flashes a thousand ways it could go wrong—my stalker finding us, slipping inside, Killian fighting him to the death in the living room.

It’s ridiculous. A giant like Killian would make noise if that were happening. A lot of noise.

Unless… unless he left me here. Or worse, invited someone over. Someone who dots her i’s with hearts and something very passionate is taking place on the sofa out there. My mouth goes dry at the thought, hot and bitter in my chest.

I glance at the clock. Nearly one in the morning, and curiosity wins.

Sliding out of bed, I pad across the floor, bare feet silent against the rug. I press my ear to the door. Nothing. Not a sound.

Slowly, carefully, I ease it open and nearly gasp out loud.

He’s there. Right there. Leaning against the wall outside my door. Asleep.

The thud must have been him shifting. The position looks brutal, like his spine is twisted, his head against the wall, body folded wrong.

I kneel beside him, nudging his shoulder gently. “Killian…” I whisper.

His reaction is instant. Predatory.

Before I can blink, I’m flat on my back, his body caging mine, his hand around my throat.

“Killian—” it’s supposed to be a cry of recognition, but it slips out as more of a plea. “It’s me.”

His eyes open, blinking fast, the tension in his face slowly easing. His grip loosens. His other hand presses at my hip, where his shirt has ridden up. My stomach, my panties—bare beneath him.

“I just didn’t want you to sleep on the floor,” I manage, breathless.

“Seraphina.” My name leaves him like a prayer, a whisper that melts every inch of me.

My heart pounds so hard I know he can feel it. My thighs part without thought, and at the same moment his hips shift—just barely—grinding into me. The smallest taste, but enough to drench me instantly. My body knows. My body wants.

My hands drift over his warm skin, feeling the tension in his shoulder muscles. I tilt my hips against him, subtle, and his breath drags in like I burned him.

The hand at my hip slides higher—slow, deliberate—searing a path up my body. The grip at my throat adjusts, his thumb caressing the length of my jaw.

“Seraphina,” he rasps. “We can’t do this.”

He doesn’t mean it. I know he doesn’t mean it. Because his hips roll into me again, firmer this time, and I can feel him thickening against me.

“What are we doing?” I whisper, rocking with him, my legs snaking around him.

His hand travels up, around my rib cage, the pace glacial, torturous. I arch into the touch, silently begging for his palm on my breast, his mouth on my skin.

“We can’t cross this line.” The words sound like pain, like every syllable scrapes his throat raw. His body contradicts him with every subtle press, every almost-thrust that tests and teases the edge.

“I can’t keep you safe like this.” The whisper ghosts over my lips, so close I can taste his breath.

A tiny shift from me and my bottom lip brushes his. Not a kiss. Barely a touch. But enough.

Reality slams back into him.

He tears himself away in an instant, moving off me as fast as he pinned me. My body aches with the loss, skin burning, heart hammering against emptiness where his weight had been.

And I can’t help but wonder—if I hadn’t moved, if I hadn’t brushed his mouth—what would’ve happened?

His voice is gravel, low and rough as he grabs my hand and pulls me up. “Let’s get you back to bed.”

The words shouldn’t make me shiver, but they do. My pulse stutters in my throat. “Will you… stay in here with me?”

For a moment I think he won’t answer, but then he nods once. A sharp, clipped gesture. Maybe because he doesn’t trust his voice either.