"You do," I whispered, hating how small my voice sounded.
"That's right. I do. And I'm not going to stop just because you're having some moment of independence." His grip tightened slightly. "You're staying here. With me. Where you're safe."
The underlying threat in his words was clear:you're not leaving.
I should have argued. Should have fought back.
But I just nodded, and he smiled, kissed my forehead, and went back to making breakfast like the conversation had never happened.
I stood there, my heart pounding, and realized with crystal clarity: if I didn't leave soon, I never would.
He'd make sure of it.
And the most terrifying part was how much I wanted to let him.
That night, while Killian slept, I lay awake making a plan.
I couldn't tell him I was leaving. Couldn't give him any warning. I'd have to wait until he left for some reason, to run errands, to check on something, anything that would give me a window.
Then I'd grab my important documents, some clothes, and run.
Not to my cabin. He'd look there first.
Maybe to my Aunt Ellen’s place Richmond. Or a hotel. Somewhere he couldn't track me.
But even as I planned it, I knew the truth: leaving Killian might be the most dangerous thing I'd ever done.
Because men like him didn't let go.
And if he caught me trying to run…
Fuck,I thought.
I didn't want to think about what he'd do.
But staying was destroying me.
So I had to try.
Even if it killed me.
Chapter 13
Killian
The grocery bags hit the kitchen counter harder than I intended, cans rolling across the surface.
Something was wrong.
Lena had driven to work today. I'd finally fixed her car because she'd asked me to, and then she'd fucked my brains out, earning a promise out of me that I'd get it done. I'd spent yesterday replacing the battery I'd been sitting on for weeks, made a show of how complicated it was, how long it took. She'd been so grateful, so sweet, kissing me and thanking me like I'd done her some huge favor.
Like I hadn't been the one who'd broken it in the first place.
But now the cabin was too quiet. Not the peaceful quiet of Lena reading or drawing, but the empty kind. The kind that made my skin crawl and my pulse spike.
She should have been home by now.
The gallery closed at six, and it was almost seven thirty.
