My pulse kicked up again. There was no mistaking it now. This wasn't just friendly conversation. This was something else. Something I absolutely should not be entertaining.
"Why?" I asked.
Killian stepped closer. Close enough that I could smell him wood smoke and something clean, like soap. Close enough that if I leaned forward even an inch, I'd be pressed against his chest.
"Because I don't want you to leave yet," he said, his voice dropping lower. "And I think you don't want to either."
He was right. I didn't, not really. Even though every instinct I had was screaming at me to put distance between us, I stayed rooted to the spot. "You're very sure of yourself," I said.
"Only when I'm right."
I took another sip from the glass. "And if you're wrong?"
His eyes darkened. "I'm not."
Fuck.
My mouth went dry. I really needed to leave now. Needed to walk away before this turned into something I couldn't take back. But then Killian reached out, his fingers brushing a strand of hair away from my face, and every coherent thought I had evaporated.
"I'll see you around, Lena," he said softly.
And then he was gone. Disappearing into the crowd like he'd never been there at all. I stood there, heart pounding, plastic wine cup, trembling in my hand.What the hell just happened?
Chapter 5
Killian
The art supply store was two towns over. Far enough that no one would remember me. Just another face in the sea of many looking at paints and papers. No one would remember me looking shifty as hell, or even nervous.
Thoughts of Lena had consumed me. It had gotten to the point I couldn’t sleep. Part of me hadn’t even wanted to eat.
I needed to claim her mind and soul but I knew there were steps to doing all of that.
I'd thought about what to get her for days. Studied her sketchbook during my visits, memorized the way she held her pencils, the pressure of her strokes on paper. She was running low on charcoal. I'd noticed that on my “visits.” So I bought her the good stuff. Vine charcoal. Compressed charcoal. A set of blending stumps. Sketch paper that was heavy weight, the kind that could handle layers of pressing, that wouldn’t buckle under the pressure of an artist’s hand.
Professional grade. The kind of supplies someone bought when they were serious about their craft. Or when someone was serious about them. I slid a hundred dollar bill across the counter top to the cashier making hardly any eye contact with the cashier. When the transaction was done, I’d kept my headdown, and drove back up the mountain with the bag sitting in my passenger seat like a secret. Occasionally, on the ride home, I’d take my eyes off the road to admire the brown bag resting in the seat next to me. Eventually, my truck made its way back up the mountain side, and I slid back into my territory.
Breaking into her cabin had become this nasty little sadistic routine. A routine that I couldn’t escape. Didn’t want to escape.
Muscle memory.
I knew which window to use. Knew how to move through her space without leaving traces.
But this time was different.
This time, I was leaving something behind.
I set the supplies on her kitchen table, arranged them carefully. Not too neat because she'd notice that. But not scattered either.
Just… there.
Like they'd been delivered and she'd forgotten about them.
Plausible deniability.
Except there was no return address.
No card.
