His dark eyes slide to me, meeting mine before they drop to the bare leg I have on show where my dress has ridden up. My skin pebbles as if he’s physically touched me.
A flash of images assaults me again, a spine pressed to a wall, hands cupping a jaw as tongues meet and thrash, hair being tugged before things turn softer, a caress, a fleeting whisper of fingers on a cheek, a touch under a table.
Tears prick my eyes.
“What is it?” Killian demands, mood shifting within the small space inside the car.
I shake my head, “I don’t know.”
“Are you in pain?” The car starts to slow.
“No, I’m fine.” I squeeze my eyes closed as I push away the thoughts. They make no sense but feel so real, like they belong to me but in a different lifetime.
“I’ll turn around,” Killian says, flicking his blinker on.
“No!” I lurch forward, grasping his wrist as if I can stop him, “No I’m fine.”
His eyes narrow, “Savannah.”
“I promise.”
I can tell he doesn’t believe me. I don’t believe myself either. But how do I explain it? This intenseyearning, this desperate need for something that isn’t mine.
He lets out an aggravated sigh but turns off the blinker and continues on the way to the cemetery, pulling into the lot ten minutes later. There’s cameras and news crews and a whole crowd of people, all waiting at the black iron gates to be let in to watch Adrien be buried.
“You want to leave,” Killian turns to me, “We leave, you hear me?”
I nod mutely.
His dark eyes flick around my face and he opens his mouth to say something else, but then his teeth snap shut and his jaw clenches before he shoves open his door and slams it shut behind him. The man gives me whiplash.
He pauses for a few seconds and then rounds the hood, coming to my door to open it and offer me his hand which I take gratefully.
Immediately, a swarm of journalists rush toward me, shoving mics and cameras in my face.
“Is it true you have lost your memory?” One of them yells.
“Reports show you went on a date with Adrien before he died, is this true? What was your relationship with him?”
“Your injuries were severe; do you still have a career in dance?”
“Who is your date?”
“Savannah!”
Killian shoves his body in front of mine, his hand coming around to cradle the back of my skull and pull me into his chest as question after question I cannot answer is rapid fired in my direction.
“I’ve got you,” Killian whispers, loud enough only I can hear.
My hands curl into the edges of his jacket. He’s warm and he’s safe and my whole body, hell my fucking soul feels at home here.
“Get the fuck back!” He roars, “If you don’t move that fucking camera, I’ll shove it down your throat, do you hear me? I’ll give you a real intimate interview with your fucking insides.”
His arm tightens around me.
But they don’t move, his threats rolling off them like water. They continue to yell questions at me, but their voices are muffled as I press my ear to Killian’s chest and listen to the steady and strong beat of his heart. It’s a melody, like listening to rain on a tin roof or your favorite song in the dark when no one else is around.
Safe.
