But the order is gone.
"Better?" he asks. His voice is raw, raspy.
I stare at him. I feel lighter. Hollowed out, but steady. The rage is gone, replaced by a heavy, languid exhaustion.
"Yeah," I say. "Better."
He nods. He picks up his jacket from the chair where he left it.
"Goodnight, Killian."
He turns and walks down the hallway. He doesn't look back.
I listen to his footsteps. I listen to his bedroom door open and close.
I am alone in the kitchen.
The knife is still sticking out of the cutting board. The whiskey bottle is still open on the counter.
I touch my lips. They still tingle from the kiss.
I walk over to the knife. I grip the handle. I pull it free. I wash it in the sink, watching the water run over the steel. I dry it. I put it back in the block.
I cork the whiskey. I put it back in the cabinet.
I clean up the mess.
I walk to the guest room. I strip off my clothes and crawl into the cold, white bed.
I stare at the ceiling.
I replay the moment in my head. Not the sex. Not the release.
The moment he looked up at me. The moment he chose to kneel.
He could have fought. He could have called security. He could have shot me with the Beretta I know he has tucked in his waistband.
He didn't.
He gave me what I needed. He saw the violence in me, and instead of running from it, he absorbed it.
I roll over, burying my face in the pillow.
I don't hate him.
I thought I did. I told myself I did. But hate doesn't feel like this. Hate doesn't make your chest ache when you look at someone. Hate doesn't make you want to stand between them and a bullet.
I realized it in the warehouse, but I know it now.
I want to keep him.
The thought settles in my chest, heavy and permanent as a stone.
I want to keep him safe. I want to keep him close. I want to keep him on his knees, and I want to keep him standing tall, and I want to kill anyone who tries to touch him.
It’s a dangerous thought. A fatal thought.
But as I close my eyes, listening to the hum of the city outside, I realize it’s the only thought that matters.
