“A woman after my own heart,” he chuckles, giving me a playful squeeze and readjusting me on his lap so more of my weight presses against him.
Oh my God, I can’t. What the hell is he playing at? I’m not light! I’m five-nine and just shy of thirteen stone. There is some chonk in this booty that I’m usually ok with, but this fucker doesn’t so much as have a ripple of fat on him. It’s like sitting on solid rock.
“Katie,” Aiden purrs in my ear, his warm breath sending shivers down my spine.
I freeze. Oh no, I’ve crushed him. His legs are numb. I know I don’t look it, but I’m harder to kidnap than I appear.
“Sit. The fuck. Down,” he tugs my hips back and guides me onto his lap.
“I’m heavy!” I blurt out.
His hand slides around my throat, his grip firm but not constricting, as he pulls me back against his chest. “You’re perfect.”
12
AIDEN
The bed squeaks and rocks above me. I was not expecting him to come home with anyone. I did not anticipate being forced to hide beneath this filthy bed and endure their moans. I was not at all prepared to catch a glimpse of Officer Hennessy, getting rimmed by his unexpected guest, in the mirror facing the bed.
That woman does not love herself.
I can understand a man doing it to a woman. Women are, by most accounts, clean creatures with, in most cases, less body hair and better hygiene practices. I imagine that Hennessy’s partner probably swallowed a stray pube or two along with the remainder of a shit nugget.
Disgusting.
My mind drifts back to Katie last Sunday. She was going to cancel our plans. I could only hear half of her conversation through the camera’s microphone, but whatever was said shook her to her core. I literally saw the colour drain from her face and heard the trembling in her voice.
Broken.
That’s the word that had triggered her—the word she muttered before she started falling to pieces. It doesn’t take a psychology degree to work out that she has severe post-traumatic stress disorder, but from what, I’ve yet to find out.
I’ve caught glimpses of her conversations since I began watching her two weeks ago. I’ve discovered her dark sense of humour, which I’ve only caught the slightest glimpse of in our conversations.
I’ve learned about snippets of her chaotic upbringing. The gardaí were regulars at her doorstep because of calls from the neighbours concerned about domestic disturbances. What I find intriguing about it all is how both Katie and Ciara seemed to laugh about it. They laughed about being tossed into freezing baths in the middle of winter. They laughed about being flung around by the hair, Trunchbull style, by their mother. They laughed about the gaslighting and the physical and emotional abuse.
They simply fucking laughed.
Seeing how strong, how defiant, and how absolutely glorious Katie is in all of her manic splendour made my dick twitch and my hands itch to protect her. She’s been through enough, seen enough, and survived enough that she doesn’t need me. I’m not that deluded to convince myself that she needs saving. She’s past that point. There is no damsel in distress; no woe-is-me bullshit from her.
Katie doesn’t need me or any other man. But she has me all the same.
I click into the Home Secure app, and Katie’s image pops up on the screen.
Shoving my EarPods in my ear, I keep the volume low—justhigh enough for me to hear her conversation but low enough that I don’t spark an alarm for one of the above, hearing noises under the bed.
“You said he was a red flag!” I hear Maria’s voice boom over the speaker in Katie’s kitchen.
“He is a major red flag,” Katie replies, cutting up carrots by the sink.
Aww—she’s not wrong.
“So, you were snuggling up with him on the couch because what? He smells good?”
I have to force myself not to laugh.
Katie laughs, shaking her head dismissively. “I guess I want to see how red the flag can get.”
Pretty fucking red, babe. Like a baboon’s arse. Like Rudolph after snorting party powder. Like a fire truck on steroids. Like Hennessy’s pillow once I splatter his brains all over it.
