“You came,” I croak hoarsely.
“It was never up for debate.”
I release a slow sigh. It’s out of complete and total relief. Enough to make me a little lightheaded.
But the guilt still lingers. It serves as a reminder that once again Killian and the rest of the Callahan clan have found themselves in a bind because of me.
That I’m the reason they’re so deep in this fight against the Bratva. The cost keeps getting higher and they keep paying it, whether they realize it or not.
Killian’s arm remains curled around my shoulders as he and the others turn back toward the doors. He escorts me out of the old meatpacking facility, no sign of the Bratva anywhere.
Killian insists on taking me to the emergency room to be checked out, but I push back and convince him I’m fine.
Rurik and the others kidnapped me, but other than some chaffingon my wrists and soreness in my body, I’m fine. I’m not hurt.
Apparently, the moment Killian realized I was missing, he went ballistic. It was a full scale emergency that required all hands on deck.
In the middle of the Barclays Center only minutes after his fight, Killian demanded Ronan phone in buttonmen. That they scour the city in search of me.
Then he received Rurik’s call and they rushed to the old meatpacking facility in Sunset Park. The fact that even Ronan came, ready for an all-out confrontation with the Bratva, speaks volumes.
Killian wasn’t messing around.
He was backing up the promises he’s made—that he would protect me. He would fight for me if necessary.
It’s so unbelievable to me I’m still trying to wrap my head around it when we finally make it back to the studio.
We’re both still buzzing from the excitement of the night. Killian’s still bleeding from his boxing match against The Tank, the gash above his brow bright red and fresh. I’m breathless as if still tethered to the metal meat hook, unsure what was about to happen to me.
We’ve escaped another dangerous situation and are now confined to a five-hundred-square-foot space to reconcile that reality.
Weirdly enough, I’m almost…giddy.
It’s not because I don’t still feel guilty—it’s so deep, it’s unbearable at times—or because I wasn’t afraid tonight.
It’s literally the opposite. Those intense emotions are the reason Iamfeeling a little lightheaded and gleeful. It feels like we finally have a moment to ourselves.
A chance to let loose after what turned out to be a dangerous night.
“You wanted me to go to the ER, but you’re probably theone who should’ve seen a doctor,” I say, turning to face him. I reach up and gently brush a thumb across his split brow, where he took a brutal punch from The Tank.
His hand catches mine and he holds it between his fingers, his dark blue eyes on my face. Our gazes connect, and it slowly registers that we’re not only standing close, we’re touching again. We just can’t help ourselves.
Nerves flutter inside my stomach.
I swipe my tongue at my lips, fully aware he can see me. He’s watching me do so.
I notice the subtlest shift in his gaze as he tracks my tongue and stares at my mouth. The muscle in his jaw pulls tighter as he bites down, likely to restrain himself.
Killian Rourke—Irish mob enforcer, pro boxer, and ever the gentleman, even if most think of him as a brute.
It’s a heady realization.
This giant man who normally crushes bones is trying so hard to resist me. He’s determined to keep his word and not cross any more lines.
But honestly? That ship has sailed.
It’s been long gone from the moment our lips first touched the night we walked home from the Rialto. We’ve just been delusional enough to believe we could fight it.
