Chapter 20 - Kent #3
The words slip out before I can stop them, carrying implications that make the air between us electric with tension.
Because that's what I'm really saying, isn't it?
That whatever happens next, we're facing it together.
That I'm not walking away this time, regardless of how complicated or dangerous things get.
That I'm choosing her over my own safety, just like she chose me over her professional obligations.
"Do I?" she asks quietly, and there's something vulnerable in her voice despite the controlled expression on her face. "Because you walked away once before when things got complicated. What makes this different?"
The question hits like a physical blow, because it cuts straight to the heart of what I need her to understand.
That nine years of distance taught me exactly what I lost when I convinced myself I was protecting her.
That seeing her again—seeing what she's become, how she's transformed survival into strength—has made it clear that walking away was the wrong choice for all the right reasons.
That I'm not the same man who left her crying in that hotel room, just like she's not the same girl who thanked me for killing her father.
"Because I was wrong," I say simply. "About what you needed, about what you deserved, about what you could handle. I was wrong about everything except how remarkable you are."
Something shifts in her expression, the careful armor cracking just enough to let me see the woman underneath. Not the controlled professional or the dominant force who made me beg, but someone who's been carrying nine years of abandonment and is afraid to hope that this time might be different.
"Words are easy, Kent," she says, but her voice is softer now, less guarded. "Living up to them is harder."
"Then let me stay. Let me prove that I've learned from the biggest mistake of my life." I lean forward, not close enough to touch but close enough that she can see the sincerity in my eyes. "Let me be your partner in figuring out who's doing this and why."
For a long moment, she doesn't respond. Just studies my face like she's looking for cracks in my resolve, signs that I'll run when the pressure becomes too intense. Whatever she sees there must satisfy her, because she nods once, sharp and decisive.
"Partners," she agrees. "But not equals. This is my territory, my investigation, my resources. You follow my lead."
"Understood."
"And if you walk away again…." She doesn't finish the threat, doesn't need to. Because we both understand that there won't be a third chance, that whatever forgiveness she might be willing to consider extends only as far as my commitment to see this through.
"I won't," I promise, and mean it with every fiber of my being. "Whatever happens, whoever's doing this, whatever they want from us—I won't walk away."
She searches my face one more time, then nods. "Then we'd better figure out who's playing games with our lives. Because if they're willing to kill innocent people to get our attention, they won't stop at two murders."
"They'll escalate," I agree. "And next time, they might target someone closer to home."
The implication hangs between us, loaded with possibilities neither of us wants to voice.
Because if someone knows enough about our history to manipulate us both, they likely know about the people who matter to her.
Lila's aunt, her friend Casey, anyone who might be used as leverage to force us into whatever game they're really playing.
Anyone who might become collateral damage in someone else's psychological experiment.
"We'll stop them first," Lila says, and there's something in her voice that reminds me of the girl who once helped me position a dead body with clinical precision. "Whatever they want, whoever they are—we'll end this before anyone else gets hurt."
I nod, recognizing the commitment in her tone. Because that's what we're doing here, isn't it? Committing to each other, to whatever partnership we can build from the wreckage of what we used to have. Not romance, not forgiveness, but alliance in the face of a threat that could destroy us both.
It's not what I'd hoped for when I decided to come to her door tonight. It's a start. A chance to prove that I've learned from my mistakes, that I can be trusted as an ally if not as anything more.
A chance to show her that the man who walked away nine years ago has become someone worthy of staying, regardless of what that staying might cost us both.
Outside her windows, the city continues its anonymous dance of light and shadow, millions of people living and dying and struggling with their own carefully hidden truths.
But up here, fifteen floors above it all, we sit surrounded by evidence of someone else's game, trying to understand rules we didn't agree to play by.
And for the first time in nine years, I can feel I'm exactly where I belong.
All because of her.
I watch her across the coffee table, the police files spread out like a battlefield between us, each photograph and evidence card a landmine waiting to detonate.
Lila’s silk robe clings to her damp skin, the hem riding up just enough to make it clear she’s playing a game with me—teasing, taunting, daring me to cross lines she’s already drawn in the sand.
She’s in control, or so she thinks, sitting there with her legs crossed and her eyes sharp enough to cut through my carefully constructed calm.
If I’m going to stay, if I’m going to earn back even a fraction of the trust I burned, I need to show her I’m not afraid of the woman she’s become.
Not the professional armor, not the calculated cruelty, not the way she wields desire like a weapon.
I need her to see I’m all in—whatever that means, whatever it costs.
“I’m staying at a motel six blocks from here,” I say, leaning back in my chair, keeping my voice low and unhurried. “Cash payment, no paper trail. But it’s not where I want to be.”
Her eyebrow arches, a flicker of amusement crossing her face, but it’s laced with something colder. “And where exactly do you want to be, Kent?”
“Here.” I let the word hang, heavy with intent. “With you. In your space. Where I can watch your back while we figure out who’s fucking with us.”
She laughs, sharp and cutting, the sound slicing through the tension like a blade. “Did I invite you to move in? Because I don’t recall sending out a housewarming card.”
The dismissal is cutting, a test to see if I’ll back down, if I’ll retreat like I did before. But I’m not that man anymore, and she’s not the only one who knows how to play dirty.
I stand, closing the distance between us in three steps, my hands finding the edges of her robe before she can react. I rip it open, the silk parting to reveal the body I haven’t so much as let myself dream about. Her words are so sharp, but this body….
Fuck, her body.
“You wrapped yourself up like a fucking present, Lila,” I say, my voice rough with the hunger I’ve been trying to leash since I walked through her door. “Don’t act like this isn’t an invitation for me.”
Her eyes flash, not with fear but with fury, and she shoves at my chest, hard enough to make me brace myself. “That’s the kind of line rapists use, actually. Sure you want to go with that logic?”
I chuckle darkly, leaning down into her, letting her feel the heat of my body against hers. “I remember how much you liked fighting me for it, Delilah. How you’d claw and curse while your pussy begged for exactly what I was giving you.”
Her breath catches, a split-second crack in her armor, but she doesn’t back down. She never does. My hands find her breasts, cupping them with deliberate slowness, thumbs grazing her nipples through the thin silk still clinging to her shoulders before I shove it down to pool at her elbows.
She tenses, but doesn’t pull away, her eyes daring me to keep going, to see how far I’ll push this before she pushes back.
“Fuck, these got bigger,” I murmur, squeezing gently, testing their weight in my palms. “Fit my hands like they were made for me.” I roll her nipples between my fingers, slow and teasing, watching her pupils dilate as she fights to keep her composure.
The silk robe slips further, pooling around her waist, and I lean in, my lips brushing the curve of one breast, not quite touching but close enough to make her shiver.
I see her jaw clench from how hard she grits her teeth to keep her reactions at bay.
“Fuck off. You don’t get to just—” she starts, her voice sharp but fraying at the edges, betraying the heat building under her skin.
I cut her off by dragging my tongue across her nipple, reveling, savoring the way it hardens under my touch. Her hands grip my shoulders, nails digging in, not pushing me away but anchoring herself as I suck gently, then harder, drawing a low moan she tries so stubbornly to bite back.
My other hand works her opposite breast, kneading, teasing, rolling the peak until she’s arching into me despite herself.
“Look at you,” I growl against her skin, my breath hot on her flesh.
“Fighting so hard to pretend you don’t want this.
” I pinch her nipple lightly, just enough to make her gasp, then soothe it with my tongue, relishing the way her body betrays her defiance.
My free hand slides down her stomach, stopping just above the slope of her pelvis, fingers brushing the sensitive skin there, teasing without giving her what she’s starting to crave. “That you need.”
She’s wet—I can tell by the way her thighs press together, the slight hitch in her breath when my fingers dip lower, grazing her impossibly soft skin.
I don’t push inside yet, just trace the seam where her thighs clench together, applying pressure that’s not quite enough, making her squirm.
A single digit delves into the crease of her pussy, finding her nub swollen. It throbs beneath my fingertip.
“You’re dripping for me, aren’t you, Delilah?” I say, taunting. “All that control, and you’re still begging with your body.”
Her hand shoots to my wrist, gripping it hard, but she doesn’t pull me away. “It’s Lila,” she snaps, her voice breaking on a ragged edge as I press harder, circling her clit, feeling her heat against my fingers. Her legs begin to part of their own volition. “You don’t get to—”
I don’t let her finish. My mouth crashes back to her breast, teeth grazing the sensitive peak as my hand forces her legs open the rest of the way, finding her slick and ready for me.
Still, I don’t push inside yet, just slide my fingers along her folds, teasing, spreading her wetness with leisure. She’s trembling now, fighting to keep her walls up, but her hips tilt toward me, chasing the contact I’m withholding.
“Fuck, your cunt’s just as tight as I remember,” I exhale, finally slipping two fingers inside her, curling them with the precision that used to drive her wild.
She moans, loud and unfiltered, her nails digging into my shoulders as I work her, slow and deep, drawing out every shudder.
My thumb finds her clit again, circling with relentless focus, and her head falls back, exposing the long line of her throat.
“You don’t get to call me that,” she gasps, but it’s weak, her body contradicting her words as she grinds against my hand. “I told you—it’s Lila.”
I pull back just enough to meet her eyes, my fingers still moving inside her, building her higher.
“I’ll call you whatever the fuck I want, Delilah,” I say, and before she can argue, I slap her breast, the sharp sting making her cry out.
So pretty. I lean in, lapping at the reddening flesh, soothing it with my tongue while my fingers keep their rhythm, pushing her closer to the edge.
“Maybe I’ll call you my little whore. That’s what you are for me, isn’t it? Even now?”
Her hands fist in my hair, pulling hard, but it’s not to stop me—it’s to keep me there, to demand more. I oblige, sucking her nipple hard, my fingers curling deeper, thumb pressing harder against her clit until she’s panting, her body taut with the need I’m callously withholding.
And then I stop, pulling my hand free just as her hips start to buck, leaving her gasping, flushed, and furious. Her eyes snap to mine, blazing with rage and unfulfilled desire. “You bastard,” she breathes, her voice shaking with the intensity of being left on the brink.
I wipe my hand on my jeans, the scent of her clinging to my fingers, and step back, grabbing my jacket. “Did you forget who you’re fucking with?” I ask, my voice steady despite the ache in my own body. “I’ll be back with my stuff in a bit. Don’t make me break in.”
She doesn’t respond, just watches me with those predator’s eyes, her chest heaving, robe open, body still trembling from the edge I didn’t let her cross.
I turn toward the door, every muscle screaming to finish what we started, but this isn’t about winning—not yet. It’s about showing her I’m not running, that I’m here for the fight, for her, for whatever fucked-up future we’re carving out of this mess.
The door clicks shut behind me, and I know she’s still there, robe open, shaking. Deciding whether to let me back in or bolt the locks for good. Either way, I’m not walking away this time.
Not without a fight.