Chapter Twenty-Four
Lyra
It’s late on a Sunday evening when I get a call from Killian.
I’m camped out on my couch with both of my phones and laptops, piecing together a timeline of his misdeeds, and linking him to as many high-profile individuals as possible.
If I want to blackmail him into deleting or never using the tape and leaving me alone, I need to have enough dirt to threaten his empire.
It’s proving even harder than I expected it to be—and I didn’t anticipate this being an easy task.
So far, I can nail him on several financial inconsistencies, and probably get him in trouble with the IRS—but for all I know he’ll receive a presidential fucking pardon and get out of it.
I need something concrete, and something that would destroy his image if it ever got out.
I let his call go to voicemail. I’m not obligated to see him outside of Wednesday and Saturday interviews, and I only have a month left to pull together a strong enough exposé with the power to bury him.
All of my free time that isn’t dedicated to the novel he’s having me write is spent on the article that could save my life and livelihood.
My phone lights up a second time. Something niggles at my gut, and my ass—still sore from the vicious spanking he gave me last night—starts to burn again.
I’ve gotten so used to the pain that it fades into the background, but I don’t want to give him a reason to hurt me any more than he already has.
Ignoring his call once could be forgiven—I could say I was in the shower. Twice would merit a punishment.
I pick up the call but don’t say anything. A few seconds of silence stretch out.
“Lyra,” Killian says silkily.
“Yes?” I reply, my chest twisting with unease. A cold call from Killian can’t possibly mean good things for me.
He pauses for a few beats. “How are the edits coming?”
I toggle the mouse on my personal laptop. Killian’s been sending me in-depth edits on my novel for each batch of pages I give him. I’m not sure where he finds the time to go through hundreds of pages and demand alterations, but he does—or maybe he passes it off to one of his underlings. Who knows.
“They’re done,” I say uneasily. Is he looking for a reason to punish me? Is that why he’s asking about them?
“Good. How many words do you have now?”
I glance at the wordcount. “Sixty-five thousand.” I’ve slowed down somewhat, since each round of editing necessitates major changes throughout the entire manuscript. It’s laborious work, but it’s rewarding. A story that I’m proud of is taking shape before my eyes.
“Excellent progress.”
I blink. Why is he praising me? The only praise I’m used to receiving from him is when I act the part of a good little whore and let him use my body in whatever manner he wishes.
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Do you have plans this evening?”
My mind briefly clears of thoughts, and nerves take flight in my belly. It’s rare for Killian to push to see me outside of the scheduled times, mainly because he leads an extremely busy life—which is probably my only saving grace.
Him asking after my plans can’t bode well for me.
“Yes,” I lie.
He pauses. “Now, give me the honest answer.” His tone has darkened, and his words carry with them a threat to comply, or else.
“Yes,” I repeat. “I have a date with a reality T.V. show and wine.”
“So pedestrian.” Previously, when he insulted me, the words were always said with cruelty; now, there’s almost an edge of fondness when he calls me middle-class, poor, or pedestrian. As if I’m an adorable creature he’s cooing at.
“Speaking of being pedestrian, I should probably get back to it. You know how riveting my middle-class life is; I wouldn’t want to miss it.”
He chuckles. “You’ll have to reschedule your date with your T.V. I want to see you.”
I swallow, a rock lodging itself in my throat. “It’s Sunday,” I say quietly. “My Sundays belong to me.”
“Only when I don’t have the time to overtake them. Luckily for you, I have a free night. Come over.”
“Killian.” My eyes flutter shut. “Please don’t make me. I have work tomorrow.”
Even as my words refute his offer, there’s a part of me that almost wants to agree.
Killian is an asshole, a bastard, and a man who sees no value in consent, but there’s something undeniably compelling about him.
He’s interesting. His outlooks on the world are fascinating.
His mind is brilliant, and he’s one of the smartest people I’ve ever met.
He’s a cruel, possibly soulless, jerk but he’s also an insightful genius.
And, had I never met him… I wouldn’t have the manuscript I’m working on, which is quickly becoming my favorite thing I’ve ever written.
It’ll never make it past the drafts on my computer, but just knowing I’m capable of writing something like it makes me proud.
Maybe one day, after I’ve retired, I’ll take a more serious look at writing books.
“I’m not going to hurt you tonight.” Killian pauses. “I’d like to see you.”
“Do you miss me already?” I quip.
“Yes,” he answers, and the response stuns me into silence.
I part my lips, but can’t think of a response to give him.
He misses me… he misses me? He makes a point to remind me of how far out of my league he is each time he sees me.
He’s dismissive of me to the extreme. He seems to get off on telling me that I’m a lowly ant, and he’s doing me a favor by spending time with me.
“I would really prefer to stay at home,” I say quietly. “We’ll see each other on Wednesday.”
“That’s not soon enough.” He sounds frustrated—I’m not sure if he’s frustrated with me or with himself. “I want to see you, Lyra. Soon.”
“Why?” I breathe.
I don’t know why I ask it; his answer will probably be cruel and demeaning, but if it isn’t…
I’m susceptible to praise. Very few times have I been truly desired, and if Killian desires me for more than just sex…
“Because I like you.” The admission sounds like it’s forced out of his lips.
“Why?” I repeat.
God, what am I doing? I should hang up the phone and tell him I’m not interested. I should say that I have absolutely no desire to spend additional time with him.
And I don’t have any desire to spend time with Asshole Killian. But I’ve seen the occasional glimpse of Soft Killian, and that man is something profoundly intriguing.
“Because you’re smart.” It sounds like he says the words through gritted teeth. “Truly smart, I mean. A critical thinker to your core. You have a curious mind and enough intelligence to fill up all the world’s oceans. You’re talented—the book you’re writing is fucking incredible.”
“You spend much more time critiquing my book than praising it,” I murmur.
“That’s because I know it can be better. I know you can do better, but that doesn’t mean the initial product is bad.” I hear him swallow. “You’re gorgeous. You’re intriguing. I can’t stop thinking about you.”
My breath catches in my throat. I can’t stop thinking about you, either. I don’t say it out loud; the words should never be spoken, but I certainly think them.
The reasons we think about each other are vastly different, however. I think of Killian with a whole lot of fear and a little bit of intrigue and admiration. He frightens me, but parts of him also draw me.
When I don’t say anything, he speaks again. “If you won’t come over, then tell me something about yourself.”
I swallow. “Like what?”
“Fuck knows. Something.”
My lips thin. “You don’t actually want to know anything about me. You only want more things to use against me—”
“False. I already have everything I need to use against you.” I wince, and he pauses. “But I don’t think it’ll come to that. So, tell me something.”
I try to think for a moment. “I had a cat when I was young.”
“Oh?”
I swallow. “Yeah. An adorable tabby. He was actually my s—” I cut myself off. “Um… he was really cute. Gorgeous, really. He was also incredibly clever. He’d walk me to school every day, from the time I got him to when he passed.”
“How old were you when you got him?”
“Too young to remember. He was always around.”
“What was his name?”
“Mr. Fuzzy.”
Killian releases a deep chuckle, and my cheeks heat. “Don’t judge me. I was a child.”
“Okay, no judgement.” He sobers. “How long did you have him?”
“Until I was eight.” My eighth year in this world was filled with more loss than what any child should ever have to endure. The passing of my parents happened when I was too young to remember, but everything I lost when I was eight… that just felt like a cruel trick of fate.
“What happened?”
“He was hit by a car.” I remember finding him wheezing, barely breathing in the road. His legs were mangled, his jaw was dislocated… I stayed next to him until he died—it broke my heart in every way a heart can be broken. And that was the least bad thing to happen to me that year.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
I scoff. “No, you’re not.”
He doesn’t respond.
“Tell me something about yourself,” I say.
“I had a dog. He was my birthday present when I was seven, but my family couldn’t even afford to keep him for even a year. He was a mutt, and an ugly fucker, but complete sweetheart. I’d sleep with him beside me every night. I was devastated when we had to give him back to the shelter.”
“I’m sorry,” I echo. “Losing a pet is the worst.”
“At least I didn’t have to watch mine die.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s not a competition.”
“Everything’s a competition,” Killian retorts.
I save all the investigative work on my second laptop, shut the screen, and stand to go to my room, hiding it in the drawers beneath my bed, under a mountain of pillows.
I return to the couch, still on the phone with Killian, listening to his breaths.
I can’t reconcile the cruel man who does terrible things to me, treats me like a commodity to be bought and sold, with the young boy who once cuddled a dog for comfort.
I can’t reconcile the brief, fleeting glimpses of softness I’ve seen when Killian praises my manuscript with the version he is with everyone else.
To the outside world, he has the mask of a complete charmer, and he’s charismatic enough to pull it off.
With people closer to him or those who run in his circles, he shows glimpses of the uncaring, callous asshole he really is.
And I can’t seem to level the cold asshole with the little boy who once had big dreams.
“Why are you doing any of this with me?” I ask quietly.
Killian doesn’t respond for so long, I check to see if he’s hung up.
Finally, he speaks. “I don’t know. You drew me like a moth to flame.
I saw something in you—I’m not sure what—that made me want you.
And then you denied me, which I haven’t experienced in a long time.
You still deny me, even though you’ve seen the power I wield.
You know I could pay you well enough that you’d never have to work again, but you’re not interested in that.
You know I could get you an editorial job at the New York Times, but you don’t want that, either.
You don’t want anything from me.” He pauses.
“You don’t need me. Everyone around me needs me in some capacity—to sign their paychecks, to rub elbows with them, to donate to their foundations, to boost their careers. You’re singular.”
“I’m not,” I tell him honestly. “You just live in a world where everything’s completely transactional—the upper class. I live in a world where kindness and decency is still a currency.”
“Both of those things are abstract concepts that change each time a person says them,” Killian retorts. “I don’t subscribe to such false notions. I certainly don’t value them as currency.”
I let out a long sigh. “I’m going to go to bed.”
“You really won’t come to see me?”
“Not unless you make me,” I reply honestly. “Is that the route you want to go down tonight?”
He pauses. “No,” he finally says. “Not tonight. I’ll see you on Wednesday, Lyra. Maybe sooner.”
“Wednesday,” I say, and hang up the phone.