Chapter Two
Killian
Life has consisted of bleak shades of grey ever since I can remember. Brush strokes of varying shades, some thin, some thick, some dark, some light—all sterile, sanitary, dull.
I remember seeing the world through a lens of color when I was a child. I also remember the price that came with color: loss. Destitution. All sorts of pain, ranging from the sharp pangs of hunger to the deep aches of cutting loss. I swore off color when I made my first million.
By the time I hit my first billion, I’d become accustomed to the grey. Preferred it, even—grey is predictable. It can shift by a few shades, but it never upends my life.
Then came her. In hindsight, I realize that’s what attracted me to Lyra in the first place. She was, first and foremost, the most brilliant slash of color that cleaved my carefully constructed perceptions of the world in two.
Without her, the world is grey again, and I can’t fucking stand it. It makes me want to crawl out of my skin.
“Your head is still attached to your shoulders for a very specific purpose.” I examine Locke with cold disinterest. He’s the best on my team at every task I give him.
Best at tracking, best at torturing, best at killing, best at protecting.
And yet, he failed in the task of keeping Lyra stationary for a single night—and I haven’t seen her in the nearly half a year since.
“I know.” Locke shows no outward reaction at my words, but then, he’s been anticipating the moment I kill him since the night Lyra escaped. Since I sat in the pool of her blood and grieved.
“And where are you in achieving the objective that’s kept you alive?” I question, cocking my head to the side.
My fingers tap a rapid staccato rhythm against my desk. The desk that I had Lyra bent over more than once, in several delightful encounters. When I’m alone, I can still hear her erotic moans and whimpers echoing through the space.
I can still see the way she flushes. Recall the way her blush would travel from her cheeks to the rest of her face, down her neck, eventually staining her perky breasts.
Most invigorating was the way she fought me at every turn. Every reasonable conversation turned into an argument. Every encounter was a fight. Every moment spent with her was colorful.
“Somewhere south of fuckall,” Locke says bluntly. “Trail’s gone cold. I have not had a single lead in over a month. She’s careful.”
“She’s very smart,” I murmur absently. “And has an investigative background in journalism. If she’s half-decent at protecting sources, she knows how to maintain anonymity.”
“So,” Locke says. “If you plan on killing me over my failure to find her, now’s the time. I can’t find her. I’ve tried, gotten close, and failed.”
Something abrupt twists my stomach into knots and tightens my chest. The back of my neck prickles. I must be getting sick. I should probably see a doctor about that, when I find the time.
I consider Locke carefully. His value to me has historically extended far past this single mission he’s failed, but this mission also happens to be far more valuable to me than any other task I’ve assigned him.
Ever. There is nothing more precious in this world than Lyra, therefore, there is nothing more important than getting her back.
If I kill him, I won’t find another man with his loyalty and abilities. If I don’t kill him, I’m failing to punish a member of my team who’s fucked up.
Aren’t you the one who’s fucked up from the start?
The little voice that likes to taunt me with harsh realities makes yet another appearance—it’s been annoyingly present since Lyra abandoned me. I bind that voice tight, shove it in a cage, lock it, and bury it. I don’t have time for such nonsensical thoughts.
Ultimately, Locke is more useful alive than he is dead. When I find Lyra—it has to be a when, not an if—I’ll need him.
I could take a finger or two from him, but I need him functional. Removing his body parts would ultimately be a disservice to me and me alone.
I can’t afford proverbially shooting myself in the foot.
“Fucking find her,” I hiss.
“I’ll do my best.” Locke stands and leaves before I can change my mind. If this little dance continues for much longer, I might give into my worst impulses and put a bullet in his skull.
The principal consideration is that he’d allow me to. He would not fight back; he’d accept his fate. How many people in my life can I say that about?
Only one.
My secretary enters just after Locke’s exit, clutching a stack of files, looking suitably afraid. I’ve never been the most pleasant boss, but my asshole tendencies have reached new heights the last few months.
“Quarterly reports,” he mumbles, setting them down on my desk. “Also, your 11 o’clock is here—”
“11 o’clock? Use my name.” Carter Black strolls in, giving my trembling secretary a disinterested once-over. “Or is insulting me on your to-do list today?”
“N-no, sir.”
“Get out.” Carter yawns.
I lean back in my chair, affecting an air of sheer boredom as my secretary scurries out. I still haven’t bothered to learn his name.
“You look like shit.” Carter drops into the armchair across from me and makes himself at home. He goes as far as to set his feet on my desk.
“Are you looking to lose body parts today?” I query pleasantly.
“Fuck around and find out, right?” Carter smirks, but shows that his IQ is north of room temperature by removing his Italian-leather shoes from my workspace.
“I’m a busy man, so I’ll ask this once; what the fuck couldn’t be discussed over the phone?”
“Busy.” Carter chuckles derisively. “Try playing ball with the mob some time, Killian. It’s like running a fucking preschool. It’s all wah, this, my shipments were stolen, that. Insufferable.” He sniffs.
“Carter,” I warn. “I’m not in the mood.”
He lets silence linger, just to provoke me. “Makes sense. After all, you have recently been spectacularly fucked over.” He smiles, as if my misery is personally amusing to him.
“The quarterly reports on my desk will show a swift recovery.”
“Not by that expose business.” He waves his hand carelessly. “By that hot little journalist. She still in the wind?”
“Don’t play dumb. You know the answer.”
“Of course I do.” He examines his fingernails. “And The Eyes putting your petition to kill Silas Cornell under review?” he mock-pouts. “It’s really been a shit year for you, hasn’t it?”
My jaw clenches. “How the fuck do you know about that?”
I submitted my petition to be allowed to kill Silas on the grounds of him harming my soon-to-be family three days after Lyra disappeared.
Just as soon as I’d taken care of the leaked tape as best as I could and assured my shareholders that the expose was nonsensical and blown completely out of proportion.
The Eyes took two months to consider, then put me in review.
That’s their way of casting suspicion and making me wait.
I guess, in hindsight, my ask was a longshot considering that I was neither engaged nor married to Lyra at the time when Silas struck, and The Eyes don’t take action on speculation or plans alone.
Then again, nobody but me has to know we weren’t yet engaged.
There were many oversights in my brief but arresting relationship with my Little Bird. Mistakes that I won’t repeat when I find her again. I gave her far too much freedom—that ends the second I set eyes on her. I will set eyes on her again. I have to. I don’t care if it’s in days, weeks, or years.
“How does a bear know to shit in the woods? Instinct,” Carter hisses. “You think I don’t have eyes on that cute little secret society? They’re still trying to recruit me.”
Impressive. A single attempt at recruiting a powerful player on the board, one as significant as Carter, is unsurprising.
Repeated attempts, however, are noteworthy.
They almost reek of desperation. It means The Eyes really want Carter, and indicates they have some plans that require his cooperation.
“They’ll kill you if they know you’re surveilling them,” I say offhandedly.
“The only way they’ll find out is if my source of information exposes himself. I have his balls in a vice. He’d kill himself before outing either of us.”
He sounds amused at the prospect of being able to push a man to suicide. I consider myself appropriately sadistic, but Carter is sometimes insane.
“I’ll take care of Silas in due time.”
“Be careful with that,” Carter says. “He’s been making allies in your little boy-band. Powerful allies that never quite liked you.”
“Who’s your source?” I could use them to untangle this mess of politics.
“There’s a better chance of me shoving a broken lightbulb up my ass than telling you that.”
I grimace at the visual he conjures. “Are we done here?”
“No, I haven’t even gotten to the point of my visit. Thought I’d engage in that inane small talk that society seems to favor.”
“Get to the point or get the fuck out,” I growl.
Carter picks up a paperweight from my desk and turns it over in his hands. “Very well. I have information you want. You have something I want. I’d like to trade.”
Intuition is a fascinating thing. I usually don’t give credence to mere feelings, but I do respect the idea that intuition is simply information that the brain hasn’t yet processed. And the niggle in my gut right now tells me exactly what Carter’s going to say before he says it.
“Where is she?” And how the fuck did he manage to find Lyra before I did? I have a team of experts on it.
“In the wind… right now. Shall we discuss my terms for telling you what I know?”
“Sure. Here’s a take-it-or-leave-it offer.” I open my desk drawer, pull out my gun, and point it at Carter’s head. “Tell me right now.”
“You might want to take the safety off before threatening me.” Carter is annoyingly unconcerned. “You sure you know how to use that thing?”
I flick off the safety and cock it. “Reasonably sure. What do you know?”
“Many things. For example, I know that I’ll have her killed if I don’t walk out of this office alive.” A slow smile spreads on his lips. “I like you, Killian. Do yourself a favor and put down your toy. Let’s have a conversation like adults.”
I don’t. For several long moments, I stare at him, gauging his sincerity. He wants something from me—that much is clear. And if I give it, I just might get what I’ve been desperate for. What I’ve longed, yearned, and been obsessed with for months.
He could, of course, feed me a bunch of false information that leads to a dead end. In that case, I’ll have him killed later. I suppose there’s no real pressing reason to kill him now.
I set down the gun. Carter’s eyes dance with amusement. I briefly allow myself to picture carving them out, one at a time. Severing each optical nerve individually, listening to him scream in agony.
“I came to you once before asking if your reporter’s friend was under your protection. You said no, but then you made the idiotic decision to fall in love with her, so I assume your outlooks have changed.”
“You want Annalise,” I surmise. “Why?”
“None of your concern.”
“Are you planning to harm her?”
“See my previous answer.”
“Are you going to kill her?”
“I’ll say it for the last fucking time, Killian. My plans are none of your fucking concern.” Carter’s eyes are hard, unyielding. He won’t give me what I need unless I sanction his plans. If he kills Annalise and Lyra finds out, she’ll truly never forgive me.
Then again… that doesn’t really matter, does it?
I don’t require her forgiveness. I require having her by my side, at all times.
I need her. She can hate me all she wants.
She’ll still come on my cock and bend over when I command it.
She’ll still carry my heir inside her as soon as I can knock her up—and I intend to dedicate ample efforts to make that happen.
“Fine,” I seethe.
“Excellent.” Carter smiles. “Now, if you’ll humor me—”
“No.” I reach up to rub the bridge of my nose. “I don’t have the fucking time for this.”
Carter goes on as if I hadn’t spoken. “You know, history is such a fascinating thing. It’s the best way to predict the future; all you have to do is consider its rhymes and rhythms.”
“Do I look like I’m in the mood for a fucking poetry lesson?”
“You are very smart, Killian. But you have tunnel-vision. That’s the reason why, in a match between us, I will always win.” Carter’s tone remains light, but the threat and implications are clear. He sees himself as the bigger bear.
My fingers itch to pick up my gun and prove him wrong.
“You compiled a very thorough file on Lyra, but you looked at her actions, not her motives. You might’ve guessed at them a bit, but didn’t truly dedicate enough time to them.
I did. That’s the difference between you and me; I want to crawl into someone’s head and overtake it like a parasite.
You’re content to make them a puppet on strings. ”
I could dispute that, but it wouldn’t do any good. I’ll let Carter have his little ego-inflating monologue if it leads to him telling me what I want to know. In the interim, I’ll fantasize about all the ways I could torture him.
“Anyways.” He snaps his fingers. “Your girl. She’s sentimental.” He makes a face. “It’s disgusting how sentimental most people are, isn’t it? They trade logic for feelings.” He shudders; my jaw clenches. If he takes much longer…
“I combed through her history, like you did. Except I paid attention to parts you skimmed. You doubtlessly noticed her favorite coffee shops, preferred gym, routes she takes to work, etc. Did you notice her annual routines?”
I frown. I wasn’t looking for annual routines.
“Anniversaries are important to sentimental people. Quite important. They give a lot of importance to dates. It seems that an upcoming date is not just important, but sacred to your girl. Do you know that her sweet, dead sister’s birthday is in five days?”
…fuck. Of course I knew that, but I didn’t connect the dots. Carter is, unfortunately, right; I get laser-vision at times. I was focused so much on tracking where Lyra is that I didn’t think to look where she’d be going.
I remember realizing some time ago that she missed her tradition on her late grandmother’s birthday of visiting her grave.
I doubt she’ll miss the same opportunity with her sister.
No, my Little Bird’s defining, colorful, harmful trait is her sentimentality.
I’m willing to bet that she’ll be at her sister’s grave in five days.
“Do me a favor and don’t kill her,” I say to Carter. I might’ve given him free leave to do what he wants with Lyra’s friend, but I’d prefer not to have to deal with Lyra’s tantrum if Annalise dies.
Carter smiles thinly. “You know I don’t kill my toys. It’s far more fun to break them.”