Chapter Nine
Lyra
Iforce myself to get over my anger as I peruse the contents of the closet. It doesn’t help that my entire body is aching, yearning for the promise of pleasure, while my brain is stuck on a reel of I want to destroy Killian King.
The disheartening thing is that I already tried. I played my best hand against him, and I still failed. It wasn’t enough. I wasn’t enough.
Defeat might be inevitable, but it won’t stop me from trying again. And again, and again, and again, because eventually, something will work. Killian already took everything from me once; my freedom, my choices, my child. It’s only fair that I find some recourse, some way to get him back.
My fingers trail over garments that drip wealth.
He spent a fortune on a full wardrobe of clothes, all in my size, most of which I’ll never wear.
I don’t require dozens of expensive dresses, shirts, pants, skirts, and an entire section reserved for lingerie.
Even in my old apartment, my closet was modest and limited to exactly what I required at any given time.
Clothes for work, clothes for going out, clothes for exercise, and a few nice dresses for the occasional event I had to attend.
A deep, unexpected ache overwhelms me at the thought of my apartment. My life can be neatly boxed into two segments; before and after Killian swept in like a storm and upended everything. The before is who I used to be, and the after is who I became.
I choose the most uninteresting, uninspired outfit I can find; yoga pants and a loose shirt. When I go downstairs to the living room, Killian takes one look at me and shakes his head. “No. We have reservations at a nice brunch spot—smart-casual minimum. Go change.”
He’s going to try to control what I wear, down to the article of clothing that goes on my body? Choosing my general options isn’t enough?
“Go fuck yourself.”
He pockets his phone and gives me a look filled with warning.
“Either you go upstairs and put on something sensible, or you can continue your ridiculous little tantrum and I’ll take you upstairs and redress you.
After I’ve bent you my knee and reminded you why it’s you’re in your best interest to listen. ”
“You asshole,” I hiss.
“Calling me names is another way to get yourself punished.”
Goddamn him. “This cat-and-mouse game is fucking pointless,” I snap. “If you’re going to kill me, I’d prefer if you got it over with now.”
“Killing you is the last thing on my agenda. On the contrary, Lyra, I am doing my very best to protect you, and you are making it extremely goddamn difficult to do so.”
“I don’t want your protection! I don’t want you!”
“You don’t know what you want.” He says it with such casual disregard, such absolute dismissal I want to scream. He’s treating me like… like an errant child throwing a tantrum.
Is that how I’m acting?
No, it’s not. It’s not. I’m being reasonable; he’s the psychopath here.
I should really start calling him Psycho.
“You have two minutes to get changed.” Killian pulls his phone back out and gazes down at it. “If you fail, I’ll assume you want my help.”
“You can’t be seriou—”
“1 minute, 59 seconds,” he says casually.
I dart upstairs.
Crystal chandeliers dripping jewels, white tablecloths, oak walls and a pianist playing jazz in the corner…
Killian understated just how nice the restaurant is.
As much as I hate how controlling he is, I’m glad Killian made me change.
If he didn’t, I’d feel even more out of place that I already do, considering the cocktail dresses and dinner suits being worn by patrons.
As soon as we step inside, I want to turn around and leave.
There’s a reason I tended towards rural villages and shithole towns during my time away; crowds make me nervous.
Any one of these people could’ve seen the tape.
All of them might have. They might recognize me—and then what?
I’ve stomached more than my share of public humiliation in my life; I don’t know how I’ll be able to deal with more of it.
Killian, sensing none of my turmoil—or just ignoring it—wraps an arm around my waist, leads me directly past the hostess stand, and straight to the back of the restaurant.
He does a wonderful imitation of a gentleman by pulling out my seat for me, then takes a seat across from me, and opens the leatherbound menu.
I tilt my head forward, letting my hair curtain my face as I also open my menu, scanning the food options without really reading them.
My anxiety is a live, taut wire in my chest, setting my skin buzzing with phobia. I don’t want to be in this country. I don’t want to be with Killian. I certainly don’t want to be here—
But it doesn’t seem Killian has put even the faintest thought into my wants.
A waiter promptly arrives. Killian sits back and rattles off orders for both of us—a ludicrous selection involving caviar, crepes, tea stands, and other items that I don’t bother listening to. I’m too busy being furious over his presumptuousness.
This is what my life’s going to be like as long as I’m with him. The realization isn’t groundbreaking, but it’s truly sinking in. He’ll control what I wear, what I eat, what I do, where I’m seen. That is if he keeps me alive—which he actually seems to intend. I’m just not sure I trust his control.
Dear god, if I somehow get pregnant, what sort of life will my baby have?
One where everything is predetermined and preordained?
If it’s a boy, Killian will raise him to be an heir.
And what if it’s a girl? Will she be raised like breeding stock, primed and prepared to be married off for a business arrangement?
“Penny for your thoughts?” It’s only then that I realize Killian’s staring at me, watching my silent horror unfurl.
I swallow. When I speak, my voice cracks over itself. “Nothing of interest.”
“Don’t be silly. Everything you are is of interest to me. Right now, for example, you have the most interesting look of terror on your face. Anything in particular making you look that way?”
The thought of a life with you.
Killian’s gaze flits to the side. There, it hardens. I follow his line of sight, only to freeze.
Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no. She can’t be here. She can’t. Fate cannot possibly be that cruel.
Except it is, and she is. Five or six tables away, I recognize Annalise’s blonde hair.
She looks vibrant as ever, and my chest tightens with a sudden, violent ache that robs me of all breath.
Out of all the people I left behind, I’ve missed her the most. I wanted to reach out to her hundreds of times, but I knew Killian would probably be monitoring her in case I went that route.
“I financed your escape from the states. We formed the threads of a relationship when we were together. When that AI video came out, I kindly helped you get away, and helped you come back once the dust settled.” Killian’s words catch me so off-guard, I gape at him.
He leans forward, staring at me very seriously.
“That is the story you will tell. If there is any other, your friend—the one you also abandoned—won’t live to see the end of the day. ”
He's profoundly, unaccountably cruel. “She won’t come over here.” I pray she won’t come over here, for both our sakes.
But, because the universe seems to abhor my existence, the next time I glance at Annalise, I find her staring at me.
Wide-eyed. Slack-jawed, as if she’s seen a ghost. Her gaze very slowly flits from me to Killian, and her brows slam down.
She is the picture of indignant confusion as she stands from her table—where she’s sitting with a well-dressed man somewhere in his thirties—and storms right up to mine.
“What—the—fuck,” she hisses at me.
“Anna.” I attempt a useless, wobbly smile. “It’s good to see you.”