Chapter Eighteen
Lyra
Killian is benevolent enough to let me go out the day after our dinner together, and my destination is one of my favorite places in the city.
The New York Public Library is beautiful and filled with a sort of mystique that only old buildings brimming with old books can offer.
I set myself up at a desk in one of the private rooms I reserved after my meet with my literary agent yesterday, pull out the laptop Killian gifted me when we got home last night so I could write and edit, and get to work.
A perk of Killian taking initiative is that the agent already reviewed the manuscript and sent me my first editorial letter.
There are several developmental and plot-geared fixes she wants me to implement that will require restructuring major plot beats in the book, and I only have two weeks to do it, so I get right down to business.
I’m only thirty pages in when a rap comes on the door. One of Killian’s security guards step inside, and my mood sours at the sight of him. I told them to stay outside, not guard the door of the room I’m working in. I fold my arms and cast him a disapproving stare.
“It’s been two hours, ma’am. Mr. King would like to inquire whether you’ve eaten breakfast, and if you’d like to join him for brunch.”
I’m feeling testy today, especially considering my burning ass courtesy of this morning’s spanking, so I mutter, “Tell him to go fuck himself.”
The guard visibly pales. “I’m not sure—”
“I’d do it myself, but I left my phone in his apartment.
On purpose. So I wouldn’t have to deal with him today, the first day I’ve really been allowed out of my cage and into the world.
Now, after you tell him to go fuck himself, I’d appreciate it if you followed orders and waited outside.
Not outside this door, but outside of the building, where I specifically told you to stay. ”
“Mr. King specifically instructed—”
“I don’t care what he instructed. I’m instructing.
I’m telling you to go outside. If he makes a fuss, let him know that I’d be happy to refuse to come home at all, and instead head into the nearest police station and start throwing a tantrum.
” I’m not actually prepared to deliver on my threat, but Killian doesn’t know that.
He considers me to be much higher-risk than I am.
The guard visibly deflates. “Alright. If you need anything—”
“I won’t.”
I wait until he leaves, breathe deeply for a few minutes to ease my anger, then get my head back in the game and start working again. Killian trying to interfere in every element of my life is expected, but unacceptable. I’ll suffocate if he keeps this up.
Another few hours pass. When the words on screen start blurring together, I lean back and rub at my eyes, sighing.
Maybe I should find something to eat, or at least go to a café nearby for a coffee.
This is one part I don’t particularly miss about my day job; the moment when my brain would fail, and I still had to keep going to earn my paycheck.
Being Killian’s captive may have some reluctant, inadvertent perks.
Another knock sounds on the door, and it swings open.
“I thought I told you to stay—” my words cut off when I look up, and meet the eyes of the last man I expected to be here.
Silas fucking Black. Killian’s longtime rival, and the man who made a spectacle of me to the world—and then rubbed it in my fucking face.
My general aversion to violence just about evaporates. I would gladly smash this motherfucker’s skull in. The only problem there is that he’s taller than me, stronger than me, and I have absolutely no relevant self-defense training to help me out.
I should probably get on that. Learn how to fight.
“Lyra,” Silas purrs. “I heard you might be here.”
“Silas.” I fold my arms over my chest, wishing I’d taken my phone with me so I could text the guards. How did he even get past them?
A quick glance at the clock mounted above the door informs me that it’s mid-afternoon, approaching rush hour. He could’ve slipped inside with the crowd. My desire for privacy has shot me in the foot.
I hate this fucking world.
“It wasn’t too difficult.” Silas shrugs. “If Killian really cared about you, then he would’ve put better security on you.” A cruel smile curls his lips. “Then again, if he really cared about you, he wouldn’t have sent me that tape, now would he?”
I think he’s expecting this to surprise or shock me. While it doesn’t, it does hurt. Badly. It brings up all the feelings of humiliation I’ve viciously been trying to press down, ignore, and get rid of for months.
No matter what PR Killian did to try to cover for me, the fact is that somewhere in the ether of the internet, there is still a tape of me, ass red, completely bound, begging to come. A video taken during a night I thought I’d genuinely die.
A video taken because Silas had demanded Killian kill me.
That doesn’t absolve Killian of his crimes, but it does add enough context for me to want to hurt Silas much more than I want to hurt Killian.
What I truly hate is that I’ve turned into the sort of person who wants to hurt anyone.
“I guess people evolve.” No matter how much I hate it, I no longer have any choice but to present a united front with Killian. That is, if I want to survive—which I intend to.
“Do they?” Silas helps himself to a seat at the table. I pray to God that Killian’s men choose to disobey my orders and come check on me right about now.
“Perhaps.” I shut my laptop. “Any particular reason why you’re here, Silas?”
“Oh, I was just terribly curious to meet you. Killian’s done an excellent job of hiding you away, except for the carefully curated moments he shows you off.
” He snaps his fingers. “That engagement, for example. Do you know that he told me you were his fiancée some months ago? Right before he ordered me to cut a pound of flesh from my body in restitution.” Silas’s expression turns flat, and the air chills by several degrees.
Wait… what? Killian… Killian told Silas to—
“Ah, you didn’t know.” Silas releases a mirthless chuckle.
“Yes. Just before you published that expose of him and ran away like the little rat you are, he trapped me, beat me half to death, and informed me that if I didn’t cut a pound of flesh from myself, I’d be killed.
Of course, I knew logically that he wouldn’t kill me—there would be repercussions that your tiny, middle-class brain couldn’t comprehend.
But logic wasn’t part of the equation just then.
” He leans forward, and it takes more effort than I’d care to admit to not shrink back beneath his scrutiny.
The shock of hearing what Killian made him do helps keep me in place.
Silas published the tape—Killian confirmed it, and the man himself doesn’t even seem to be trying to hide it.
And in return, it sounds like Killian took some seriously fucked up revenge.
What’s more fucked up is how satisfying I find the thought of Silas mutilating himself.
“Would you like to know where I carved it from?” Silas hisses.
Not particularly, no. But Silas seems to want to get this off his chest, because the piece of shit keeps talking. I’m only half-listening, my mind still reeling.
Killian defended me in his own sick, twisted way. He demanded restitution for Silas’s crime. The restitution was appropriately bloody and gory, but he… defended me.
“It was from a few places, actually,” Silas says.
“My stomach, mainly. A little bit from my thighs, and then another little bit from my calves. But, unfortunately, it wasn’t quite enough.
You see, everything I carved from myself like a fucking butcher was weighed by one of your man’s cronies.
I came up a few ounces short. So, I was given options; either get a bullet to my head or let them finish the job.
” His jaw clenches. “I let them finish it, of course. Passed out. Woke up in the hospital two days later. And you, you little fucking rat, were in the wind. I couldn’t take action against Killian, and I couldn’t find you to punish him. ”
A loaded silence lingers in the wake of his rant.
I keep my expression carefully neutral, even while I can’t stop thinking.
The scene Silas is painting is deeply frightening, yes, but it’s also almost…
flattering. It’s certainly satisfying. I don’t know what to make of Killian going out of his way to harm Silas in a twisted version of defending my honor, especially given that he probably would’ve risked some sort of backlash from The Eyes.
“Not to worry,” Silas says. “He wants me dead, but that won’t happen. I’ll destroy you first, and in destroying you, I’ll destroy him.”
“Oh? How do you propose to do that?”
“So glad you asked.” Silas leans forward. “You published an expose on him—”
“Have any proof of that?” I yawn.
His jaw ticks. “Not yet, but it’s fucking obvious. Next, while he was pretending that you were engaged—set to be engaged—whatever version of the lie he’s pushing, you were on the run from him.”
I examine my nails, exuding boredom. “That’s a really interesting version of events, Silas.
Again, where’s the proof? All I’m hearing is an embellished lie from a bitter, ugly man.
” I rake a critical gaze over him. “Maybe it’s for the best that Killian had you mutilate yourself.
You could certainly afford to lose the weight. ”
Silas stands from his seat, face red with rage. “You little fucking—”
“Finish. That. Sentence.” The door bursts open before Silas can make a move. Killian stands in the doorway. His posture is tense. His face, carefully neutral. His clothes, as ever, are pristine. “I dare you.”
Silas’s jaw clenches again. He inhales a breath, and turns to face Killian. “King,” he clips. “How lovely to see you. I was just saying hello to your… fiancée.” He injects a lot of doubt into the word.