3. Ellie #2
Now we are alone, as alone as two people can be with a driver and security partition.
The SUV lurches into motion, pulling away from the courthouse, and his proximity makes my skin prickle.
He smells of cedar and soap. I notice it.
Then I notice that I'm still noticing it, and I stop breathing through my nose.
The type of scent that lingers long after someone's left the room.
I press my thighs together and stare at the file in my lap, forcing myself to focus on my hands, on anything but the fact that I want to breathe him in again. And I shouldn't. I know I shouldn't.
"This is quite generous of you," he says conversationally, as if we are colleagues sharing a taxi rather than psychologist and convicted felon. "Opening your home to a stranger."
"It's not generosity," I reply, focusing on the city passing outside the window. "It's my job."
"Ah. Your job." He shifts slightly, and I can feel his attention like heat against my skin. "Tell me, Dr. Hart, what drew you to criminal rehabilitation? Not the usual career path for someone with your... credentials."
There's a beat before I answer. Not because I don't know; I know exactly why.
But I've never said it out loud, not to anyone who might turn it into a weapon.
It started with one question, a long time ago.
Why do some people hurt others and feel nothing, while others live with the guilt forever?
I thought if I studied them long enough, mapped their patterns and dissected their motives, maybe I could stop circling the same question.
I kept chasing it, turning it over in textbooks and therapy rooms, hoping if I understood them, I might understand...
something else. I turn to look at him, struck by his phrasing.
"How do you know anything about my credentials?"
His smile is slow and devastating. "I make it my business to know about people who hold my freedom in their hands.
Stanford undergraduate, Harvard doctoral program, seven years with the state rehabilitation system.
Impressive record with violent offenders.
Some might say you have a talent for seeing the humanity in monsters. "
"You've done your research." The casual recitation of my background sends ice through my veins.
"Prison libraries are surprisingly well-stocked these days.
Amazing what you can learn with enough time and motivation.
" He leans back against the leather seat, completely relaxed despite the ankle monitor blinking at his feet.
"I'm curious, though, what made Dr. Eleanor Hart decide that men like me were worth saving? "
He asks with casual interest, but I catch the sharp intelligence underneath. This isn't small talk; this is an interrogation disguised as conversation. Killian is probing for weaknesses, testing my psychological defenses the same way he'd probably tested physical ones in prison.
"Everyone deserves a chance at redemption, Mr. Blackthorn," I reply carefully. "That's the foundation of rehabilitation psychology."
"Everyone?" His eyebrows rise slightly. "Even someone who's done the things I've done?"
"Especially someone who's done the things you've done."
His eyes hold mine for a second longer than they should. Not a challenge. Not even curiosity. Just... acknowledgment.
"You sound like you mean that," he says gently.
"I do."
Silence stretches between us for several blocks, the tension thick enough to cut.
The city's familiar streets feel foreign now with this dangerous stranger beside me.
I notice things that aren't in his file: the way he holds his hands, the almost imperceptible scar along his jaw, the way his eyes never stop moving, taking in every detail of our route.
"You live alone."
It isn't a question. My stomach clenches. "How do you—"
"No wedding ring, and you agreed to house arrest without consulting anyone. Either you're recklessly independent, or you don't have anyone in your life worth consulting."
He’s just mapped my entire personal life from two observations, and I should be furious. Yet, warmth climbs my throat to my cheeks, and I can't decide if I'm angry or not. "That's quite an assumption."
"I'm good at reading people, Dr. Hart. It's kept me alive in places where misreading someone's intentions is fatal.
" He turns to face me fully, and I feel pinned by the intensity of his gaze.
"The question is, what's a woman like you doing alone?
Someone who is dedicated to saving others should have someone trying to save her. "
"I don't need saving."
"Everyone needs saving from something." His voice drops a register, low enough to make me sit straighter. "The question is whether you'll recognize what you're running from before it destroys you."
The words hit uncomfortably close to home. I think about Nathan's frustrated phone calls, of the colleagues who worry I take too many risks, of the nights I spend alone wondering if I'm helping others heal or just avoiding healing myself.
"We're here," the driver announces, breaking the spell that has settled over the backseat.
I look out to see my estate, its modern lines and bright spaces suddenly looking vulnerable under Killian's assessing glare.
Home, my sanctuary, the version of home I built to keep everything out, is about to be invaded by violence wrapped in expensive fabric.
The jasmine vines around the porch release their sweet fragrance into the air, a gentle perfume that seems absurdly innocent given the danger I am inviting inside.
"Beautiful home," Killian observes. "Very... private."
The guards are waiting on the circular drive, their presence seeming oddly out of place against the serene backdrop of my home. I climb out of the SUV on unsteady legs, acutely aware that my usually calm home is about to change in ways I can't predict or control.
Killian emerges behind me, straightening to his imposing height. When his eyes return to mine, his expression has shifted again; there's no smile. Just the sense that he's already pictured himself inside.
"Thank you for this opportunity, Dr. Hart," he says formally for the benefit of the guards. His eyes don't move off me once, and my pulse kicks hard against my throat.
"Welcome to your new home, Mr. Blackthorn," my voice far steadier than I feel.
We walk up the steps, our shoes scuffing damp stone.
He stays behind me, quiet and deliberate.
I stop at the door and reach for the handle, trying not to think about how close he is.
I've spent years helping violent men find their way back from the edge.
But right now, I'm not sure which of us is closer to it.
And if he's the one under evaluation, why do I feel like I'm the one being watched?