5. Killian
KILLIAN
They think they’re watching me settle in.
Fucking idiots.
On their monitors, I’m just another ex-con unpacking a single bag of pathetic belongings. Testing the mattress. Running my fingers over the dresser like I give a shit about the furniture.
What they can't see is my hands testing every hinge. Every lock. Every seam in their cage. Marking every weakness in her carefully maintained illusion of safety.
I’ve been breaking out of cages since I was fifteen. This one’s just prettier.
Reinforced windows. Not impenetrable. The electronic lock is sophisticated, but I’ve beaten worse during my years with the Order. The camera in the corner has a blind spot near the bathroom door, just wide enough for someone who knows how to move without being seen.
Not that I plan to escape. Quite the opposite.
I am exactly where I want to be.
I move to the window. Late light filters through the trees she planted, throwing gold across the grass. Every inch of it is hers. Planned, planted, and tended.
It’s a perfect picture. Now I’m standing in it, I’m the only flaw.
She thinks she’s safe because of the alarms. She’s safe because I chose it.
Pulling threats out of her orbit before they could touch her.
She never knew, and she never will. Not how close death came, nor what it cost to keep it away.
Her safety was a decision I made. Mostly so no one else could touch her before I did. And now I’m right where I want to be.
The only problem is, getting through the door was the only plan I had. Now I have to figure out what the fuck to do with her. That's new.
At six-twenty, I change. Dark jeans and a gray hoodie meant to soften my edges. It’s a costume. The 'approachable' man, the kind who might shop at farmers' markets and read philosophy. Not the man who can kill with his bare hands before a target could take a shot.
I find her in the kitchen, her auburn hair loose in a bun, dragging ingredients out of the refrigerator.
She’s traded the suit for jeans and a cream sweater that clings to her in ways the office clothes never allowed.
She's completely unaware that she is being stalked by a killer who's been fantasising about this exact moment for years.
"Can I help?" I ask, staying in the doorway just long enough for her to feel my presence before I move.
She startles. A small flinch of her shoulders tells me she hadn't heard me approach. When she turns, her eyes track me, a quick scan that stalls on the space where my hoodie pulls across my chest.
"Of course. I thought we'd make something simple tonight.
Pasta with a fresh vegetable sauce." She gestures to the tomatoes and herbs on the granite counter, her fingers tapping a nervous rhythm against the stone.
"I hope you don't mind cooking. It’s part of the process, getting back into ordinary life.”
Ordinary life. As if I could peel back seventeen years of violence as easily as the skin of a tomato.
"I'd enjoy that," I say, stepping into her space.
I move to the counter beside her, close enough to breathe in the clean, sharp bite of her shampoo, coconut and vanilla. When my arm brushes hers reaching for a cutting board, her fingers don't just tighten; they lock on the handle of the knife.
Yeah. I felt it too.
“You can start with the tomatoes,” she says, her grip tightening slightly on the knife. “You can just dice them. Nothing fancy.”
I take the knife, testing its weight and balance. High-quality steel, and well-kept. Sharp enough to slide through skin like butter. She has no idea she’s just handed a weapon to a man who knows seventeen ways to kill with kitchen utensils. Eighteen if you count the blender, but that one’s messy.
I could have her throat open before she screamed.
Instead, I dice the tomatoes.
“Nice knife.”
She slows at the sink, eyes on my hands. “You’re very… skilled with that.”
“Prison taught me plenty. Cooking was one of the better lessons.” I give her a smile. “Though the ingredients were nothing like this.”
The lie slides out smooth. I learned to cook long before prison, back in the Order’s early years when Julian made sure his operatives could feed themselves, harder to poison a man who cooks his own meals.
She doesn’t need to know that.
“Tell me about this place.” I nod toward the gardens outside. “How long have you been here?”
“Three years.” She moves to the stove, heating olive oil in a heavy pan. “I bought it after… after my father died. The inheritance let me find somewhere peaceful.”
After your father died. Because I killed him. I keep dicing the tomatoes.
He's still there. He's always there. A dead weight I carry around, not because I lost a single second of sleep over Gregory Hart. He was just a job. But because killing him means I'll never be able to tell her the truth and get to keep her.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I say, and the lie tastes like iron. “Losing a parent changes everything.”
She stops stirring the sauce. Just for a second. Her shoulders tighten before she forces them back down.
“Yes. It does.”
I want to keep pushing. I want to ask her what she remembers about the night he died, just to watch what her face does when she tells the story to the man who made it happen. But that would end the game before I’ve even sat at the table.
So I watch instead. The way she moves around her kitchen, everything deliberate without her realising it. The way her throat moves when she swallows. Tasting and adjusting until the sauce is the way she likes it. The little sounds of satisfaction she makes when it’s just right.
This is what kept me sane in that concrete box. Not just the thought of her body under mine, but this, the mundane intimacy of being in her space.
"Wine?" she asks, nodding toward a bottle of Cabernet on the counter.
"Please."
She pours two glasses, and I clock the vintage. Expensive. Even in a pair of old jeans, she doesn’t let anything inside her walls that isn’t top-tier.
We work in silence, the kitchen filling with the heavy scents of garlic and simmering herbs. I track every movement. Each time she tastes the sauce and adjusts the heat, her focus is absolute.
“You’re good at this,” she says as I finish the prep. "Your knife work is… professional.”
I hold her gaze. “I’ve always been good with my hands.”
I watch the flush slowly creep up her neck. She turns back to the stove too fast. She doesn't speak for a solid ten seconds.
“We should probably discuss boundaries,” she says, her voice tight as she stares at the pasta. “Professional boundaries, I mean. This whole thing is... unusual. I want to make sure the lines are drawn clearly.”
“Of course.” I lean against the counter, casual and non-threatening, turning the wine glass in my hand. “What did you have in mind?”
“The therapeutic relationship requires distance. Even here, I am your psychologist. You are my patient. There are ethical lines that cannot be crossed.”
The speech dies in her throat. She looks at me, her gaze lingering for a long, unblinking second before she snaps it back to the stove.
“I understand completely,” I say. “I’m here to do the work. I’ve lived by rules my entire life, Dr. Hart. I’m not looking to make your job any harder than it already is.”
Her shoulders drop, a slow exhale of relief. She thinks she’s in control.
Her phone buzzes on the granite. Nathan.
Her body language shifts immediately, and the knife stills mid-cut.
"Excuse me," she says, turning away to answer. "Hi, Nathan."
I don't need to hear his side of the call. I watch her back. The way her shoulders hike toward her ears, the tight, defensive line of her spine. Her voice is already different. Her side of the call is a roadmap of a dying relationship.
"Yes, he's here... No, there haven't been any problems... Nathan, we discussed this... I understand your concerns, but this is my job..."
Her voice tightens as the call goes on. I keep stirring the pasta, letting her think she has privacy while I take in every word.
"I can't do this right now," she says, getting frustrated. "We're in the middle of dinner... No, I don't think that's appropriate... We'll talk about this later."
She ends the call with more force than necessary, letting out a deep breath in frustration.
“Boyfriend?” I keep my tone light.
“Yes.” She rubs her temples. “He’s… concerned about the situation.”
“Understandable. Most men would be.” I drift closer, checking the vegetables. “He doesn’t like the live-in arrangement?”
“Nathan doesn’t really understand my work.”
The admission slips out before she can catch it. I watch her eyes widen briefly before she looks away, her jaw tightening as she realizes she’s just handed me a piece of her life I wasn't supposed to have.
“That sounds exhausting,” I keep my tone purposefully soft. “To spend your life focused on something. Driven by it, only to have the person closest to you doubt every part of it.”
The seed plants itself. I can practically see it taking root. Nathan the doubter versus Killian the believer. His fear versus my gratitude.
Fucking beautiful.
Her eyes snap to mine. “My personal life isn’t really appropriate dinner conversation."
“Of course not." I raise my hands in surrender. "I just think life is easier when you don’t have to spend your energy defending yourself to the person sitting across from you.”
I let the silence stretch. I want her to feel the difference between his doubt and my belief. I can see it taking hold.
We finish cooking in silence, the atmosphere heavier now. When we sit down, the pasta’s perfect, al dente, vegetables still with bite, tied together with good olive oil and fresh herbs.
“This is excellent,” I say, and truly mean it. “You’re a good cook.”
“Thank you.” She eases a little, pleased. “I enjoy it. There’s something soothing about creating something from scratch.”
"I can see the appeal. There's an art to transformation."
She looks up from her plate, something thoughtful in her expression. "Is that how you see rehabilitation? As transformation?"
"Don't you?"
"I suppose I do. Though I prefer to think of it as... rediscovering who someone was meant to be before circumstances changed them."
Before circumstances changed them. She means every word of it. That’s the thing about her. She actually believes people can be saved. Even men like me. Especially men like me.
"That's a beautiful way to look at it."
We talk through the rest of dinner. She does most of it, and I let her. It’s not her words, or the stories she’s telling to keep the silence at bay, that hold my interest. It’s the way her face changes when she talks about her patients’ breakthroughs, the genuine joy she takes in their progress.
It matches every detail I've watched from a distance. She’s exactly who I knew she was. That’s the problem, and she has no idea that's the most dangerous thing she could be in my company.
When we finish eating, she insists on cleaning up together. More chances to be close, hands brushing when we pass a plate, her hip against mine when we reach for the same glass. I’m fighting to keep my teeth from grinding, fighting to keep my cock from making it obvious when her hip touches mine.
“Thank you for tonight,” she says as we put away the last dish. “This was… nice.”
“Thank you. Most people think men like me only understand violence, but I’ve always preferred a little more... order.”
She studies me for a moment. “You’re not what I expected, Mr. Blackthorn.”
“What did you expect?”
“Someone more… guarded, I suppose. Hostile maybe? Most offenders I see struggle with emotional intimacy.”
"Maybe I'm more motivated than most."
"Motivated by what?"
By you. By the chance to be close, finally, to the woman who’s haunted my dreams for years. By the chance that you might look at me without fear when you learn who I really am.
"The chance to become someone worth saving," I choose instead.
Her eyes don’t drop as quickly this time, holding on mine a fraction longer than they should. Her mouth softens. Then she steps back, putting space between us again. For a second, I see the woman beneath the psychologist, vulnerable and completely unprepared for what’s coming.
"I should let you get settled. Tomorrow we'll begin the real work."
She has no idea that my real work has already begun.
"Good night, Dr. Hart."
"Good night."
I watch her leave. She pauses in the doorway and glances back at me. A hesitation before she forces herself down the hall. Her footsteps carry up the stairs to the bedroom above mine.
I wait for her door to close before I let the smile come.
I lie back and listen to the sounds of her moving around above me.
Water running. The soft drag of drawers.
The mattress creaking as she finally settles.
I stare at the ceiling and map the exact spot where she's lying.
Twelve feet of plaster and old wood. That's all that's left between seven years of waiting and right now.
Tomorrow I'll start pulling at the threads. I know which ones. I've known for a long time.
She's already mine. She just hasn't figured it out yet.