6. Ellie
ELLIE
The pipes hiss in the wall behind my headboard.
I lie in the dark, listening to the water strike the tiles in the guest suite below, then the metallic thud when he turns it off.
The floorboards groan below me. Killian has been moving for twenty minutes.
He walks the same line through the kitchen, the wood flexing under his boots with every pass.
Most people stumble into the morning. Killian just arrives.
I dress in the grey blazer and pale silk shirt. It's my uniform. I button the jacket and check the mirror, adjusting the lapels until they're perfectly symmetrical. It doesn't make me feel more in control, but it gives me something to do with my hands.
The balcony door is open. Jasmine drifts in, cold with the dew. I take one long breath before I shut the glass and lock it.
He's in the kitchen when I get downstairs.
The lights are off. He stands in the grey morning light, dressed in dark jeans and a charcoal hoodie.
The fabric pulls tight across his shoulders, making him look impossibly tall in the small room.
The hood is down, exposing the thick muscle of his neck.
I stop in the doorway. He's at the counter making coffee, moving through the space as if he's lived here for years.
I watch the way his back shifts under the fabric.
Stop it.
"Good morning," he says, his back still to me. He knows I'm there. "I hope you don't mind, I made coffee."
"That's—" I reach for a mug. "That's fine. Thank you. You're up early."
"Habit." He hands me the pot. His fingers are calloused. When they touch mine, I pull back and set the mug on the counter. The heat of the coffee is the only thing I focus on.
He leans against the wall, facing the door. He’s watching me move. I can see his eyes in the reflection of the windowpane. I can feel the intensity of his gaze boring into me.
"I heard you wake up," he says.
I pause with the mug in my hand. "I was trying to be quiet."
"You were. I heard you moving, so I figured I'd get the coffee on. Try to make myself useful."
"How did you sleep?" I ask. I sit at the island, keeping my spine straight.
"Better than I have in years." He smiles. Oh God, that smile. "It's peaceful here."
Peaceful is the wrong word. The hair on my arms stands on end. I watch the way the fabric pulls across his shoulders as he moves. He catches me staring and holds my gaze, unyielding. I'm the first to look away. I drop my eyes to the mug. My face is hot.
"We should set a routine." I pull my notebook closer, the barrier I keep on returning to. "Structure helps with adjustment."
"Of course." He leans against the counter, coffee mug in hand, looking perfectly relaxed despite the ankle monitor blinking at his feet. "What did you have in mind?"
"Therapy sessions in the mornings. Afternoons for reading, programs, and life skills. Evenings for reflection." I pause, forcing myself to meet his eyes. "There's a gym here as well, if you want to use it in your free time. And meals are together, routine connection matters as much as the therapy."
"Meals together," he repeats, his voice dropping. The inflection makes the ordinary sound dangerous. "I enjoyed last night. It's been a long time since I've shared a meal with someone who wasn't a murderer."
A short, genuinely startled laugh escapes me. His dry delivery catches me completely off guard, and to my surprise, the rigid line of my spine actually relaxes. For a second, I feel at ease.
"Rehabilitation is about reintegration." My voice comes out softer than I mean it to. "Learning to connect with others in healthier ways."
"And you think I can learn that? How to connect?"
There's an edge to his question, as if he's testing whether I believe the things I tell myself about redemption.
"I think anyone can change," I answer, forcing my spine straight again. "It comes down to whether they want to."
"I'm very motivated to try, Dr. Hart."
He drags out my name, testing how it sounds.
It shouldn't make my skin react, but it does.
I look back at my notes, anything to break the hold of his eyes, but it doesn't help; I can still feel him watching me.
I pretend to read, but the pull of his gaze makes it impossible to focus on a single word.
"We should begin today's session." I stand a little too quickly, frustrated with myself. "My office?"
He follows me down the hallway, coffee in hand, close enough that I can feel him there even when he doesn't make a sound. If it weren't for that, I might think I was alone. But I know he's watching. Analyzing exactly how I live.
My office feels too small for the sheer size of him.
He lowers himself into the chair. The ankle monitor blinks against his skin, pulsing like a countdown timer.
How hard would it be for him to slip it off?
How fast would help get here if he did? The questions rushing through my mind make my mouth go dry, mostly because I'm not sure I want the answers.
"You weren't ready to talk about yourself yesterday." I consult my notes. "I'd like to try again, if you're willing?"
The relaxed line of his jaw locks. "What would you like to know?"
"What was it like for you growing up?"
I ask the question directly, watching for a reaction. The muscles around his eyes tighten, a micro-expression that tells me this isn't a subject he breaks out for anyone, least of all me.
"Why?" The word comes out sharp, almost a snarl.
"It's my job to understand my patients."
"Understanding me usually gets people killed, Dr. Hart."
My chest feels completely tight. He doesn't look away. He just watches me with those thundery eyes that don't blink nearly enough.
Testing me.
Waiting to see if I'll flinch.
I dig my fingernails into my palm under the desk and hold his gaze.
"I'm willing to take that risk," I say, keeping the tremor out of my voice. "My question stands. What was it like?"
"Of course." He leans back in his chair, but his eyes never leave my face. "My childhood. Let's see. Absent mother, violent father, a series of foster homes that ranged from neglectful to abusive. The usual recipe for creating a criminal."
The words come out rehearsed. Like he's said them a thousand times to a thousand different people in a thousand different rooms just like this one.
But his left hand curls into a fist against his thigh. Just for a second. Then releases. I catch it because that's my job. Noticing the things people try to hide. This isn't just a case history he's recounting; these are wounds that still haven't healed.
"You're reciting a file," I say. "I didn't ask what the state wrote about you."
He stops. His gaze sharpens, zeroing in on me. "No? What did you ask?"
"I asked what it was like."
A slow beat of silence. "It taught me what I needed for prison."
Jesus. He was a kid.
"How so?"
"You learn to read people quickly when your survival depends on it. How to hide what I felt and only show what I had to. How trust will get you cut open or worse if you're even a fraction wrong."
He trails off, but the bluntness of it sketches the picture anyway — a kid who had to stay alert, shut down his feelings, plan every move just to get through.
Sitting across from me now, I see the same patterns: how he angles himself toward the door, the tightness in his face, the constant watchfulness. A lifetime of survival.
"That sounds exhausting, always being on guard."
"It becomes second nature after a while. Like breathing."
"And now? Do you still feel that way?"
He goes completely still. His gaze drags over my face, stripping away every defense I've built between us. The silence drags on.
"With you?" His voice is dangerously quiet. "I'm not sure yet."
Hearing that kind of vulnerability from him throws me completely. I rub my arms, suddenly cold despite the heat in the room. I force my eyes down to my notes.
"Trust takes time," I say, needing to get out from under his stare. "It builds slowly through routine."
"Is that what we're building? Trust?"
"It's necessary for successful therapy."
"And what about after therapy? When I'm no longer your patient?"
The question knocks the air out of the room. When I finally look up, the way he's watching me is different. He's tracking my every movement. I remind myself I am a professional doing a job, but the flush spreading up my chest says otherwise.
"That's not—we're not—" I stumble, the harder I try to sound composed, the worse it gets.
"Relax, Dr. Hart," he says, his voice flat. "I was just asking a question."
It's a lie. I can see it in the rigid set of his shoulders, the way he watches me struggle to pull myself together. He's enjoying my flustered reaction. It's a deflection, but I nod anyway, grabbing the escape he offered.
My pen hovers over the blank paper. I’m too busy watching the shape of his lips when he speaks, the deliberate way his voice drops to pull me in.
The rest of the session blurs. Twenty minutes, maybe more.
Every question I ask feels like it twists into something else, his answers constantly circle back to me.
When I finally call time, my notebook is mostly empty.
The only thing he's given away is that he knows exactly how to get under my skin.
"Same time tomorrow?" He asks as we leave my office.
"Yes." I pause at the door, pulling my professional tone back into place. "And we need to ensure these sessions remain focused on your progress."
"Of course, Dr. Hart. That's exactly why I'm here."
The way he says it grates on my nerves. We aren't having the same conversation, and he wants me to know it.
The afternoon drags. I bury myself in case files whilst Killian sits in the living room with a book.
I keep catching myself listening for the turn of a page, glancing over without meaning to.
He moves around my house as if he's settling in, always finding a spot where he has a clear sightline to the doors and to me.
Around five thirty, Nathan's car crunches into the drive without warning.