7. Killian #2
“Try again,” I whisper. “This time, mean it.”
She jerks violently, throwing genuine force behind the move. I shut it down effortlessly. I absorb the impact and lock her down harder. I want her to register exactly how helpless she is.
“Stop thinking like a psychologist,” I say, tightening my hold across her waist until her lungs lock up. “Think as though your life depends on it.”
“I'm not in real danger.”
“Aren't you?” I let my lips brush the shell of her ear. “Right now, in this position, what are you if not helpless?”
"Let me go," she says. The demand is shaky.
"Make me."
She drives her elbow backward into my ribs. It doesn't hurt, but the intent is there. Finally. I release my grip and step back, letting her spin to face me.
“Better. You felt the difference?”
She is panting, her chest rising and falling in sharp, ragged heaves. “Yes.”
“Violence is about commitment, not technique. You can memorize every move in the book, but if you hesitate when it counts, you’re dead.”
“You’re just trying to scare me.”
“I’m showing you reality.” I step in, forcing her to tip her head back to hold my gaze. “There are men out there who’d use your compassion to tear you apart. Real predators don’t give you a chance to think.”
“Is that what you are? A predator?”
Technically, yes. I’ve systematically stalked Ellie Hart for seven years, and now I have her backed into a corner in her own house.
“What do you think?”
Her pulse jumps frantically under the skin of her throat. “I think you’re more dangerous than you pretend to be.”
“And that excites you?”
Her pupils dilate slightly and her lips part when I step closer. Proof enough.
“That’s not… this is supposed to be training.”
“Training.” I let the word drag. “I think we're well past that.”
I slide my hand up to cup the side of her neck, my thumb stroking slow over her cheekbone. My touch is deliberately gentle. She takes a shaky breath and leans into the warmth of my palm. No fight left in her.
“Killian,” she whispers. It’s the first time she’s used my name. Hearing it out loud from her mouth ratchets up the primal hunger I've been burying.
“Tell me to stop.” I crowd into her space, letting the heat of my body overwhelm hers. “Say the word, and I’ll walk out of this room right now.”
She stares up at me, paralyzed.
So I strip the choice away from her.
My mouth crushes down on hers. I drag her entirely against my chest, tangling my fingers into her hair so she can’t pull back.
Her lips give way instantly. It is the visceral, violent relief of a man who has been starving in a cell for seven long years.
The taste of her is an aggressive drug, obliterating every boundary she tried to set.
For a couple of seconds she gives in, her spine arching as she kisses me back with the exact same frantic violence. Her fists twist tight into the fabric of my shirt.
Then the reality hits her. She shoves me backward, tearing herself free, and stumbles until her shoulders hit the wall.
“No.” She touches her mouth as if she’s burned. “No, you’re my patient. I’m your psychologist. This is entirely wrong—”
Run, then. I’ll slaughter everything between me and wherever you decide to stop.
“Ellie—”
“Dr. Hart,” she snaps, desperate for authority.
"Okay,” I straighten up, completely unfazed. Her lips are swollen. Her hands are visibly shaking. “Dr. Hart. I apologize for overstepping.”
Do I fuck.
“It cannot happen again.”
“Understood.”
I don't argue with her. I don't need to. She can throw her professional titles at me all she wants, but she can't undo how fast she surrendered when I put my hands on her.
She practically sprints out of the gym.
Dinner is silent. She refuses to look directly at me. But every time she thinks my attention is elsewhere, her gaze drops to my mouth.
The damage is done. She's infected.
Afterward, she escapes to her office, pretending to work. I hear the pacing. She’s restless and unsettled. Around ten, her phone rings, and I recognize Nathan's ringtone.
I shift so I can catch her voice without making it obvious.
“Hi, Nathan.” Her voice is strained.
I can’t hear him, but I don’t need to. His tone is sharp, pushing.
“No, nothing’s wrong… Yes, I’m fine… Nathan, we talked about this…”
There’s a pause. Her silence tells me the rest. He’s pressing. Pushing about me. About the fact that she chose my side over his.
“I can’t do this right now,” she says finally. “I need space to think.”
His voice climbs in response, frustrated, maybe even desperate.
“I’m not ending things,” she adds quickly, but there’s no conviction in it. “I just… I need time.”
The call ends. I hear her sink into her chair with a sigh that drags out of her. That’s what I wanted. Nathan grasping, her slipping. Every word out of his mouth is another fracture in her certainty, another step closer to me.
Perfect.
I want her off-balance. I want her to question everything. I want her so lost that I'm the only thing she can see clearly.
I stretch out in bed, the house is dead quiet. I lie in the dark, listening to the heavy, uneven creak of the floorboards above me. She's pacing.
Around two AM, the sliding of the glass door halts the pacing. She’s out on her balcony, standing in the cold air.
I could go up there right now. Climb the balcony in the dark and finish exactly what I started in the gym.
But I didn't wait seven years in a cell just to rush it now. Let her sweat it out for one more night. Let her try to pretend this was just a mistake.
When I finally take her, I'm going to pull her all the way under.