54. Ellie
ELLIE
I sit at the kitchen island, scrolling through emails to approve funding for a new survivor safehouse in Chicago, half-listening for the sound of his heavy footsteps on the stairs.
It's been six months since Killian and I decided to truly build a life together.
Six months of healing, of slowly unearthing the people we are when we aren't running for our lives.
The sex is the one thing that requires no unearthing at all.
He still absolutely wrecks me, stripping my mind blank until I'm barely resembling a functioning adult.
I've just finished responding to a donor when I feel the air in the kitchen suddenly go still. I don't have to look up to know it's him. My stomach does a slow, heavy roll, making me tighten my grip on my coffee mug until my knuckles go white.
"Morning," he says, dropping a damp towel over the back of a chair. His hair is still wet from the shower, the gray t-shirt stretched across his shoulders in a way that makes my fingers itch to touch him.
"There's coffee," I say, nodding toward the pot. "I was thinking of making pancakes."
He steps into my space to reach for a mug, his chest brushing against my shoulder.
I freeze, my coffee cup halfway to my mouth, waiting for him to step away.
Six months of this, and I still don’t know how to act normal when he’s this close, my body simply malfunctions.
I hate the way my heart takes off, a hard, fast thud that makes me feel like some teenage girl with a high school crush.
I’m a doctor, for God's sake, and I can’t even remember how to breathe when he touches me.
"Sounds good," he says, and I can feel the vibration of his voice in my own bones. "Need help?"
I close my laptop and slide off the barstool. "You can slice the strawberries if you want."
We move around each other in the kitchen with the ease of two people who have spent months learning each other's rhythms. I pull milk and eggs from the refrigerator while Killian retrieves the fruit from the drawer.
He takes the knife to the board. He's fast. Too fast for a man just cutting fruit.
I watch his fingers, and I have to look away before the memory of those hands on my skin makes me lose my grip on the whisk.
I focus on the eggs, the sound of the metal against the bowl is loud enough to drown out the rush of blood in my head.
"You were up early," I comment, whisking eggs in a bowl. "Bad night?"
He shrugs, shoulder muscles flexing beneath his shirt. "Just restless. Nothing specific."
I know better. The nightmares still come for both of us sometimes, though less than they used to. Some things don't disappear because you've survived them.
"Gabriel called yesterday," I say, changing the subject. "He's coming by later. Said he has updates."
Killian's rhythm with the knife doesn't falter, but I notice the slight tension in his jaw. "About?"
"He didn't say. But he sounded... concerned."
Killian scrapes the sliced strawberries into a bowl and steps closer, setting it down beside me.
"Perfect," I say, taking the bowl. Our fingers brush, and he doesn't move away.
He leans against the counter beside me, watching as I heat the griddle and whisk the batter. His proximity is distracting. The heat off him is more noticeable than the griddle.
"You're hovering," I say, not looking up.
"Am I?" He says it right against the back of my neck, and I find myself leaning back into him without meaning to. I have to focus on the bubbles forming in the batter to keep from turning around and forgetting the pancakes entirely.
"Yes." I pour more circles of batter onto the hot griddle, pushing blueberries into the surface. "I'm trying to cook."
His hand settles on my hip. "Don't let me stop you."
I shoot him a sideways glance. "You're impossible."
"So I've been told." His thumb traces against my hip bone through the fabric of my sleep shorts.
I add a few more blueberries to the pancakes bubbling on the griddle, stubbornly pretending I'm unaffected by his touch. "If you make me burn breakfast, you're making the next batch."
"Fair enough." He chuckles, but his hand doesn't move. His fingers spread wider, his palm warm against my side. I stay focused on the pancakes, or at least I try to.
"Almost done," I manage, watching the edges turn golden.
His other hand pushes my hair gently off my neck. "Good," he murmurs, and then his mouth is on my skin.
The spatula goes still in my hand. "Killian..."
"Hmm?" His lips move to the spot below my ear.
"The food is going to burn."
"Then turn it off," he says against my neck.
I reach out and kill the flame. He turns me in his arms. I face him.
"You're very distracting."
His hands slide to my hips, caging me in. His eyes have gone dark, the gray almost swallowed by black. His mouth finds mine, and breakfast is completely forgotten.
The kiss is deep and unhurried. He doesn't have anything to prove anymore. It’s just us. A centerpiece in the middle of a room that usually feels too big. It’s somehow deeper now, built from the wreckage we've spent the last half-year clawing our way out of.
"We have all day," I murmur against him. "Gabriel won't be here until this afternoon."
Something shifts in his eyes. That particular look that used to frighten me, but now it makes my throat go dry. He lifts me onto the counter. I hook my legs around his waist and drag him in. My body moving before I can even think to process it. I need him.
His hands slide under my shirt, roaming slowly over my skin. Their heat is broad across my stomach, dragging my shirt up. I arch toward him, my skin rising in goosebumps where he touches me.
His shirt comes off. I press my palms flat against his chest, over the scars I know by touch now.
He strips my shirt over my head, letting it fall to the floor.
Silence fills the kitchen as he looks at me, his gaze moving slow over my body, as a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. My lungs forget how to expand.
My shorts hit the floor next. My underwear follows. I'm bare cheeked on the cold granite, but his hands are everywhere, pinning me to the stone.
"Fuck, Ellie," he rasps as his fingers graze over my center. "Look at you. You’re already so wet."
"Please, Killian." I buck against his hand to force the pace.
"Patience," he chides, a hint of amusement in his voice.
His thumb circles me with a slow, agonizing pressure that has me wanting to crawl out of my own skin.
When I reach for him, he catches both my wrists in one hand and pins them together against my chest. He watches my face, a stare that says he’s in no hurry at all, even as his other hand keeps working me.
I'm gasping, my focus entirely on what he’s doing. He keeps the pace slow, testing me until I'm nearly begging, my hands clenched into fists where he has them pinned.
He pulls his hand away from my wrists, his other hand finally sliding out from between my legs. "Stay," he commands, his palm a solid weight against my stomach as he steps back just enough to kick out of his pants.
I do. I stay exactly where he put me, my breath coming in short, sharp bursts.
His eyes never leave mine, the focused weight of his stare pinning me just as effectively as his hands did.
When he finally grips my hips and thrusts into me, the sound I make is feral.
His grip on my hips is bruising, and I dig my nails into his shoulders because I want to hold on.
He sets a rhythm that has the jars on the counter rattling behind me, hard and relentless, and I meet him with everything I have.
"Look at me."
I meet his gaze. His eyes are dark, fixed on mine with an intensity that tells me he’s not going to let me go until I’m unable to stand on my own two feet.
I’m gasping now, my heels digging into his lower back, my whole world shrinking to the spot where we’re joined.
I look down, catching sight of the way he’s stretching me open, the thick ridges of his cock as he drives into me, filling me until I’m sure I’ll split.
He doesn't let up as he keeps hitting that same deep spot again and again, each thrust vibrating through my whole body.
I'm fighting for air, fighting to keep my eyes on him, but my vision is already starting to blur at the edges.
I shatter first. I’m a mess of shaking limbs and heavy, ragged breaths, my vision finally whiting out. Killian doesn't slow down. He drives deeper, a low roar tearing through him as he finally locks up, his weight crashing into me.
For a few minutes we just breathe, our chests heaving as we fight for air. My legs are still wrapped around him as he stills inside me, his hands braced on the counter on either side of me.
"Well," I finally say. "That's one way to start the morning."
The corner of his mouth pulls. "Better than pancakes?"
I pretend to think about it, shooting him a grin. "Close call."
He huffs a dry laugh, his hand sliding up my thigh to give it a sharp, playful squeeze that makes me jump. "Liar," he murmurs, his teeth catching the shell of my ear for a second before he pulls back, his eyes glinting.
He helps me down from the counter. I pull my clothes back on while he grabs his discarded t-shirt. He cleans me up before handing it over, a routine that feels as natural as breathing now.
I'm still pulling my shirt straight when my phone rings. Gabriel's tone.
I answer. "Hey, I thought you weren't coming until this afternoon."
"Change of plans. I'm five minutes out. Is Killian with you?"
I glance at Killian, who has already read my expression. "Yes."
"Good. I'll explain when I get there."
The call ends. I set the phone down on the worktop.
"Five minutes," I tell Killian. "He sounds worried."
Killian disappears and comes back, pulling a fresh shirt over his head.
He's at the window before the heavy hum of an engine even reaches us. He reaches under the lip of the kitchen island, his hand finding the grip of the Glock magnetically mounted next to the barstools. By the time Gabriel's matte black G-Wagon crunches up the gravel drive, he’s already checked out. That switch he has, from open to closed, from mine back to operative. I’m still wet with him, the ache in my thighs still fresh, but the man who was just inside me is gone.
I start fixing my hair with shaking fingers and straighten my clothes.
I turn to the griddle and scrape the half-cooked pancakes into the bin.
They're already cold and starting to go rubbery.
I reach for the bowl, my hands still unsteady as I start pouring a fresh batch into the pan.
It's a pointless attempt at normalcy, but I need something to do with my hands.
Gabriel walks in with a thick, tattered folder, dropping it onto the island with a heavy thud.
He looks tired. It's mental exhaustion rather than just a lack of sleep. He’s already reaching for the papers.
The smell of cold coffee and fresh ink cuts through the buttery scent of the pancakes as he starts spreading out the documents.
We settle around the kitchen island.
I’ve watched him and Jackson spend the last four months buried in secondary Order servers.
They were tracking the liquid assets Julian moved through the Montreal and Seattle hubs.
The operations didn't go dark after the hits.
They consolidated everything into St. Marlowe Bay.
It's a high-end coastal enclave where the Order hides its sensitive infrastructure behind old-money foundations. Gabriel finally found a digital way in.
"The identities are solid," Gabriel says, his voice low and raspy. He spreads the documents across the counter. "I'm leaving on Saturday."
Killian's jaw tightens as he studies a surveillance shot of a cargo ship docked in Seattle. "These are recent?"
"Within the last month." Gabriel doesn't look up.
He traces a thumb over a specific blurred face in the background of the Seattle docks.
"The manifest shows they're offloading in Seattle, but the high-value assets are being ghosted onto private yachts three miles offshore.
By the time the ships dock, the real prizes are already secured behind the gates in St. Marlowe Bay.
I'm going in. Don't look for me. I'll reach out when the first cell is dead. "
I look at the stack of documents, the reality finally sinking in. "How long?"
"As long as it takes to find who’s holding the strings," he says flatly.
Killian’s hand spans my waist, pulling me back into his space. He gives Gabriel a single, sharp nod. Gabriel returns it, his eyes have already gone somewhere I can't follow. It’s a silent handover.
I turn back to the griddle and watch the batter sizzle.
My head is already swimming with Montreal, Seattle, and St. Marlowe Bay.
The hubs, the bank codes, and the yachts.
I plate the pancakes and slide three stacks onto the island, pushing the surveillance shots of the docks aside to make room for the syrupy stacks.
I pick up my fork and watch the guys talk tactics while they inhale their food.
We’re back to work.