Chapter 16
KANE
Imade it three steps from her door before I stopped.
Just stood there in the hallway like an idiot, hand still raised halfway to my side, staring at the closed door like it might open again on its own.
Like she might appear in the doorway and give me an excuse—any excuse—to go back inside and stop pretending I had any self-control left where she was concerned.
I couldn't believe I'd made it out of that apartment without ripping her clothes off.
Fuck.
What was I getting into?
The more it happened—her forwardness, that direct honesty that cut through every defense I'd spent years building like they were made of paper—the harder it was to say no.
The harder it was to remember why I should say no.
Why walking away was supposedly the right move even when every instinct I had was screaming at me to turn around and finish what we'd started.
You.
The word echoed in my head like a bell that wouldn't stop ringing, wouldn't fade no matter how much distance I put between us.
She'd said it twice now. Once in the café with that mix of boldness and vulnerability that had knocked me completely sideways. And again tonight, softer but somehow more certain, like she'd had time to think about it and decided she meant it even more the second time around.
Like she knew exactly what she was asking for.
I should knock.
The thought came unbidden, immediate, dangerous as hell.
Turn around. Go back in. Stop pretending this was about protecting her when really it was about me being too much of a coward to take what she was freely offering.
Finish what we'd started on that sofa before my brain had kicked back in and reminded me of all the reasons why this was a terrible idea.
My hand actually moved toward the door before I caught myself, fingers almost brushing wood.
Jesus Christ.
Get a grip, Black.
You're better than this.
I closed my eyes, trying to clear my head, trying to focus on literally anything except the want clawing at my chest like a living thing.
But that just made it worse.
Because all I could see was her.
Ella underneath me, blonde hair spread across white sheets like a halo, eyes wide and dark and focused entirely on me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.
That careful composure finally, completely shattered into something raw and honest and vulnerable.
Lips parted. Breathing hard. Saying my name like a prayer or a curse, I didn't care which as long as she kept saying it.
Or better—even better—
Ella on top of me.
That image hit harder than the first, more vivid, more visceral, more immediately real.
Her straddling my hips, thighs bracketing my body, soft skin against harder muscle.
Hands braced on my chest for balance as she found her rhythm, fingers splayed wide, nails digging in slightly when something felt particularly good.
Moonlight from the window painting her skin silver and shadow, highlighting curves, casting moving shadows that danced with her.
Starting slow, tentative, testing what worked, learning what made me grip her hips harder or groan her name.
Then faster as confidence built and pleasure took over rational thought.
Head tilted back, throat exposed and vulnerable, completely lost in sensation, in us.
Taking what she wanted without apology.
Taking me without hesitation.
Using me for her pleasure like she had every right to, like my body belonged to her in that moment.
And God, I'd let her.
Fuck.
My cock went hard so fast it actually hurt, straining against my jeans uncomfortably, demanding attention I couldn't give it here in a public hallway.
I pressed my palm flat against her door, breathing through the want that was threatening to override every rational thought I had left, every reason I'd built for why this was wrong.
I could go back in.
Right now.
Right this second.
She'd asked me to stay. Been completely clear about it. No games. No pretense. No plausible deniability or room for misunderstanding.
I'd be better if you stayed.
The memory of her voice saying those words—soft, honest, wanting, brave—nearly broke what was left of my resolve.
I could knock. Three sharp raps against wood. She'd open the door within seconds, probably already halfway there because she'd been hoping for this. Expecting it, maybe. Wanting it as much as I did.
I'd walk back in without saying anything because words would just complicate things, would give us both too much time to think.
Close the distance. Finally close the fucking distance that had been killing me all night, that had been building since this morning in the clinic.
Kiss her the way I'd wanted to kiss her from the moment I saw her. Not gentle. Not patient. Not careful. Deep and consuming and honest about exactly what I wanted from her, exactly where this was heading.
And then—
Then I'd back her against the nearest wall because the bedroom was too far away and I'd already waited longer than I thought possible.
Hands sliding under that oversized sweater, feeling warm skin and soft curves I'd only seen through clothing, mapping her body with touch instead of just imagination.
Her legs wrapping around my waist like they belonged there, like her body recognized mine.
That little surprised sound she'd make when I kissed her neck, when I bit down gently where it met her shoulder, marked her as mine.
The way she'd move against me, impatient, needy, wanting more than I was giving her, demanding it without words.
How tight she'd feel when I finally pushed inside her after too much teasing, too much buildup, too much waiting for something we both wanted.
How her eyes would go wide for just a second—surprise, pleasure, maybe a hint of overwhelmed at the intensity—before they glazed over completely with sensation.
How she'd say my name differently then. Breathless. Desperate. Wrecked.
Kane.
Like I was the only thing that mattered in her entire world.
No.
I pushed away from the door hard enough that my shoulder protested sharply, muscle complaining about the abuse.
I can't.
I can't do this.
She was grieving. Vulnerable. Raw from loss and looking for anything—anything—to make her feel less alone in the middle of a nightmare she hadn't asked for and didn't deserve.
And I was—
I was dangerous.
For her. For this situation. For everything she didn't understand yet about who I was and what I'd done and what was coming for me.
I'd drag her into darkness she wasn't prepared for. Get her killed, probably, the way everything I touched eventually broke or bled or died.
Better to leave now while I still could. While she still had a chance at walking away from this intact.
I forced myself to walk. Down the hallway with deliberate steps, each one harder than the last. Down the stairs, hand trailing on the railing for something solid to hold onto. Out into the cool Paris night that did absolutely nothing to calm the heat still coursing through my veins like fire.
But not so quickly that I was reckless about it.
Not so quickly that I stopped paying attention to my surroundings, to threats, to problems.
Because they'd found me.
St. Paul's.
After years of staying invisible, of being so fucking careful—they'd found me, anyway.
The "meeting" with the fat men and their well-dressed friends hadn't been a coincidence or bad luck. Hadn't been about the fight club or owing money or any of the dozen other explanations that might have made sense in a normal world.
That had been a message.
A declaration.
We know who you are. We know where you are. We're coming.
And I'd received it loud and clear.
The building they'd taken me to had been industrial.
Abandoned, or close to it. Windows broken out, leaving jagged glass teeth.
Graffiti covering the walls in layers of competing tags.
The kind of place people went when they wanted privacy for conversations that couldn't happen in public spaces with witnesses and security cameras.
Three floors up through stairwells that smelled like rust and old concrete and human piss, into a room with broken windows letting in cold air and water damage staining the walls black with mold.
The fat men had hung back by the door immediately, nervous, suddenly understanding they were way out of their depth. That this wasn't about fight clubs or money. That they'd been used as bait and nothing more.
The three suits had spread out with professional precision, cutting off escape routes, hands visible but positioned to draw weapons fast.
Military training. Or something close to it.
And then the one in charge had spoken.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Eastern European features and thick accent. Cold eyes that had seen violence and weren't remotely bothered by it.
"You are one of the Nine."
Not a question.
Not speculation.
A statement of absolute fact delivered with bone-deep certainty.
My blood had gone cold despite the adrenaline flooding my system.
St. Paul's.
After all these years, they still survived.
"Don't know what you're talking about," I'd said, voice carefully flat, buying time to assess the situation and plan my exit.
The man had smiled without any warmth or humor. "Kane Black. Escaped St. Paul's School for Boys eighteen years ago with eight others after killing Headmaster Thorne and burning the facility. We have been looking for you. For all of you. For a very long time."
He'd pulled out a tablet from inside his expensive jacket, swiped through images with methodical efficiency.
Photos.
Current photos.
Of me. Of Connor. Of the others scattered across the globe, friends I hadn't seen in person in years.
Surveillance photos taken recently, in Bangkok.
Someone had been watching. Tracking. Building comprehensive files on all of us.
"We know all …”
That's when I'd moved.