Chapter 7 Octavian
OCTAVIAN
It's been two weeks since I started this fucking babysitting job, and I already know every pattern she doesn't think she has.
Keira Killaney wakes up late. Skips breakfast. Likes cappuccinos but only drinks half before abandoning the rest on the counter or table.
She always checks her lipstick in the car mirror before getting out, prefers to straighten her curly hair, which I'm not sure why, and my personal favorite, always pretends she doesn't see me shadowing her but quickens her pace when she knows I'm near.
Overall, the one thing that irks me is her habit of walking five feet ahead of me, even when we're in crowds, as if to prove she doesn't need me.
And that bothers me mostly because she's going to get herself killed if she keeps treating me like an inconvenience.
Because it's me who notices things. Like the man who watched her too much and then ran when he saw me. Or the car that tailed us for three blocks the other day before I ditched it.
She's completely oblivious, and that's the difference between us. She moves through the world like it owes her something. I move through it knowing it owes me nothing.
Tonight, we're at the Killaney Family Trust charity gala.
It's held in a museum-like venue downtown near Boston Common.
Vaulted glass ceilings, chandeliers, and cameras.
The kind of place where the wealthy pretend to care about the poor while sipping champagne that costs more than the rent of the people they're here to help.
I came this morning while they were setting up. Mapped the perimeter, assessed all exits, stairwells, security personnel. Noted three blind spots. Positioned myself near the largest one.
She doesn't bother with any of that.
She just walks in like she owns the place.
And maybe she does.
The crowd parts for her as she enters. Dressed in an emerald green dress that clings to every curve, her red hair straight and styled into a low bun that exposes the sharp line of her jaw and the soft skin of her shoulders.
Her smile is a weapon, and the men in their black ties, donors and politicians alike, swarm to her.
I watch from the edge of the room, blending in with the staff and security. But I see everything.
She moves through the crowd like water, fluid and adaptable. Charms a donor with a touch on the arm. Commands attention with a laugh that's too loud, too bright. Makes people feel like they're the only ones in the room. Even me, when her eyes flick across the space and lock onto mine.
Just for a second.
And then she moves on.
A man in a tailored suit approaches her, his hand drifting toward her lower back.
I step forward, uneasy at his closeness, but she sidesteps without missing a beat, turning her body just enough to avoid contact while keeping her smile intact.
I stop, genuinely surprised. She doesn't need me to protect her from men like that. It's the ones who don't care about her smile I'm here for.
She continues moving, and I shift my position, keeping her in my line of sight. As the night goes on, I start to see some of her subtle cracks.
The way her jaw tightens when someone mentions her father, like she's holding it all in. The way her fingers drum at her sides when Callum's name comes up. The way she disappears into herself for half a second before the mask snaps back into place.
At one point, she catches me watching.
She looks at me for a moment, a beat longer than necessary, then turns back to the donor without breaking stride.
Everything with her is a test.
I don't react. Just keep watching.
She knows I'm here. She knows I'm always here.
And she hates it.
An hour into the gala, she takes the stage and introduces a few people. Afterwards, she walks down the steps and stops to talk with a group of older women. She's laughing with them about something.
"Excuse me, sir," someone says to my right.
"What?" I say, looking down at the man.
"Bathroom?"
"I don't work here," I say, turning back toward Keira.
Dammit.
I scan the room, my pulse ticking up slightly.
She was just there. Now she's disappeared.
There's no sign of her.
I move quickly, threading through the crowd toward the stage. I turn left. Right. Nothing.
I see a hallway the staff are using and head down it.
Scanning, searching. I'm just about to turn back, but I see something red through a window of a back door.
I move faster, pushing a waiter out of my way.
I open the door and find her standing alone on a back balcony, a glass of champagne in hand. The city stretches out below her, lights glittering against the darkening sky.
She's wide open. Easy target.
No cameras. No cover.
My jaw tightens.
I walk toward her, and she briefly glances back at me and sips her champagne casually, like she's not standing in the middle of a kill zone.
"Relax, soldier," she says without turning around. "I needed air."
The cool evening breeze brushes past me, and I notice her skin prickles with goosebumps.
"Not everything is a joke, you know."
She scoffs. "You sound like Callum."
"He's not wrong. You don't take this seriously."
She turns, one eyebrow arched, her green eyes simmering in the low light.
"You don't know me."
"I know you're reckless."
"And you're controlling."
She steps closer, the champagne tilts in her hand, but she doesn't spill a drop.
"You think because you've been following me around for two weeks, you understand me?" she says, her voice sharp. "You don't."
"I understand you're going to get yourself killed if you keep pulling stunts like this and disappearing on me."
"Stunts?" She laughs. "This is my life, Octavian. It's the game I play because I have to. Because if I stop, the whole fucking thing falls apart. And no one, not Callum, not Declan, not even Daddy, has to clean up that mess but me. So fucking relax, this is what I do."
"And standing alone on an open balcony with no cover? That's what you do too?"
"Oh God, who the hell thinks about shit like that? I'm fine."
"You're vulnerable."
"I'm here, talking to you, so it looks like i'm pretty safe right now doesn't it?"
I step closer, closing the distance between us. She doesn't back down. She never does. Her perfume hits me again, sweet and sharp.
"I'm the only thing standing between you and someone who wants you dead," I say, my voice low. "You want to fight me on that? Fine. But don't pretend it doesn't matter."
She scoffs, tipping her head back slightly, but she doesn't speak.
Her eyes flash, and for a moment, I think she's going to throw the champagne in my face.
But she doesn't.
She just stares at me, her chest rising and falling with each breath. The balcony feels smaller than it did a moment ago, the air between us charged.
I look down at her lips and then back up to her face.
Why the fuck did I just do that?
After a moment, she turns away, setting her champagne glass on the balcony ledge.
"I'm going back inside," she says. "Try to keep up."
She brushes past me, her shoulder grazing mine.
I follow her back through the service hallway, this time not a step behind, but right at her side.
She doesn't protest. Doesn't even acknowledge me.
But I notice the way her stride slows slightly, matching mine.
We reenter the ballroom, and she slips back into her performance seamlessly. Smile bright. Voice warm. Movements fluid.
No one would ever know she was just standing alone on a balcony, daring the world to take a shot.
I take my position near the wall again, my gaze tracking her as she moves through the crowd.
She's a fucking storm, I think, and shake my head.
I've protected diplomats. Oil heirs. Politicians.
None of them have made me want to step closer instead of maintaining distance.
And that's the problem.
Because the moment I stop seeing her as an asset to protect and start seeing her as something else?
That's when I fail.
That's when people die.
I've been down this road before. I know how it ends.
But as I watch her laugh at something someone says, her green eyes bright, I can't shake the feeling that this time is different.
This time, the threat isn't just external.
It's her.