CHAPTER THIRTEEN
HAZEL
THE CAR CRUNCHES over the gravel driveway, slowing to a stop in front of the safe house. I shift in my seat, staring out the window. The place is halfway to being something livable—bricks stained from old weather damage, scaffolding leaning against one side, and mismatched shutters framing the windows. But when Kieran pushes open the door and steps out, it doesn’t feel neglected. It feels like it’s waiting to be finished.
My shoes hit the gravel, and the cool air nips at my skin. Charlie bounds out after me, tail wagging as if we’re on some kind of happy getaway.
Not quite.
Kieran pulls the bags from the trunk with practiced efficiency, throwing one over his shoulder and carrying the rest in his free hand. I follow him toward the door, nerves tightening like a knot in my chest.
The inside is unexpected. The main living room is complete—plush couches in deep brown leather, a fireplace that looks like it belongs in a catalog, and hardwood floors that gleam under the soft afternoon light streaming through the large windows.
It’s warm. Cozy. Nothing like the cold, dangerous world I’ve come to associate with him.
Kieran drops the bags by the entryway, kicking off his shoes without a word. “Hungry?” he asks, already walking toward the kitchen.
I hesitate before following, my steps light on the wooden floor. “I could eat.”
He starts gathering ingredients from bags he had brought in, moving with surprising ease, like he’s done this a hundred times. It’s strange, seeing someone who can shoot a man without blinking now slicing bread and unwrapping deli meat. I lean against the counter, fidgeting with my fingers as I watch him.
Charlie sits by my feet, looking up hopefully. Kieran tears off a piece of cheese and tosses it to him; I use the distraction to steady myself. Kieran doesn’t say much as he works, but the quiet isn’t exactly uncomfortable. It’s something else. A kind of domestic peace I forgot existed.
I clear my throat. “Is this your place?”
His hands pause, just for a second, before he resumes spreading butter on the bread. “Yeah.”
I blink, not expecting that answer. “You live here?”
“Not yet.” He glances up, his gaze brushing mine before returning to the food. “Still renovating. It’s taking longer than I planned, but I’m hoping to move in eventually.”
The fact that Kieran— cold, ruthless, terrifying Kieran—has a dream of settling down here is… unsettling. I never thought he’d be the kind of man who wanted something like this.
“Why this place?” I ask, softer now.
He shrugs, but there’s something deeper beneath the gesture. “It’s quiet. Away from everything.”
Away from blood, violence, and whatever hell he’s buried himself in. I don’t push him further.
His phone buzzes on the counter, the vibration cutting through the silence. He picks it up, glances at the screen, and, without a word, heads for the back door. I watch him step outside, the door clicking shut behind him.
From the window, I see him pace the small patio, the phone pressed to his ear. Then he smiles—a real, genuine smile. The kind that reaches his eyes and makes him look completely different. The tension in his jaw vanishes, and his shoulders relax as he leans against the railing.
My stomach flutters, and I hate it.
Don’t get comfortable, I remind myself. But it’s hard when I’m staring at him like this, seeing the man hidden beneath the layers of danger and control. He’s attractive. Too attractive when he isn’t terrifying me.
He ends the call and steps back inside, bringing the cold air with him. His gaze flicks to mine, and for a second, I wonder if he can tell I was watching him.
“Who was that?” I ask before I can stop myself. I don’t expect him to answer.
“My sister.” He sets a plate down in front of me—a sandwich and a cup of tea.
I stare at the food, then back at him. He’s not someone who gives things freely. Yet here we are.
“She just got her provisional license,” he says, sitting across from me. “She’s studying midwifery now.”
“She sounds lovely,” I say, and I mean it. There’s something about the way he talks about her that feels sacred.
“She is. She’s the best.” His voice softens, and for a moment, the wall between us thins. The love he has for her is something pure, untouched by the darkness that clings to him.
I take a bite of the sandwich, then take a drink, letting the warmth of the tea soothe me as I try to make sense of this man. The silence stretches, but it’s not uncomfortable. I find myself wanting to know more, even if I shouldn’t.
“Does she know what you do?”
The question makes him freeze. His jaw tightens, and the softness from earlier vanishes.
“No.” His answer is quick, clipped, and final. He doesn’t want to talk about this, and I know better than to push him.
“Eat,” he says, his tone shifting back to command.
We eat in silence, sitting close enough that I can feel his warmth. My eyes wander, tracing the tattoos along his arms and neck. They’re intricate, bold, and endless, like they tell a story only he can understand. I remember seeing him without a shirt this morning—the way the ink covered every inch of his torso, curling around the muscles beneath his skin like vines claiming territory.
I stare too long.
His gaze snaps to mine, catching me before I can look away. My face heats, and I quickly focus on my sandwich, pretending I wasn’t just imagining what those tattoos would feel like under my fingers.
“This is the only life I’ve known,” he says, breaking the silence. His voice is low, almost hesitant. “I’d kill for this family. I have before. I’ll do it again.”
His words hit me like a punch to the gut, but there’s no pride in his tone. Just cold, hard truth. He’s not bragging. He’s confessing.
“But I’m hoping to find a way out,” he adds, almost to himself.
Something shifts between us. The air thickens, charged with things neither of us are ready to say. For the first time, I see him not just as the man who’s kidnapped me, but as someone trapped in a life he didn’t choose. Someone who’s searching for a way to be something else.
“Do you think you’ll find it?” I ask softly.
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he leans back, running a hand over his jaw. “I don’t know,” he admits. “But, I have to try.”
And just like that, the distance between us feels smaller. I should be terrified—he’s dangerous, unpredictable, and capable of things I’ll never understand. But right now, sitting here with him, I feel something different.
Something dangerous in its own way.
Hope.
Kieran leads me upstairs, the wooden floorboards creaking under our steps as we move down a dim hallway lit only by the fading sunlight streaming through a nearby window. He stops at the end and pushes open a door, revealing a bedroom.
The first thing I notice is that the room is finished, like the living room. The walls are a soft gray, the bed is neatly made with dark sheets and a heavy quilt. The windows have thick blackout curtains pulled back just enough to let in light, and the warm, clean scent of cedar fills the space. It’s simple but comforting.
“This is the only bedroom done,” Kieran says, rubbing the back of his neck. His fingers slip through his dark hair, making the strands fall messily across his forehead. His expression shifts, and I know he’s come to the same conclusion I have.
I glance toward the wardrobe, pulling open the door without thinking. The scent of him hits me first—something warm and woodsy, with a hint of leather. The wardrobe is lined with men’s clothing: jackets, shirts, and jeans neatly hung or folded—all his.
My stomach twists. I’m going to sleep in his bed.
Kieran notices my reaction, his gaze flicking to the wardrobe before meeting mine. “You can have it,” he says, voice low but firm. “I’ll sleep somewhere else.”
I nod, knowing there’s no way in hell I’d share a bed with him. But the fact that he’s offering to give it up without argument does something strange to me. It’s unexpected—just like everything about him today.
“Follow me,” he says, motioning for me to come with him.
We move farther down the hall to a large bathroom, where a freestanding bathtub takes up most of the space. The tile floor is half-finished, with sections of smooth ceramic next to patches of bare concrete. It smells faintly of paint and sawdust, but it’s clean. The wide window lets in enough light to highlight the polished silver faucet and claw-foot tub.
“I don’t have a shower,” Kieran says, “but you can take a bath.”
I nod, but my gaze immediately darts around the room, scanning the corners and ceiling. I know what men in his world are capable of, and I won’t assume he’s any different.
When my eyes sweep over a vent, Kieran chuckles softly behind me. I whip my head around, heat crawling up my neck as I see the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
“There are no cameras in my home,” he says. His voice is calm, as though he’s amused by my paranoia but not insulted by it.
I swallow and nod, feeling like an idiot. My cheeks burn, but I don’t let him see how embarrassed I am.
He doesn’t say anything else—just turns and leaves, the door clicking softly shut behind him. For a moment, I hesitate, staring at the door. The lock is broken. There’s nothing to stop him—or anyone—from coming in.
I place the stopper in the bath and run the hot water.
As the bath fills, I strip off and push my boots and clothes against the door. It won’t stop him, but it gives me the illusion of safety, and right now, that’s enough.
The bathwater steams, and I sink into it with a sigh, my muscles loosening for the first time in days. The warm water washes away the grime and tension, but not the constant buzz of anxiety in my chest.
Has anyone noticed I’m gone? How long has it been now—five days? A week? Time bends when you’re a prisoner. I close my eyes and let the water soothe me.
After I dry off and pull on fresh clothes from my bag, I run my fingers through my long, curly hair. I can’t find a hairbrush. Frustrated, I rummage through Kieran’s room, checking the drawers and nightstand.
That’s when I find it.
A Bible.
It’s tucked neatly in the bottom of a nightstand, and curiosity gets the better of me. I pull it out and flip it open, expecting scripture—but the pages have been cut out, creating a hollow space inside. Stacks of cash fill the void, along with two passports. I pull them out, inspecting the first one.
It’s a woman. Young, with soft features and long dark hair. His sister, I assume. She looks kind—too kind to be connected to someone like him.
The door creaks behind me, and my heart races as I shove the Bible back into place. Charlie’s head pokes through the door, his tail wagging as he trots toward me. I let out a breath, my hand settling on his head as he nuzzles me.
“Hey, boy,” I whisper, scratching behind his ears before getting up and continuing my search for a hairbrush. I don’t find one, and frustration gnaws at me as I wander through the house.
The unfinished rooms are filled with potential—arched doorways, exposed wooden beams, and large windows that let in natural light. But there’s a rawness to it, like the house is stuck between what it was and what it could be.
A large saw sits in one of the front rooms, the blade glinting faintly under the dim light. I step closer, my fingers twitching as I reach out, the thought of how sharp it must be flashing through my mind.
“Don’t touch it. It’s sharp.”
Kieran’s voice makes me jump, and I spin around, heart pounding. He’s leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, watching me.
“I was looking for a hairbrush,” I blurt out, my voice higher than I want it to be.
Both of his brows rise. “You won’t find one in here.” He pauses, then shrugs. “You won’t find one in the house. I’m sorry.”
I nod, running my fingers through my hair again. The curls snag on my fingers, and I give up, letting my hands drop to my sides.
“I’ve lit the fire,” Kieran says. “If you want to dry your hair beside it.”
The tension between us hangs like a thread waiting to snap, but I nod and follow him back to the living room.
“I’m going to wash, but you go ahead,” he says, disappearing down the hallway.
The first thing I do is check the front door, but it’s locked. Of course, it is, but I have to try.
The fire crackles softly, warmth radiating from the hearth. I glance around the room, noticing the stack of books on the coffee table. Did he leave them for me?
I pick up the first one—a worn paperback with creased edges and a faded cover. My fingers run along the spine as I sit down on the couch, pulling my knees to my chest.
But even as I sit here, in front of the fire, surrounded by warmth, my mind can’t help but remind me of one thing:
I’m still his prisoner. And no fire or cozy books will change that.
But Kieran is making it very hard for me to remember he’s supposed to be the villain.