CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
HAZEL
INSIDE THE HOUSE, Kieran pulls off my coat, but I shove at him, struggling to break free.
“Stop,” he snaps. “I’m checking if you’re hurt.”
I freeze, breathing hard as he brushes his fingers over my arms. There’s a long scratch near my elbow, but it’s nothing compared to the damage I thought I’d have.
“You’re fine,” he says, nodding like it’s final. He turns to leave, and something twists in my chest. Guilt. I see the blood on his face, the way his brow is split open, and it hits me—I did that.
“Kieran…”
He ignores me, heading toward the cupboard. My breath catches when he pulls out a rifle, the cold metal glinting in the dim light.
“Stay here,” he says, loading it without looking at me. “If you come outside, I’ll shoot you.”
I swallow, my throat dry. There’s no doubt in my mind that he means it. He’s not bluffing. His face is too hard, his eyes too empty. I nod, and he disappears out the door.
The waiting is torture. Minutes stretch into what feels like hours. My legs won’t stop shaking, and my hands tremble as I pace the room, Charlie matching my steps. When the door finally creaks open, I whip around, relief flooding me as Kieran steps back inside.
He doesn’t say anything as he sets the rifle down and wipes the blood from his brow.
The wound is so deep it shocks me. The guilt has me rushing to the kitchen, and I grab a cloth, running it under the tap, my fingers brushing over the soft fabric as I clench it tighter than I should. My pulse hasn’t settled since we got back inside, and it’s not just from the attack. It’s from him—Kieran. His presence fills the room like gravity, and no matter how much I try to stay grounded, he keeps pulling me in.
He sits on the edge of the couch, his forearms resting on his knees, blood slowly trickling from the cut above his eyebrow. His gaze is distant, hard, like he’s already calculating his next move. I should leave him alone. I should go to my room and lock the door.
But I can’t.
With hesitant steps, I walk toward him, the cloth damp and cool in my trembling hands. He doesn’t look at me, not at first, and I take the chance to study him: the sharp angle of his jaw, the way a strand of dark hair falls over his forehead, the dried blood crusting along the edge of the cut.
“Let me help,” I whisper, more to convince myself than him.
He finally meets my eyes, and for a moment, something flickers there—something softer, something buried so deep I wonder if even he knows it’s there. He doesn’t say anything; he just leans back slightly, giving me room to work.
I sit beside him, close enough that our knees brush. My fingers hesitate before I press the cloth to his wound. He winces, his breath hitching for half a second, but he doesn’t pull away.
“Sorry,” I murmur. The apology feels strange leaving my lips, especially because I did this to him earlier, but guilt still knots in my chest. I was trying to survive, and he was trying to save me. And now, here we are, stuck somewhere between gratitude and confusion.
Silence stretches between us, heavy and suffocating. I can hear the steady rise and fall of his breathing, feel the warmth radiating off him, smell the faint scent of woodsmoke clinging to his clothes. It’s too much.
“Who was he?” I ask softly, breaking the silence.
Kieran’s jaw tightens, his eyes darkening. “I don’t know,” he says, his voice low and controlled, but there’s an edge to it—something simmering beneath the surface. “But he won’t be the last.”
A chill slides down my spine, the weight of his words sinking into my bones. I should be terrified. I am terrified. But it’s not just fear that’s making my heart race. It’s him. It’s the way he’s looking at me now, like he’s seeing more than just the girl who hit him with a stick.
His gaze drops to my lips, and I see the shift. The way his breathing changes, his chest rising and falling just a little faster. Tension coils between us, thick and suffocating, but this time, I don’t want to run from it. I wet my lips, the motion instinctive, and his eyes darken further.
The moment I do, he moves.
Kieran’s mouth crashes against mine, and the world tilts. Heat floods my body, igniting every nerve as his hands slide to my waist, pulling me closer. This kiss isn’t careful. It isn’t calculated like the first. It’s raw, desperate—like neither of us can hold back any longer.
My fingers fist the fabric of his shirt, clinging to him like he’s the only solid thing in a world that’s constantly shifting beneath my feet. His hands tighten on my waist, dragging me against him until there’s no space left between us. The warmth of his body, the taste of him—it’s overwhelming, intoxicating.
I don’t know where this is going, but right now, I don’t care. All I care about is the way his lips move against mine, the way his hand slides up my back, tangling in my hair. My head spins, and a small, desperate sound escapes me, swallowed by the intensity of the kiss.
But then, Charlie barks.
The sound jolts me like a bucket of cold water dumped over my head. Kieran pulls back, his breathing ragged, his forehead pressed against mine. For a moment, neither of us moves, caught in the aftermath of whatever just happened.
“You’re not making this easy,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough, like he’s barely holding himself together.
There’s no anger in his tone, but there’s something else—something raw and dangerous that sends shivers down my spine.
I should be scared. I should be pulling away, setting boundaries, anything to protect myself.
But I’m not.
I’m sitting here, breathless and trembling, wanting him to do it again. Wanting him to keep going until there’s nothing left to think about. And that’s what terrifies me the most.
“Where’s your first aid kit?” I ask, my eyes darting to the blood dripping from Kieran’s eyebrow. It’s reopened, the dark red trickling slowly down his temple, staining the curve of his cheekbone.
Kieran waves me off like I’m asking him something ridiculous. “I’m fine,” he says, his tone dismissive, as if the blood on his face is just a minor inconvenience.
“No, you’re not.” My voice comes out sharper than I intend, but I’m tired of him pretending he’s invincible.
He studies me for so long that my skin prickles, and I shift my weight, uncomfortable under the intensity of his gaze. His eyes are sharp, calculating, like he’s peeling back layers I’d rather keep hidden. I swallow hard and try to hold my ground, but my body betrays me. My fingers fidget at my sides, and my breath quickens under the pressure of his silence.
Finally, he nods. “In the bathroom. Under the sink.”
Without another word, I turn on my heel and head down the hall, grateful for the excuse to get away from him, even if it’s only for a moment. I glance at my face in the mirror. I’m not bleeding, but the big red mark on my cheek is promising to bloom with bruises soon. I glance away, my heart pounds as I open the cabinet, the small first aid box sitting right where he said it would be. I grab it, turn around—and nearly drop the whole thing as a squeal lodges in my throat.
Kieran is standing right behind me.
“How do you move so quietly?” I mutter, clutching the box like it’s my shield.
He ignores the question, his expression unreadable. “Do you have any other enemies you want to tell me about?”
The weight of his words presses down on me, and I grip the box tighter. My pulse races, but I force a steady breath and answer, “Of course not. Only you.” The words come out sharper than I intend, but I don’t take them back. It’s the truth. Right now, he’s the only threat I know how to deal with.
Kieran’s eyes darken, and before I can react, his hand shoots out and wraps around my wrist. His thumb slides over the inside of my wrist, brushing my pulse. I stiffen, my breath catching at the warmth of his touch and the way his grip feels both firm and oddly gentle.
His voice is low, careful. “Have you witnessed any other murders?”
I want to pull my arm away, but something about the way he’s holding me makes it impossible. My throat feels tight, like I’m standing at the edge of something dangerous. “No,” I whisper. “Just the one.”
He nods, but the questions keep coming. “Do you owe money to someone?”
My patience snaps. His grip isn’t painful, but the weight of his interrogation presses against me, suffocating. I yank my arm free and step back, creating just enough space to breathe. “No,” I bite out.
For a moment, neither of us speaks. His eyes flicker down to my wrist like he’s considering grabbing me again, but he doesn’t. Instead, he exhales and nods, like my answer was exactly what he needed to hear.
“Sit on the toilet,” I say, my voice softer this time.
He doesn’t argue. He sits, leaning forward slightly as I open the first aid box and dig for what I need. My hands are steady—thank God—because the last thing I want is for him to see how much his presence rattles me. I dampen a piece of gauze with antiseptic and press it to the cut above his brow.
He winces, his jaw tightening, but he doesn’t move.
“I’m almost done,” I say softly, dabbing at the blood until the wound is clean.
His gaze lifts to mine, and for a moment, everything is quiet. No questions, no accusations—just him watching me in that way that makes my stomach twist. I force myself to focus, taping a small bandage over the cut and stepping back. “There,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
But Kieran doesn’t move. His hands rest on his knees, his head slightly lowered, like he’s thinking about something heavy. When he finally speaks, his voice is low and measured. “Someone lured Charlie out of the cabin. They must have followed us.”
I freeze, the words settling over me like a weight I can’t shake off. “You think someone else will come?”
Fear tightens my throat, making it hard to breathe. My mind races, cycling through images of being dragged into the woods, of Kieran fighting off a stranger while I watch helplessly.
Kieran stands slowly, towering over me, and for a moment, I forget to move. His presence is overwhelming, a mixture of strength and something protective—something dangerous. He’s close enough that I can see the faint bruising along his jaw, close enough that the warmth of his body wraps around me like a shield.
“I won’t let anyone hurt you,” he says, his tone firm like it’s not a promise but a fact. “But you’ve got to stop trying to escape.”
The words hit me harder than I expected. He doesn’t yell, doesn’t scold me—he just states it like it’s simple. Logical. But it isn’t. Not to me.
I should tell him I’ll never stop. I should tell him that no matter what I’m feeling for him right now, nothing will be stronger than my need to escape. My family doesn’t know where I am. They’re probably terrified. I have to get back to them.
But instead, I nod.
It’s a lie. We both know it. But he doesn’t call me out on it.
He just looks at me for a moment longer before turning and walking toward the door, leaving me standing there, clutching the first aid box like it can protect me from what’s coming. From him.
No matter how much I feel for Kieran right now, it’ll never be enough to change what I have to do.