3. Killian
Hands stretched high in the air, I smoothly lowered both arms, following the instructor’s calming voice to move into warrior one. Sweat slicked every inch of my skin from the heated air pumping through the vents; steady drops dribbled from my hair onto the towel covering the yoga mat.
Like normal, the teacher’s smooth cadence chased away the memories I tried my damnedest to forget, drowning out my father’s voice demanding a younger me to do better, be better, and not fail. Which was nearly impossible, considering his high expectations of everyone around him, which were even higher for his only son. Yay me.
“Fuck,” I muttered as I stumbled, getting lost in my head and not concentrating on my balance. Knowing I wouldn’t fall back into the peaceful headspace needed for the final few minutes of class, I angrily snatched up my water bottle, towel, and mat. Everything stuffed in my arms, I weaved through the others, offering the teacher an apologetic look for leaving early.
Pushing the door open, a burst of cool air immediately chilled my damp skin, making a shiver bolt down my spine. Not that anyone would notice, even if they were beside me in the hall. The best trained me to smother all physical reactions at all times. Emotional reactions, too, but that was a trauma dumpster fire. I couldn’t go down this early in the morning.
At the front of the small yoga studio, I quickly folded my towel, rolled up the mat, and pulled on a pair of joggers and a hoodie from my gym bag. While I tugged the hoodie over my soaked black T-shirt, the woman manning the front desk asked a question, but her words couldn’t pierce through the voices screaming in my mind.
Outside, the cold, early March wind sliced through the overpriced yet utterly soft cotton material. The jolt from one extreme to the other was just what I needed to snap me out of my head, quieting my mind for one glorious second. It wouldn’t last, it never did, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t savor the moment, no matter how brief.
After securing my gear to the back of the bike, I tossed a leg over and lowered onto the seat. Instead of starting her up, I pulled my cell free from the sweats’ side pocket. Eyes locked on the blank screen, I debated giving in to the insistent urge that had plagued me since the last time I set eyes on her. It was an obsession, one I fought and failed to smother since I was forced to walk away from the only woman I’d ever loved.
A deep-in-your-soul, imprinted-on-your-heart type of love.
It was fast, unexpected, and forbidden. Well, forbidden from my father’s point of view.
Swiping the screen, my thumb hovered over the app that would ease the anxiety thrumming through my veins. Seeing her was an addiction, a drug. All I needed to calm my fears was a simple glimpse to let me know she was still out there, living her best life. Safe.
Far away from me and the danger that came with knowing me.
Because that, unlike anyone else, was what she saw from the very beginning.
Me.
Not the fake-ass playboy I portrayed while at school to keep anyone from looking too closely. No, Millie looked, she saw, and she dug straight into my chest, pulling pieces of me to the surface I didn’t even know were there.
Wants.
Dreams.
Things that were mine, so hidden beneath my father’s expectations, which always took precedence.
While debating whether to give in to the insistent itch to see her, the phone vibrated in my hand. Grateful for the minor distraction, I tapped the screen, pulling up the new text from my boss, Supervisory Special Agent Rhyan Riggs, team leader extraordinaire over the FBI’s Dallas-based Behavioral Sciences Unit.
Boss Lady: Meeting at 2:00 p.m. Potential new case.
Me: Potential?
Boss Lady: Will know more after my 1:00 p.m. meeting with a consultant.
Boss Lady: Depending on that outcome, we’ll discuss the next steps. Could be a long undercover assignment.
Me: Dangerous?
Boss Lady: Yes.
Me: Sounds like a party. Hopefully, it’s somewhere fucking warmer than this. Is it too much to ask for serial killers to do their killing somewhere like the Bahamas or Hawaii?
Boss Lady: You’re killing me.
Me: No, I’m not. You wouldn’t see me coming if I were.
I smirked at my response,knowing she’d get the context. She was the one who helped me escape my previous employer’s clutches, after all. I flipped back to the app I was considering before Rhyan interrupted. With an annoyed groan at my zero restraint when it came to anything Millie, I tapped the app.
Immediately, a crystal clear image of her brownstone came into view. Frowning, I zoomed in, noticing the blinds were closed, which was odd for her. The woman loved the sunshine and always kept the blinds open during the day. Tapping the recording controls, I rewound the video, pausing when a black town car appeared on the screen. The whipping March wind flapping my sweats and cutting through the thin material was barely an annoyance as I squinted, studying the screen.
I noted the recording’s time stamp and continued watching. At ten, Eastern Standard Time, a generic black town car idled outside her townhouse for a few minutes before the woman who unknowingly haunted me came bounding down the concrete stairs. Wide, excited smile, bundled up in a thick coat, carrying— I sucked in a breath. Was that a fucking overnight bag?
My stomach tightened into knots as I watched her pull open the back door and disappear into the cab. Too many times to count, I rewound the video, watching each time until the town car disappeared from view.
I swallowed down the bile threatening to creep up my throat.
This was it. I knew it would happen again at some point. I just wasn’t fucking ready. When she got married, it almost killed me. I lost months of my life, drinking to forget the grief slowly suffocating me.
And now it looked like she had someone new in her life.
Someone taking her on an overnight stay.
My breath turned choppy, and my heart hammered in my chest. With a frustrated roar, I threw my phone to the pavement, watching as it shattered on impact. Yet it did nothing to calm the mounting grief and anger filling my chest.
Slamming my heel down on the clutch, my bike roared to life. With a growl, I picked up the ruined device from the pavement and shoved it into my pocket, not giving two shits about the glass splinters and bits of sharp metal digging into my fingers.
Nothing mattered. Millie wasn’t mine and never would be.
But try telling my heart that because it was hers and had been since the first time we met.
I survived being shot, stabbed, and tortured, but losing Millie to another man again might be the one thing that killed me.