Chapter 11 Killian
Killian
Two weeks had passed since the snow storm and Lena had asked me to be her date to a work event.
The gallery was packed with pretentious assholes pretending to understand art they'd never actually appreciate.
I stood in the shadows near the back, nursing a glass of wine I hadn't touched, my eyes tracking Lena as she moved through the crowd.
She was wearing that black dress I'd picked out for her.
The one that hugged her curves and made every man in the room look twice.
I'd told her she looked beautiful before we left, had fucked her against the bathroom counter to make sure she remembered who she belonged to, but watching her now, laughing with clients, her hand gesturing as she explained some piece of shit painting, I felt that familiar possessiveness coil tight in my chest.
Mine.
She was mine, and everyone here needed to know it.
Lena glanced my way, caught my eye across the room, and smiled. That soft, genuine smile that was only for me. It made something warm settle beneath the possessiveness, something that almost felt like contentment.
Almost.
Then I saw him.
Randall.
Her boss was approaching her with that eager, friendly expression he always wore, and I straightened, every muscle in my body tensing as I watched their interaction. He leaned in close, too close, saying something that made Lena laugh.
And then his hand came up, little too familiar, a little too comfortable and ran down her arms from shoulder to elbow.
A slow, deliberate touch.
The kind of touch that wasn't professional.
The kind of touch that said he wanted more.
My jaw clenched so hard I thought my teeth might crack.
The wine glass in my hand trembled, and I had to force myself to set it down on a nearby table before I shattered it and drew attention I didn't want.
My vision tunneled, focusing solely on where his fingers lingered on her skin, and I felt the rage building like a living thing in my chest.
Lena didn't pull away immediately. She was still laughing, still engaged in whatever bullshit conversation they were having, and when she finally did step back, it was casual. Easy.
Like it didn't matter.
But it mattered to me.
I watched Randall walk away, watched him glance back at her once with an expression that made my blood run hot and violent. There was longing in that look, desire barely concealed behind his professional facade.
He wanted her.
He wanted what was mine.
I moved through the crowd with purpose, positioning myself next to Lena, and slid my arm around her waist, pulling her against me possessively.
"Hey," she said, leaning into me naturally. "I didn't see you come over."
"I've been watching." I kept my voice even, controlled, even though everything inside me was screaming. "Randall seems friendly tonight."
"Randall's always friendly," she said with a shrug. "That's just how he is."
"He touched you."
Lena blinked up at me, confusion crossing her features. "What? When?"
"Just now. Ran his hands down your arms."
"Oh." She laughed, light and dismissive. "Killian, that's just Randall being Randall. He's touchy with everyone. It doesn't mean anything."
It meant everything.
It meant he thought he could put his hands on her. It meant he didn't understand that she was off limits. It meant he needed to be taught a lesson.
But I didn't say any of that. Instead, I smiled, pressed a kiss to her temple, and said, "You're probably right. Ready to go?"
"Already? We just got here."
"I want you alone." I let my hand slide lower on her hip, possessive and deliberate. "Now."
Her breath caught, and I saw the heat flash in her eyes. She knew that tone, knew what it meant.
"Okay," she said softly. "Let me just grab my coat.”
Ten minutes later, Lena exited the gallery and walked across the street to the lot I’d parked in.
I drove us back to the cabin in silence, my hands gripping the steering wheel tight enough that my knuckles went white.
The image of Randall's hands on Lena played on repeat in my mind, fueling the fire burning in my chest. Lena kept glancing at me, sensing something was off, but she didn't push.
Smart girl.
The second we were inside, I had her against the wall, my mouth on hers, claiming and possessive and raw. She gasped into the kiss, her hands fisting in my shirt, and I lifted her, her legs wrapping around my waist instinctively.
"Killian…” she breathed against my lips.
"Mine," I growled, carrying her down the hallway. "You're mine, Lena. Say it!”
"I'm yours," she gasped as I kicked open the bedroom door.
I laid her on the bed, my hands already working the zipper of her dress, peeling it away from her body with deliberate slowness. I needed to erase every trace of Randall's touch, needed to replace it with mine.
"So fucking beautiful," I murmured, my hands sliding up her thighs, spreading her legs. "Do you have any idea what you do to me?"
She arched into my touch, her skin flushed and wanting. "Show me."
I took my time, worshipping every inch of her body with my hands and mouth. Kissed my way down her neck, her collarbone, between her breasts. Sucked marks into her skin, visible proof of ownership that would be there tomorrow when she looked in the mirror.
When I finally pushed inside her, fucking her hard and deep into the mattress, she cried out, her nails digging into my shoulders.
"Who do you belong to?" I demanded, my rhythm slow and deep and unrelenting.
"You," she gasped. "Only you."
"That's right." I gripped her hip hard enough to bruise. "Only me. No one else gets to touch you like this. No one else gets to have you."
I made love to her slowly, deliberately, making sure she felt every inch of me. Making sure she knew exactly who she belonged to. When she came apart beneath me, my name on her lips, I felt some of the rage ease.
But not all of it.
After, when she was curled against my chest, her breathing evening out into sleep, I carefully extracted myself from the bed. She murmured something but didn't wake as I pulled on dark clothes black jeans, a black henley, a jacket that would help me blend into the shadows.
And the hunting knife from my desk drawer.
I'd made it a point to know everything about Lena's life, which meant I knew everything about the people in it. Randall's address had been easy to find, public records, a quick search online. I'd driven past his house weeks ago, just to have the information filed away.
Just in case.
Tonight was just in case.
His house was on the edge of town, a modest split-level with a neat lawn and a porch light that made it look safe and welcoming. There was a single car in the driveway, his Subaru that he drove to work every day and the lights were on upstairs.
He was home.
Perfect.
I parked two streets over, tucked my truck into the shadows where no streetlight could catch the license plate. Then I walked, keeping to the tree line, moving with the kind of silence I'd learned from years of stalking prey through these mountains.
The back door was my target. Less visible from the street, and these older houses always had shit security. I pulled out the lock pick set I kept in my jacket, a skill I'd taught myself years ago for moments exactly like this, and worked the mechanism.
Thirty seconds and I was in.
The house smelled like frozen dinners and desperation. I moved through the kitchen, past a living room cluttered with art magazines and half-empty coffee cups, and found the stairs.
Each step was deliberate, carefully placed to avoid any creaks that might alert him. The television was playing upstairs, some late-night talk show, and I could hear him laughing at something.
He wouldn't be laughing soon.
Randall was in his bedroom, sitting up in bed with a laptop balanced on his thighs, probably browsing art he couldn't afford or jerking off to porn. The room was painfully average, beige walls, generic furniture, the kind of space that had no personality.
He didn't hear me until I was right beside him, the blade of my hunting knife pressed against his throat.
His eyes went wide, the laptop tumbling to the floor with a crash. "What…who…”
"Don't move," I said quietly, my voice calm and cold. "Don't scream. Don't do anything but listen."
He nodded frantically, terror written all over his face. I could see his pulse jumping in his neck, could feel the way his whole body had gone rigid with fear.
Good.
"Lena," I continued, pressing the blade just hard enough to dimple his skin. "You touched her tonight. Put your hands on her like you had the right."
"I didn’t…I was just…” he stammered.
I pressed the blade harder, drawing a thin line of blood that trickled down his neck. "You don't get to touch her. Ever. You don't get to look at her like that. Ever. You don't even get to think about her. Ever. Do you fucking understand?"
"Yes! Yes, I understand!" His voice was high, panicked.
"If I ever see you touch her again," I leaned in closer, my voice dropping to a whisper, "I will gut you like a fucking deer and leave you bleeding out in these nice clean sheets. I'll take my time with it too. Make sure you feel every cut."
"Clear," he gasped. "We're clear. I won’t…I promise I won’t…”
"You won't even look at her wrong," I continued. "You'll be professional. Distant. If she asks you for anything, you'll delegate it to someone else. As far as you're concerned, Lena doesn't exist beyond being an employee."
Reading the terror in Randall’s eyes, I exhaled. “Yes, yes, whatever you want."
I held the knife there for another moment, letting him feel the weight of the threat, letting the fear sink deep into his bones. Then I pulled back slowly, wiping the blade on his comforter.
"Good talk, Randall."
I was halfway down the stairs when I heard him finally move, heard the scramble of feet and the slam of his bedroom door as he locked himself in.
I smiled.
He wouldn't call the police. Men like him never did. They were too afraid of looking weak, too worried about what it would mean for their reputation.
And even if he did, what would he say? That someone broke into his house to threaten him about touching a woman inappropriately? That wouldn't go well for him. I let myself out the back door, locked it behind me, and disappeared into the night.
By the time I slipped back into bed beside Lena, the rage had finally cooled, replaced by a deep satisfaction.
She stirred slightly, rolling toward me in her sleep, and I pulled her close, breathing in the scent of her hair.
She was safe.
She was mine.
And everyone who might threaten that now knew exactly what would happen if they tried.