Chapter 4 Killian
A shadow shifted in the gnarled oak tree. My hand went to the Sig Sauer at the small of my back, my finger tightening against the trigger guard, ready to pull. I stopped when a woman’s legs dropped from the leaves.
Long. Thick. Bare.
Then came the rest of her—a woman in a thin shirt and lace-trimmed panties. She settled on the lowest branch, ten feet up, letting her legs dangle. She swung them lazily.
It took a heartbeat too long for my gaze to climb higher—snagging on the flare of her hips, the soft, heavy bounce of her breasts beneath a camisole that barely existed. Then I saw her face. My breath actually hitched.
She had an ethereal beauty, like an ancient siren pulled straight from the New Orleans folklore my grandfather used to whisper about. Her hair fell in wild, dark waves down her back. She glowed in the moonlight.
I blinked, taking a slow pull of my cigar to steady myself. I looked at her, then back to the house I had thought looked haunted—then back to her.
“Are you a ghost?” I asked before I could stop myself.
I assumed she was the missing daughter. She didn’t startle at my voice; it was like she expected me to be there. She tilted her head, watching me with eyes that were too bright, too focused for someone who was supposed to be “disconnected.”
She stayed silent.
“You’re going to fall, little ghost.”
Nothing. Maybe her being mute wasn’t a lie.
“Are you Chloe?” I asked.
“Yes,” she whispered. She leaned forward, her eyes narrowing playfully. “And you are?”
“Killian,” I said, my brow furrowing. “I was told you were… unwell. That you didn’t talk.”
“They say a lot of things about me,” she said, her voice lifting slightly with her chin.
I gestured with my cigar toward her attire. “Why are you running around a dark estate in your underwear if you aren’t?”
She gave me a wide smile—sweet, deceptively innocent. “I’m crazy, Mr. Hart. That’s what they told you. Crazy people do crazy things, like run around in their underwear.”
She shifted, preparing to climb down.
“Wait,” I said, stepping forward. “It’s a ten-foot drop if you fall.”
She kicked her legs out. “Then catch me.”
She didn’t wait for an answer. She let go.
My heart lunged at the same time my body did.
My cigar dropped to the grass as I reached out.
I caught her mid-air. The impact sent a jolt through my leg that traveled up; I nearly lost my footing.
She wasn’t light—she was taller than most women, maybe five-seven, one-eighty or one-ninety.
I’d bench-pressed more than that, but her body was soft against mine.
My hands tightened on her waist; her skin was warm beneath my palms. I wanted to trace it, map it. She smelled like lavender and old paper—like something preserved. Face-to-face, she was even more beautiful, with a heart-shaped face, big eyes, and full lips.
I didn’t set her down immediately. I didn’t want to. Her eyes were level with mine, holding my gaze as if she were trying to hypnotize me. I finally cleared my throat and reluctantly let her slip from my arms.
“Why are you jumping from a tree in the middle of the night, little ghost?”
Her hands came up, warm palms cupping my face. Her thumbs brushed along my jaw. “You’re so big and strong, Captain America. Thank you for catching me,” she said, her voice lilting into something almost sing-song. “And it’s too hot inside. The walls are sweating.”
She leaned closer, close enough that I could feel her breath against my mouth. It took everything in me not to lean in and kiss her.
“I want to go to the lake,” she whispered. “I want to see if the water’s cold enough to stop my melancholy heart so I can rest peacefully.”
Her words were poetic—the kind people used when they were flirting with the edge of something dangerous.
“Don’t say things like that,” I said, my voice dropping. “I’ve pulled bodies out of water colder than this lake—people whose hearts stopped whether they wanted them to or not. There was nothing peaceful about it.”
She stared at me as if she were weighing my words.
Then, she gave a slow nod. Her gaze drifted back to the house, and I watched the light in her eyes snuff out until they were vacant.
Without a word of warning, she took off.
She ran like some feral thing unleashed, her bare feet pounding the grass.
Her laughter was carried behind her by the wind.
I stood there for half a second too long. Then instinct kicked in.
“Chloe,” I called, low enough not to carry to the house.
She didn’t stop. The tall, uneven grass swallowed her quickly. I looked back toward the house. Lights were still on. Cartier was a shadow on the porch.
“Damn it,” I muttered.
Every instinct told me to stay where I was.
She wasn’t my problem; she was a complication.
But my boots were already moving. I told myself it was because she was a drowning risk.
That was a lie. I was supposed to marry her sister, but I could still feel the heat where her hands had touched me.
I had crossed lines before, but this felt like it would mark me.
Maybe she really was a siren.
I kept running. The grass reached my thighs. The ground was uneven. She moved through it like she belonged to it. I lost her.
Still, I kept going until I reached the edge of the lake. The water was a sheet of black glass. Then, there was a ripple. Fifty yards out, her head broke the surface. She swam back toward the shore, stopping when the water reached her waist.
She was completely nude; her dark, wet hair hung down her back.
I swallowed hard, willing my body to stay in check.
The moonlight silvered her skin. She raised her arm and cocked a wide hip; I felt my resolve crumbling.
She was beautiful in a way that felt like a grievance because I had no right to want her.
"I won't die tonight!" she called out. "It’s warm, Killian! Like the womb before the light gets in."
"Ghost, get out of there," I growled, keeping my eyes on her face.
"Come and make me," she teased, splashing water my way. "Unless you're afraid of what the water will tell you."
“The water speaks?” I asked, playing along.
“Yes, very loudly. It would tell you that you fell in love with me at first sight.”
The words should’ve made me laugh. They didn’t. Something about the way she said them made them feel inevitable.
“It would tell you,” her voice lowered, “that you wanted me the second you saw me in that tree. That you liked catching me. That the weight of me in your arms felt like an answer. That you didn’t put me down right away because you didn’t want to.”
“And what else?”
“Come find out,” she whispered. “The water doesn’t lie, Killian. Get in.”
I took a step toward the bank, my hands clenched. I was ten seconds away from proving her right—that the water didn't lie and I wanted her more than I wanted to be smart about this.
A voice drifted from the porch. "Killian? Killian, where did you go?"
It was Olivia. The change in Chloe was instantaneous. The siren vanished, replaced by a raw terror that made my stomach turn. She was a rabbit hearing the hawk.
"She’s coming," Chloe whispered, her voice trembling. She scrambled for the shore, grabbed her clothes in one frantic motion, and disappeared toward the side of the house.
I met Olivia halfway, smoothing my shirt and pulling a fresh cigar from my pocket.
"There you are!" Olivia chirped. She was wearing a silk robe now. "I was starting to think you were hiding from me."
"Just getting my bearings," I said, blocking her view of the lake.
She laughed and slid a hand onto my arm, prattling on about "literary tours" and "social calendars." I heard none of it. My eyes were fixed on the attic window high above.
"You're very quiet, Killian. What are you thinking about?"
"I'm thinking about the secrets people keep in the dark," I muttered.
"How poetic," she teased. "Maybe I should write that down."
I stared at her. I recalled a poem from her dossier—haunting, raw words about salt on a balcony and a mother’s last breath.
Looking at Olivia, a woman who bled Chanel No.
5 and dreamed of Europe, I knew she hadn't written them.
Those were the words of a survivor. They were the words of the ghost in the attic.
"I think the humidity is catching up to me," I lied. "Could you show me to my room?"
Olivia led me up the grand staircase to a guest suite. She lingered in the doorway, but I gave her no invitation. I clicked the door shut in her face and walked straight to the window. I looked for Chloe, but I didn’t see her.
Somewhere above in the ceiling, a ghost was breathing. And I had the distinct feeling she had been waiting in that tree for me.
But why?