Chapter 9 Killian
I’d been out of the shower for hours. I couldn’t sleep because I was lying in the dark, staring at the ceiling, hoping she would come.
This house itself, the people in it—everything here felt predatory.
The parents felt like leeches. The servants moved around the house like zombies when they weren't hiding. They didn’t make eye contact; they didn’t speak unless spoken to, and even then, they didn’t answer questions.
There was a rot beneath the floorboards and a layer of filth on everyone I'd met, but it was hidden under expensive finishes and polished manners.
Fuck this. I got up, my patience snapping, and threw on my robe.
I eased the room door open and waited to see if Olivia, the stepmother, or the father would appear.
I moved through the dark house like I’d been trained to—quiet, careful, aware of every creaking floorboard—until I was at the attic stairs.
The wood was cold under my feet. The steps groaned softly, like they were keeping my secret.
At the top, there was a heavy door—the kind that looked like it belonged in a prison, not a home.
A key was dangling from the lock. I unlocked it, the metallic click echoing in the narrow space, and pushed the door open, pocketing the key.
The smell hit me first. Old wood, the scent of her skin, and something sweet she used in her hair.
And blood.
My heart sped up. I searched the wall next to the door.
I found the light switch. The single bare bulb flickered to life, casting long, jagged shadows across a room that looked like a war had been fought inside it.
The mattress was flipped. Broken porcelain was scattered across the floor like jagged white teeth.
Dark spots stained the wall with smears of fresh blood. The floor was slick with spilled water.
My heart stopped. I saw her.
She was in the corner, knees to her chest, arms wrapped around them so tight her knuckles looked like they hurt. She was curled into the shadows as if she were trying to disappear into the very wood of the house.
"Chloe."
Nothing.
I crossed the room slowly, like approaching a wounded animal I knew was capable of biting. I dropped to my haunches in front of her, close enough to see the frantic, shallow rise and fall of her shoulders. Close enough to see the raw, split skin on her hands.
"Chloe. Look at me."
She didn't look up, but her voice cracked through the silence, barely a whisper. "Are you hurt?"
"Hold me," she said instead of answering.
That was all it took. I didn't ask questions.
I didn't push. I sat down against the wall and hauled her into my lap, wrapping my arms around her as tight as I could, hoping I could physically shield her from whatever ghost had torn this room apart.
She was rigid at first, a statue of grief, then her fingers found my robe, clutching the fabric, holding onto me like I was the only solid thing in a world trying to swallow her whole.
I held her. Said nothing. But my mind was frantic. What had happened here?
I don’t know how long we sat there. Long enough for my legs to go numb. Long enough for her breathing to steady. Long enough for the tension in her body to ease just enough.
Then she moved. She pulled back just far enough to look at me.
Her eyes were red-rimmed and exhausted, but something else lived behind them.
She stood, reached down, and took my hand, pulling with more strength than I expected.
I let her guide me to the only chair in the room—a rocking chair with a thin cushion, older than I was.
She pushed me into it, then disappeared for a moment, rummaging beneath a loose floorboard.
When she turned back, she had a piece of paper in her hand.
She settled into my lap. Then she held up the paper.
"Read it," she whispered. "Please. I like your voice, and it’s for you."
I took the paper. The handwriting was small but erratic.
He didn't come with armor. Didn't come with a sword. He came with hands that didn't hurt And eyes that didn't look away.
I read it twice. Three times. My throat felt like it was closing. I was now even more convinced her sister wasn’t the poet. Olivia didn't have this kind of soul.
"Did you write this?"
She nodded against my chest.
"It’s beautiful, Chloe."
A small sound—half-laugh, half-sob—left her. I set the paper aside and cupped her face in my hands, my thumbs brushing the salt from her cheeks. I was terrified she might shatter, but I couldn't stop myself from holding her. "What’s really going on in this house, Chloe? Who did this to the room?"
Something flickered in her eyes. I couldn't read it. She shook her head and tried to pull away.
"It doesn't matter," she whispered, her voice hardening. "You should go."
"I'm not leaving you here." I tightened my grip on her waist, pulling her back against me. "Not like this."
"You have to!" She shoved against my chest, her strength surprising me as she scrambled to her feet, stepping back into the shadows.
"If they find you here—if they see you with me—they'll move me.
Somewhere you can't find me. Somewhere with no windows.
" Her voice cracked on the last word. "You should go. "
"What do you mean, move you? Just tell me, Chloe. I can protect you." I stood up, my shadow looking too large against the wall.
"Nobody can protect me," she shrieked softly, her eyes wide and wild. "Please! Just go!"
I crossed the distance between us in two strides, trapping her between the wall and my body. I grabbed her wrists.
"I’m not leaving you here," I said again, slower this time. I needed her to understand that I was offering her help—real help.
She looked up at me, and for a moment—just a moment—I saw the girl behind the mask. She was broken but defiant.
"Then come back tomorrow," she whispered, her resolve breaking as she dropped her head against my chest. "But go now. Please. I’m so tired."
I wanted to argue. I wanted to drag her out. But I saw the fear in her eyes—real, bone-deep terror. I couldn't be impulsive when I had no idea what the Landrys were truly capable of.
I reached out, catching her battered hands in mine. They were cold, the skin raw.
"Can I at least help with your hands?" I didn't ask why they were bloody; I could see the punch marks on the wall. Something had set her off, a rage so big it had exploded.
She shook her head no, trying to tuck her hands behind her back.
"At least promise me you’ll take care of them," I insisted, my voice thick with a protectiveness I didn't know I possessed. "Do you have an emergency kit? Something to clean the cuts?"
She looked at her palms, then back at me, a small, sad smile touching her lips. "I have what I need, Killian. I've had to be my own doctor for a long time."
I leaned in and pressed my lips to her forehead. Just once. Just long enough for her to feel the heat of my promise.
"Tomorrow," I said.
Then I left.
I locked the door back, leaving the key where I found it. The walk back to my room was a blur. The house was full of people sleeping peacefully while she bled in an attic. It made me want to raze the entire place with them in it.
I didn't sleep that night. The house felt different now—strident, dangerous. I had been in less hostile territories in war zones. I felt different, too—like I’d crossed a line I couldn’t uncross.
And for the first time since she fell out of that tree, I stopped trying to figure out what game she was playing. I was trying to figure out why I wanted to stay in it until the very end and help her win it.