17. Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Seventeen
Kathleen couldn’t keep her eyes off Finn.
He kneeled beside her, one hand resting on her thigh, his head bent, eyes on her shoulder. His focus was absolute as he placed gauze over her sluggishly bleeding wounds. It hurt, her eyes stinging as he pressed the adhesive of the bandage against her skin. Yet her thoughts were all for him.
Kathleen found herself completely and consciously aware of him the whole time, despite the pain. It was as if there were two utterly distinct sides of him: the one where he was Finn and the one where he was the assassin, the Hound.
The assassin was the version she had met in the Imperial Silk Palace—the disassociated soldier. The one that killed with no apparent remorse.
The person he had become, as he bent to inspect the last wound and gently warned her of the impending sting of the antiseptic by applying slight pressure where his fingers rested comfortably on her thigh, held her spellbound. When he was this version of himself, the feeling of familiarity became an itch.
Kathleen had never wanted to rely on anyone else. She had come up here to treat herself as best she could then head to the drug store in the morning for painkillers and antiseptic. Having Finn Kingsley tend to her wounds while she sat half-dressed under his intense gaze just felt right.
Anyone who knew Kathleen at all would think that was absurd. Shit, she thought it absurd. She felt the heat of his skin, the roughness of the stubble under her fingers, and she didn’t want to release the contact. She was staring at his jaw, at his lips, when she became aware of him looking at her.
Kathleen’s eyes ticked up to his, expecting to find what she would usually see in a man’s eyes in reaction: amusement, a knowing desire, but there was none of that in Finn’s gaze.
Instead, there was a protective sharpness that was also audible in his voice. “Get dressed. Pack a bag. I parked your car downstairs. We leave in five minutes.”
Way to kill the mood. There was only one thing worse than being told what to do: being overbearingly protective about it.
Kathleen’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t get to order me around.”
“You’re in danger.”
“That’s hardly unusual in my line of work.”
His brow furrowed as if he was fighting for the right words. Kathleen could see the growing frustration in his gaze, but she wasn’t sure if it was for her, for his difficulty in arguing with her, or both. Probably both.
Under her patient gaze, he eventually found the words he was searching for. “I need to… they will come for you.”
“Who?”
“Command.”
Them again. The mere mention brought a haze of anger that tensed her posture. “This Command group—I’d very much like to talk to them.”
Finn’s jaw worked again, and this time he looked away. “No, you wouldn’t.”
Kathleen reached out to touch his jaw, partly with the intent of returning his gaze to hers but mostly because she wanted to. Was she imagining it? The way he tilted his head into the contact, like a cat yearning for a deeper scratch? She didn’t think so.
It made her view him more kindly. “I was already planning to stay somewhere else.”
This time, with her fingers still on his jaw, Kathleen felt the shift of his muscles.
Words were coming more easily. “I will over-watch,” he said.
The idea of an assassin watching her through a sniper rifle scope was, somehow, far more terrifying than having one kneeling next to her while Kathleen was half-naked.
Speaking of which, she needed to fix that. “I’ll pack a bag.”
Her hand dropped from his jaw as she attempted to stand, but his touch on her thigh stopped her.
A protest appeared to be brewing in Finn’s brooding expression, but it vanished as his eyes narrowed on the bandage on her other shoulder. He reached up and peeled it off, his lips thinning and his expression darkening. The graze from his bullet was visible but not openly bleeding any longer. Looking troubled, Finn stood. He didn’t move away, though, so he was still crowding her against the bath when his hands drew her upward.
Kathleen’s bathroom had never felt so small before.
Face to face, she had to tilt her head back to see his eyes. Kathleen could see his awareness of her reflected in his gaze. It wasn’t the charged tension such intimacy normally evoked, but he definitely wasn’t unaffected by her. Which was, frankly, reassuring, given how little he reacted to her being half-dressed.
Finn wasn’t trying to crowd her personal space. It was like he was completely unaware of it. She wasn’t sure if the clench in her stomach was disappointment or hope.
“Have you eaten?” Kathleen asked.
He continued to look at her without a change in expression until a slight crease appeared on his forehead.
Kathleen wasn’t sure why that would be a difficult question for him, but there was clearly a lot she didn’t know about this man. “I think I have leftover pizza I can heat up for you.” She put her hand on his chest. She couldn’t feel him; his jacket was thick enough that she guessed it was some kind of Kevlar weave. “You’ll have to move, though,” she said, smiling to try to put him at ease.
Finn blinked twice before he stepped back.
Kathleen moved past, feeling his gaze trail her. In her bedroom, she dug inside her dresser drawer, pulling out the first loose sweatshirt she could find. Putting it on reminded her body of the extreme discomfort she was in, and she gritted her teeth. A second later, Finn’s hands gripped the edge of the sweatshirt, helping to ease it down over her head.
It was as if he was attuned to her mood, aware of her pain. Kathleen wasn’t entirely comfortable with it. Then again, little about this situation was comfortable—or normal—for that matter.
She walked toward the fridge, halted by an impatient meow from the couch. The white cat was still there, stretching as if just waking up, looking at her expectantly. Or, more accurately, at Finn.
“There’s some cat kibbles in the cupboard there.” Kathleen pointed. “You might as well feed him. He seems to have taken a liking to you.”
Finn, who had followed her from the bedroom, stilled once more.
It was baffling—how competent and focused he was treating a bullet wound—balanced against just how uncertain he behaved at the idea of feeding a cat. Kathleen left him to it and opened the fridge, peering inside. It was a sad state of affairs. She had never learned to cook. Sure, she could make simple dishes—eggs or rice or zap a ready meal like no one’s business—but anything complex was beyond her. A molding block of cheese at the bottom of her fridge marked a failed attempt at home-cooked soup.
Fortunately, Kathleen considered herself good friends with all the local restaurants. The pizza place she ate from took her order so regularly that they didn’t even ask what she wanted anymore. For some people, that was a sad state of affairs, but she found it comforting.
There was half a pie left—pepperoni with mushrooms—and Kathleen played a bit of Tetris, fitting it all onto the same plate. She threw it into the microwave to heat and returned to the bedroom to throw together an overnight bag.
Finn was kneeling on the floor next to the couch in the lounge, offering the white cat one kibble at a time.
Kathleen couldn’t help it; she laughed. The visual of this man—a killer, she reminded herself—delicately feeding a cat was so incongruous.
Finn looked at her, frowning.
“Sorry,” Kathleen said. “You… we usually don’t hand feed cats. He has a plate on the window ledge.”
Finn turned his gaze to the cat, then the window. “I don’t mind,” he said, offering the animal another kibble.
Kathleen watched as he continued to patiently feed the cat, kibble by kibble. His expression was far different from earlier; his face had softened into something relaxed and unguarded. It made him seem younger.
The beep of the microwave startled her. Kathleen had spent the entire time staring at Finn. Fortunately, he hadn’t noticed. All his attention was on the cat. She pulled out the plate, testing that the slices were warm enough before she carried them to the couch. She set the plate on the low table, then eased onto the floor next to Finn, her back resting against the couch.
Finn continued to feed the cat until the animal ignored him and groomed itself. Finn frowned, sighing as he let the last kibble fall back into the packet.
“I hope you like pepperoni,” Kathleen said.
Her words brought Finn’s attention to the plate, then to her.
“Go on,” Kathleen gestured to the plate. “I ate before.” She smiled quickly. “Thanks to you.”
Finn reached out slowly to take one of the slices. The front of the slice started to droop, so he folded the slice lengthways and took a bite.
It was so strange that she breathed out a laugh before she could stop it.
The furrow-browed expression of confusion Finn gave Kathleen interrupted her laughter.
“Pizza’s always messy,” Kathleen said hastily. “It was a good solution. I’ve never seen anyone eat it that way. Let me try.” She reached for a slice, folded up the pizza in the same way he had done, and bit into it. It tasted delicious, and folding it kept the cheese from trying to slide off. “I think you invented a new best way to eat pizza, Finn.”
He stared at her for a beat, trying to see how honest Kathleen was being. Then he smiled, leaning back against the couch next to her. “I like this. I have eaten this before. I don’t remember when. I just remember the taste, and being at a table with other people, and laughter.”
“Does that happen a lot? You not remembering?”
Finn nodded, his gaze on the slice. It seemed like he was debating whether to speak and decided to eat more.
Kathleen ate, too, but she was watching Finn the whole time. His whole attention was fixed on the pizza, his eyes wide and a tiny smile at the edge of his mouth as he chewed. She didn’t want to ruin this moment for him, but she needed to understand what was going on.
“Are your memory issues because of Command?”
Finn, who had been reaching for another slice of pizza, went still. His hand froze mid-air.
It was eerie to watch. Kathleen swallowed. “I’m sorry. You should eat. Please.”
He remained still for what felt like a long stretch of time. Kathleen saw the shift of his gaze, watching her out of the corner of his eyes. When she did nothing, he finally completed his reach to claim another slice, the gesture slow and careful.
Kathleen exhaled, the tension in her gut easing. What hold did Command have over Finn for him to react like that? It was the sort of instinctive, defensive behavior she recognized as a trauma response—someone afraid they had done something wrong, someone trying to avoid notice. It cut right through to her protective nature. She very much wanted to find out who this group was and hold them accountable. Not just for Finn Kingsley—what they had made him—but what they had made him do.
She wasn’t hungry, and Finn relished the pizza so much that Kathleen elected to let him have the rest. She had planned to grab her bag while he ate, but the moment she stood, he went utterly still, watching her with an indirect gaze.
Kathleen changed her path, heading to the shelves full of records. She let her fingers dance over the covers while she thought about the man seated on the floor behind her. What music might he enjoy? What music might calm him?
Something classical. Mozart? Kathleen located the record, pulled it free of the sleeve, and set it on the player. She cued the needle, and the first notes of Sonata No. 16 echoed through the condo as she turned back toward Finn.
The expression had gone from his face, but it wasn’t the cold indifference of the soldier—of the Hound. Instead, there was a focused intensity in Finn’s gaze as he stared at the record player. It was like he forgot to do anything else while he listened intently.
Finn was so enraptured by the music that she couldn’t look away from him. Kathleen sat where she was, the low table between them. As the music went on, she definitely saw little smiles from him as the melody repeated and rose into a crescendo.
When the final notes of the piano struck and faded away, his chest rose and fell sharply, and he smiled directly at her. He appeared so different, his face alive and eyes bright.
Kathleen’s stomach flipped. She was in serious trouble, and it grew worse the longer he looked at her with those soulful blue eyes. She wanted to walk over to him, to reach down and brush those long bangs of hair out of his eyes, and tilt his chin up and-
No. She needed to get a grip.
The next song on the record began to play, and it pulled Finn’s eyes from her. The spell was broken, and Kathleen stood quickly, heart pounding as she bent to collect the now empty plate. She wasn’t hiding in the kitchen. She was doing the dishes.
Right.
Kathleen washed and stacked the plate, exhaling. This was madness. It was too dangerous to have him here—for her career and her heart.
Kathleen’s resolve crumbled the second she walked back out and saw Finn, his fingers splayed, the cat leaning into them with an expression of pure bliss. Finn’s own expression seemed to mirror the cat’s, a little smile tugging his lips up at the corners of his mouth.
She gazed at him through half-lidded eyes. Finn was just like the cat: in some regards, wholly stand-offish in manner, yet seemingly craving touch. It explained why they had bonded so well. She was a bit jealous of how easily he lured the cat inside after she’d failed for months.
She could no more abandon the cat than she could Finn Kingsley.
Kathleen was in real trouble.