4. Killian
KILLIAN
The electronic gate clicks shut behind us. The sound of metal on metal is final. There’s no going back.
Not that I want to.
The driveway winds through dense woodland, every mature tree another barrier between Eleanor Hart and anyone who might save her.
Three acres. I’ve memorized every inch from satellite images, walking the perimeter in my head a thousand times.
Her house rises from the trees. Glass and stone, all clean lines and money.
It looks like luxury, built like a fortress.
Or maybe the other way around. Either way, neither will save her from me.
I map escape routes without thinking. It’s an old habit I can’t turn off.
Electronic gate: thirty seconds with the right tools, which I have.
Forest paths: I count four from here. Too many variables.
Glass walls: beautiful and stupid. Leave her exposed from every angle.
Not that I’m leaving. This is exactly where I want to be.
She's five paces ahead of me. The sunlight catches the copper in her hair, pinned up in a knot so tight it looks like it’s holding her together by sheer force of will.
My eyes drop to the vulnerable curve of her neck, then drag down her curves to her legs.
Long and toned. I imagine the strength in them.
How it would feel to have them locked around my waist while I—
Stop. Focus.
There’s all the time in the world now that I’m inside her sanctuary.
At the door she stops and turns just enough for me to see her chest rise. The fabric stretches across her breasts. I can’t help but imagine my hands there instead. How warm she’d be. How fast her heart would pound if I stepped up behind her, close enough to smell her skin.
She leans into the vines, eyes closed, drawing in a breath like the jasmine is a drug. She's completely unguarded. That look on her face is like she’s finally found something she isn't afraid of.
Fuck me.
I’ve seen this before in hundreds of surveillance photos over the last seven years. On her knees in the dirt, checking each bloom. Dirt under her fingernails and smudged on her cheek. I had to ask a guy inside, some botanist doing fifteen for insurance fraud, what the plant was called.
Jasmine. Cape jasmine, specifically.
Now I’m close enough to smell what she smells. I see what makes her face go soft like that. Her shoulders loosen, and the edge she carries everywhere drains away until she is someone I have never seen. She breathes it in like it's the only thing slowing her down. Like it works.
Too fucking late for that.
I file the details away with all the others I've collected about Eleanor Hart. The way she tucks her hair behind her ear when concentrating. How her voice softens when she speaks about redemption. The climbing vine is more than landscaping. I file it away with everything else.
"The jasmine is beautiful," I say quietly. I watch her eyes snap open, a flush creeping up her neck at being caught in her own head. I don’t give a fuck about the flowers. What they do to her is a different matter entirely.
“Thank you. I planted them myself when I moved in.” She fumbles with her keys, her fingers clumsy and flustered. I imagine pinning her against the wood, trapping her between my body and the door, just to feel her pulse spike against my skin. “Shall we go inside?”
She pushes the heavy front door open, and I follow her over the threshold, taking my first real look at the inside of her world.
The afternoon sun bounces off white walls and polished tile, blinding after seven years of gray concrete.
I drag my knuckles across the doorframe as I follow her.
Solid wood, expensive custom work. I already know this kitchen: the way the granite catches the light, the coffee maker sitting slightly left of center.
Seven years of footage in my head and I could navigate this entire house blind.
Photographs never carried the smell.
I pull the air in, letting the jasmine and the scent of her skin settle in the back of my throat, finally committing the one missing piece to memory.
"This is lovely," I say, meaning it. The house suits her. Clean lines, natural materials, expensive without trying too hard. “You have excellent taste.”
She glides between the furniture, each step deliberate yet natural.
Light catches in her hair, pulling out the auburn.
The way she holds herself is always braced, as if she knows she’s being watched.
Her scent follows her, pulling me in, and I can already picture wrapping my hand in those loose waves, pulling her head back until she has no choice but to look at me.
“The guest room is this way.” She leads me down a hallway lined with frames that cost more than my first hit.
I’m not looking at the art. I’m looking at the curve of her hips, the way her body moves beneath her clothes.
I imagine bending her over the console table. “I think you’ll find it comfortable.”
Comfortable. The room’s nicer than anywhere I’ve stayed in my whole life, except maybe a few expensive hotel rooms where I never stayed the night. A king-sized bed, crisp white sheets, a sitting area with a view of the gardens, even a kitchenette.
Then I see what actually matters.
The reinforced glass takes a diamond-tipped cutter to break, which I have built into the back of my watch face.
The lock is on the outside of the door, and there's a camera in the corner recording to a local server Jackson could crack in his sleep. All this security to keep me in. She has no idea I could be out of this room and in hers in ninety seconds. Sixty if I skip the lock and just break the glass. Thirty if I don’t care about noise.
“Not bad,” I say, setting down the single bag that contains my few possessions that aren’t held up in storage. “You’ve thought of everything.”
“Security is paramount,” she replies, but I catch how her gaze lingers on me as I move around the space. “The ankle monitor will alert authorities if you leave the property boundaries. The doors and windows are reinforced and alarmed for everyone’s protection.”
Everyone’s protection. I smirk. The real danger’s already inside, standing three feet from her.
“Of course. I appreciate your caution, Dr. Hart. A woman living alone can’t be too careful.”
I hold her gaze. One. Two. Three. Her pupils dilate. Not from fear, but from the invisible pull neither of us is acknowledging. Her body knows I’m a predator, but her brain hasn't caught up.
“Isn't this arrangement... unusual? Most rehabilitation programs stick to institutional housing.”
She straightens, and I can see her slipping back into professional mode. "I believe in environmental rehabilitation. Traditional institutional settings often reinforce antisocial behavior rather than addressing it. Here, you'll experience what normal civilian life looks like."
Normal civilian life. If she only knew I've been observing her life for years. I know her grocery schedule, her coffee order, and the route she takes on her morning runs. I was part of her routine long before she knew I existed.
"Progressive. I like that," I note instead. "I imagine not everyone supports such... intimate therapeutic arrangements."
The word intimate sticks between us. I catch the change in her breathing, small but enough to tell me it landed. Her hands smooth the fabric over her thighs, a nervous tell, maybe, but it makes me think about pushing them the fuck apart.
"The results speak for themselves," she says, but her voice is slightly breathless. "Shall we establish some ground rules?"
By all means, Dr. Hart. Let's establish rules I can fucking break.
She leads me into her office, a space all light and open air meant to put people at ease.
I take the chair across from her desk, noting how she positions herself, just enough to keep control, far enough to feel safe.
She doesn’t realize that someone with my training could close that gap in under two seconds.
"Your daily schedule will be structured," she begins, consulting a folder. "Morning therapy sessions, afternoon educational activities, evening reflection and free time. Meals will be provided, but you'll be expected to participate in food preparation as part of developing life skills."
Life skills. The fucking irony. She is oblivious to the fact that I’ve been keeping her alive for years, taking down threats before they ever reached her front door.
“That sounds reasonable,” I say. I let my eyes roam over her office to clock the degrees on the wall and the family photograph of her and her father. “I’m curious about your approach, Dr. Hart. What made you choose criminal rehabilitation?”
I catch the shift, a flash of something she doesn’t want me to see before she buries it. “I believe everyone deserves a chance at redemption.”
"Even someone like me?"
“Especially someone like you.” The conviction in her voice almost sells it. The idea that she could look at the man who destroyed her father and still see something worth saving.
Guilt should be there. It's supposed to be there. But it isn't. All I feel is the pull, the satisfaction of having her this close, within easy reach if I decided to take it. She has no idea the man she’s trying to save is the one who’s been in the dark watching her, keeping her safe since that night at the Gala.
“Your file mentions complex trauma,” she continues, consulting her notes. “Before we go any further, I’d like to understand the roots of it.” She glances up with eyes steady on mine. “Should we start with your childhood?”