7. Killian
KILLIAN
Three weeks under Ellie’s roof and I know exactly how many seconds it takes her breath to hitch when I walk into a room.
Four. Coffee at seven sharp, never six fifty-nine.
Therapy at nine, where she pretends her notepad is fascinating.
By noon she’s given up pretending she’s not watching me, stealing glances over her laptop.
Her fork freezes midair at dinner when I hold her gaze too long. She always looks away first.
Every day she hides behind her psychologist mask, but the cracks are showing. Her guard is slipping. Wariness giving way to interest. And every inch she loses feeds the heat under my skin.
Obsessing over her from a cell didn't prepare me for the reality of her in my space. Her scent lingering in the hallway. The sudden, rigid tension in her spine when our hands accidentally brush. The way her eyes track the lines of my chest when I walk through her kitchen after training.
Getting assigned to her home was a painstakingly executed operation.
Every string pulled, every favor called in, every piece of it deliberate.
The plan was always to trap her. I just didn't anticipate the sheer, violent physical hunger that would hit me the second I actually had her.
A massive complication that I have zero intention of stopping.
It's five AM. The house is completely silent, save for the groan of the floorboards under the weight of the plates. I finish my third set of deadlifts, and four hundred pounds drops to the rubber mat with a metallic crash.
That’s when I catch the flicker of movement in my peripheral vision. She’s standing in the doorway, quiet, staying just behind the edge of the doorframe.
Dr. Eleanor Hart, observing her patient. I chose the grey sweatpants for a reason. I chose to train shirtless because I knew the harsh overhead light would catch the scars and the ink marking my skin, making the lines of my muscles stand out. Nothing I do around her is accidental.
I don’t acknowledge her. I just move to the pull-up bar and wrap my hands around the steel, hauling myself up. Every rep is slow and strictly controlled.
The work across my skin isn’t decoration. Order sigils tattooed over old knife wounds. The brand from the Order seared into my chest—an infinity, burned deep into the muscle to make me theirs forever. She doesn't know what any of it means, but I can feel her staring at it anyway.
I listen to the shallow, uneven shift of her breathing. I can feel her eyes on my back, starting high and working down slow. Twenty-five pull-ups. Thirty. I keep my rhythm absolutely steady, letting her look until the tension in the room is thick enough to choke on.
Eventually, she steps back into the hall and disappears. Smart enough to retreat. Not smart enough to have stayed away.
I shower and dress before she comes down, but the shift in her is obvious the moment she steps into the kitchen.
She pauses on the threshold, tracking my location before she walks the rest of the way in.
Watching me in the gym shattered whatever professional control she thought she had left over this arrangement.
“Sleep well?” I ask. I pour her coffee before she can reach for the pot.
“Fine.” The word snaps out of her, too defensive for a simple greeting.
She takes the cup from me. Her fingers brush mine, and her gaze drops immediately to my hands. I know she’s thinking about the gym. She wants to pull back, but she doesn't move away fast enough.
“Thank you for the coffee.” She flips open her notepad, using it like a shield. “After our session this morning, I was planning to use the gym. For my workout. You’re welcome to have it once I’m finished.”
It's a clumsy deflection. A desperate attempt to mention the gym casually to prove she wasn't spying on me earlier.
Nice try, Doctor.
“Of course,” I have no intention of waiting my turn.
The morning session runs the same as always. Her questions are routine, adjustments to civilian life, and long-term goals. But her focus is shattered. Her eyes keep dragging back to my hands resting on the desk.
“You seem distracted today, Dr. Hart,” I say when her notes falter for the third time.
“I’m fine.” A flush rises along the column of her throat. “Let’s continue with the assessment.”
“Of course.” I lean forward just slightly. “But I have to wonder, are you digging into my life for the state, or for yourself?”
“It's my job,” she says quickly, ignoring the question.
I watch the flush climb higher on her neck. She's running out of distance to maintain. “Is that what this is?”
Her eyes flick up to mine. She holds her breath, completely frozen by the trap. She doesn't have an answer. The pulse hammering at the base of her throat is the only response I need. I could sit here all day just watching her squirm.
After lunch, I hear the muffled, rhythmic thud of the heavy bag in the gym. I give her some time, then follow.
I find her hammering the leather. There’s power in her swing, but it’s sloppy and undisciplined. She's in tight leggings and a sports bra. Sweat running down the back of her neck. Every punch stretching the fabric across her tight little body.
I stand in the doorway, watching the way her body moves. Every punch is a frantic, uncoordinated burst of fury. I’ve seen men fight like this in the yard when they finally snap.
Watching her lose it does something to me I don't have a clean word for. I want to rip those leggings off, shove my cock into her, and fuck the fight right out of her until she’s screaming my name instead of his.
“Take that, you sanctimonious prick,” she mutters, punctuating it with a vicious hook. “Think you know... what’s best for me?”
She’s beating Nathan into the bag. Shredding the safe, boring life he represents with every strike. It’s the hottest thing I’ve ever watched her do.
“Your stance is too narrow,” I say.
She spins, her feet tangling. She almost goes down, her eyes wide as she snatches a towel to cover her chest. The professional mask shatters, leaving her completely exposed.
“I didn’t hear you come in,” she says, her voice ragged.
“You were… occupied.” I step further into the room, closing the distance until I can feel the damp heat radiating off her skin. “How long have you been training?”
“A few years. Just classes.” She’s already retreating, trying to stand taller, trying to find the psychologist again. It’s a waste of time.
“Mind if I watch? I might have some suggestions.”
She hesitates. She knows precisely what she’s agreeing to by letting a man like me correct her combat form. The conflict plays out in the tight set of her jaw.
“Just observations,” I add. “Educational purposes.”
“I suppose that would be okay,” she says at last.
“Show me what you were doing,” I say.
She faces the bag again, but she's self-conscious now. The raw fury is gone. Her movements are stiff, stripped of the force I just witnessed. She’s locking it all back down.
“You’re holding back,” I tell her after a few useless punches.
“I’m being careful.”
“Careful won’t save your life.” I step closer, tracking the line of her shoulders. “You waste your instinct. All arms, no body.”
“I’m not trying to hurt anyone. It’s just exercise.”
“Is it? Because when I walked in, it looked like you were picturing Nathan's face splattered across that leather.”
She flinches. It's a tiny, involuntary jerk of her shoulders, but it tells me everything I need to know. I’ve hit a nerve.
“That was… stress relief.”
“There's nothing wrong with that. Sometimes we all need to hit something.” I nod at the bag. “Again. And this time, use your core. Drive it from here,” I tap my own stomach. “Not just your arms.”
She throws another combination. Still too soft.
“May I?” I step directly into her space.
She nods once. I move in behind her, closing my hands around her waist. I drag her back into alignment against my chest. Her breath hitches, her muscles locking rigid under my grip. I wait for her to pull away or tell me to step back.
She does neither. The heat coming off her is doing serious fucking damage.
“Feel it?” I keep my voice low, speaking right against her ear. “Power doesn’t come from your arms. It starts here.” I spread my fingers flat over her stomach. “And it drives through everything else.”
“Yes.” The word rips out of her, strangled.
“Try it now.”
She drives a punch into the bag, harder this time. The chain rattles, and her eyes widen at the impact. The satisfaction on her face is impossible to hide.
I saw it. I put it there. And I’m going to do it again.
“Better,” I say, staying close. “Much better.”
I run her through the basics, each correction another excuse to put my hands on her. Adjusting her stance. Forcing her arms into position. Demonstrating blocks that pin her body against mine. None of it is accidental. Every contact is a test to see if she'll pull away. She doesn't.
“What would you do if someone grabbed you from behind?”
“I… there are techniques for that.”
“Show me.”
I don’t wait. My arm snaps around her waist, yanking her back against my chest hard enough to knock the air out of her lungs. She goes absolutely rigid in my grip.
I feel her pulse hammering frantically against my forearm. Any normal person would be kicking, tearing at my hand, screaming for help. Instead, she goes completely still, every muscle locked with the physical effort of not leaning back into my grip.
She wants me. She's furious about it. The combination is almost unbearable.
“Now what?” I murmur against her temple.
She twists, trying some textbook escape move from a self-defense workshop. Useless. I don’t move an inch. She burns through a few seconds of futile, uncoordinated struggling before giving up, her back still pressed tight against my chest.
“I can’t get free,” she admits, her voice thready.
“Of course you can’t. You're fighting like you expect your attacker to let you win. Violence doesn't have rules, Ellie.”
I drop her first name deliberately. I feel the shockwave of it travel through her spine.