13. Killian #2
Her next grouping is tighter, deadlier. Six rounds.
Six center mass hits. She doesn’t flinch when she squeezes the trigger anymore, whereas only three days ago she apologized to a paper target for hitting it too hard.
Now she does it without blinking, and I can literally see the moment the hesitation dies and the certainty takes its place.
I’ve seen this happen before. I’ve watched recruits cross that invisible line where the person ends and the weapon begins.
I’m watching it happen to her right now, and while I know I should stop it, I won’t.
She needs these skills to survive the chaos I have unleashed, even if it means I’m the one who ends up turning her into someone her father wouldn't recognize.
But fuck, if it doesn't turn me on.
“Good,” I tell her. “You’re a natural.”
She lowers the weapon, a hint of pride in her expression.
“Just building on what I already knew. My father made me learn the basics when I was eighteen. He said a woman alone in the city needed more than just a locked door. I haven’t touched a weapon since he died...
It’s a sick kind of comfort, knowing I can still hit the mark. ”
Her words land wrong. I keep my face still and let her keep talking.
What would Gregory Hart think if he could see this? His little girl learning to kill from the man who killed him?
Looking at her, she’s vibrating with the rush of it. Adrenaline is a hell of a drug. It bridges the gap between the fear of being targeted and the need to be touched. I’m watching it happen to her, and I’m sick enough to enjoy every goddamn second of it.
She sets the gun down, clicking the safety, then turns to me. “What else, Killian? What else do I need for this?” She gestures to the gun.
Her pupils are dark, nearly swallowing the hazel.
I’m too far gone to do the right thing.
I move into her space, backing her toward the stone wall until my proximity seals her in. Her pulse is hammering in her throat, keeping time with the untethered energy surging through her. A live wire exposed to the elements.
"Always maintain control," I tell her, my voice dropping to a register that makes her visibly shiver. "Know exactly what you're doing with it. And never..." I lean in, my mouth inches from the curve of her ear, "... never give up the weapon."
"Show me," she says. It’s a challenge.
I'll give her a fucking challenge alright.
I reach for the SIG Sauer pistol on the table.
Check the chamber. Empty.
Check the magazine. Empty.
Violence as foreplay. The Order would be proud. They taught me to kill, to read targets, to break people through pain. I taught myself how to make someone want the devil.
What do I want from Ellie? Everything. I always have.
“The first rule,” I say, turning the SIG in my grip until the muzzle catches the light. “Never touch the weapon if you aren't prepared to own the result.”
I'm changing her. I'm corrupting her. And I can't fucking stop.
I bring the gun up slowly, the barrel tracing a path a centimeter from her skin. Sternum. Torso. Lower. Drawing an invisible line. Never touching, just close enough that she can feel the air displacement against her skin through the thin fabric of her shirt.
She gasps, her pupils expanding even more until her gold-flecked eyes are nearly black. I can see her pulse hammering at her throat, the flush spreading across her chest. Not fear, but excitement. Forbidden arousal.
"The problem with weapons," I continue, voice dropping even lower as I back her against the wall, "is that once you've held one, once you've felt that power...
" I bring the gun up and press the flat side of the barrel against her cheek, the cold steel dragging the heat from her skin. "Nothing else compares."
She inhales a shaky breath, the panic in her sending a sharp spike of arousal through me, making me hard in a split second.
Her pupils are dark, swallowing the hazel as the cold steel of the barrel traces the line of her jaw.
She’s terrified, and she’s wired for it, and the clash of those two things is the only thing that makes any sense right now.
“The second rule,” I continue, my hand sliding up her spine to tangle in her hair and tip her head back until she’s forced to meet my gaze, “is to understand the power you hold. What it can do. How it can make someone feel. How it can make them submit.”
Her eyes widen at the word 'submit,' something flickering there and, fuck, I’m instantly harder. I reverse the weapon with a flick of my wrist, offering her the grip.
"Hold it," I command rather than suggest. "And don't move."
She takes the weapon, her body demanding what her mind is still trying to fight as I sink to my knees before her. My fingers dig into the thin fabric of her gym gear, pinning her against the stone while I take the one position where every wall she has left is going to crumble.
"You want to know about control?" I growl, looking up at her with an intensity that makes her thighs tremble beneath my grip. "About power?"
I lean forward, my breath hot against the fabric covering her pussy. "Then you'll learn what it means to wield it. And what it means to surrender it."
My hands slide up her thighs, pushing her oversized shirt upward until it bunches around her waist, exposing the smooth skin of her stomach.
I hook my fingers into the waistband of her leggings, my gaze never leaving hers as I drag them down her legs with deliberate slowness, taking her underwear with them, leaving them hooked around one ankle.
She’s exposed now. Perfect. The woman who has spent weeks digging through my trauma is bare before me. The shift in power is its own kind of intoxication, a low-frequency hum in my blood that won't be satisfied until I’ve turned her inside out.
"Killian," she breathes, the gun still held carefully in her right hand, pointed safely downwards as I've taught her.
“Don't drop it,” I command, hooking her leg over my shoulder until she’s completely open to me, her calf resting against my back. "Focus on the gun, Ellie. Hold it steady."
I've spent a lifetime following the Order's rules. I'm ready to set them all on fire for the way she's looking at me right now. Seven years of meticulous planning, and I never once accounted for the part where she'd actually want the monster.
And the worst part? I can't tell anymore where the manipulation ends and the real feelings begin. Do I want her because I planned this for years? Or did I plan this because I wanted her?
Does it even matter when the result is the same?
Her thighs shiver as I drag my mouth up the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, branding her with my teeth. The scent of her, that clean, floral heat is a sensory overload that makes my mouth water. Fuck. I’m barely holding on.
When I finally reach her core, I don’t tease. I claim. My tongue parts her in one long, heavy stroke that pulls a moan from her throat.
She is still the best thing I’ve ever tasted. It doesn’t matter how many times. I could do this forever and still want more of her. I groan against her, needing a release that’s blocked by the denim of my jeans.
I focus my attention on her clit, alternating between punishing pressure and teasing lightness, memorizing every response, learning her body with the same diligence I apply to weapons training. My hands grip her hips, holding her in place as her legs threaten to buckle.
"Oh God," she moans, as her hips instinctively roll against my mouth, seeking more. "Killian."
The way she says my name, I want to hear it again and again, like a fucking broken record.
I pull back suddenly, leaving her suspended on the edge. She sags against the stone, her chest heaving as she chases the loss of friction. Her free hand drops to my shoulder, her nails digging into my shirt like she wants to drag me back down.
"Don't," she whispers. She's desperate. "Don't stop."
I curl my fingers over the barrel and pull the gun from her hand. She gives it up without a fight, her fingers falling open, too completely unraveled to care about weapon retention anymore.
"Do you trust me?"
What I’m really asking is if she’s ready to trust the man holding the weapon. Knowing what I am. Knowing what I've done. Saying yes anyway.
Her eyes widen and fix on mine, the hazel completely swallowed by the dark of her own arousal. Her fear. I see both of them fighting for space in that blown stare. God, this woman will be the death of me.
"Yes." And in that one syllable, I hear the final collapse of everything she used to be. She’s choosing the monster, and I’m ready to take her all the way to the edge.
I flip the gun with a flick of my wrist, my thumb sliding over the safety before I press the cold barrel to her thigh to finish the job my mouth started.
The metal is a freezing brand against her skin, and she jumps at the contact.
Shivers break out across her legs, vibrating all the way up into her core.
I drag the steel higher, watching her face as the cold metal finds her center.
The contrast of the freezing barrel against her heat makes her gasp, her hips arching off the concrete instinctively to chase the contact.
I don’t tease her. I just hold the muzzle firm against her clit, letting the unyielding weight of the weapon push her right back to the edge.
"Killian," she gasps, her eyes wide and panicked as the cold barrel presses into her heat.
"Trust me, baby," I murmur, my voice low and thick in my throat. I want her exactly like this. Unraveled, terrified, and choosing me anyway.