55. Killian
KILLIAN
I check my watch. Three hundred and sixty-five days.
Exactly one year since I walked into that house as a broken machine and found a woman who thought she could fix me.
She succeeded, though not in the way her textbooks taught her.
She didn't fix my soul; she wove her fingers through the darkest corners of my mind and taught me that the only thing more terrifying than my capacity for violence was the depth of my need for her.
I've been planning this for three weeks. Kai has pulled some strings to get us into Le Ciel, the exclusive restaurant Ellie has mentioned wanting to try. We’ve been to restaurants before, of course, but tonight is for her.
I check my reflection, straightening the tie before I can stop myself.
I look like a man who belongs in a restaurant like Le Ciel.
I don’t. But she likes me in a suit, and that’s the only reason I’m wearing one.
My fingers find the Glock at my back. The courses are going to be the longest part of the night.
All I can think about is getting her home and peeling that dress I saw her in this morning off her with my teeth.
"Everything's ready, boss," Kai says, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe with a knowing grin. "The private room is at the very back of the floor. The best view and the fewest witnesses. I’ve vetted the staff, so they’ll know to keep their distance while you try to act like a gentleman.
Don't worry, the exits are clear in case you decide to make a scene. "
I nod, checking the time again. "Good. I don't want interruptions."
"Figured as much," Kai says, tossing me a phone. "I’ve staged a few people in the lobby, so you don't feel like a sitting duck at the table. You're all set, Killian. Try not to check the surveillance between courses. It might, you know, ruin the anniversary vibe."
I swipe through the feed, the familiar hum of surveillance data doing its job. Knowing the entrance is clear is the only thing that lets me breathe. I pocket the device and head for the garage, where the Lamborghini Urus waits in the shadows, its black paint reflecting the overhead lights.
"She’s wrapping up now," Kai says, leaning against the garage door. "I've checked the building, everything's quiet. Try not to spook her when you pull up."
"She doesn't realize what day it is," I say, finally sliding into the driver's seat.
"Not a clue," Kai says, his grin widening as he pushes off the doorframe. "She’s still buried in the Montreal intake files. Don't break anything." I hit the ignition. The V8 rumbles through the chassis, a familiar vibration that I feel in my palms. I pull out of the driveway without looking back.
I head into the city, weaving through the evening traffic. When I pull up to the Hart Foundation building, I find a spot with a clear view of the entrance and wait. My eyes are on the glass doors, my fingers tapping a slow beat against the supple leather of the steering wheel.
When Ellie finally emerges, I step out of the car. She pauses mid-stride, her professional expression melting into surprise as she spots me leaning against the Lamborghini, arms and ankles crossed, in my suit instead of waiting at home in the kitchen.
Fuck, she's beautiful.
"What's this?" She asks, her voice carrying across the pavement as she approaches. The surprise in her eyes is the first win of the evening.
"Happy anniversary, Ellie," I say, opening the door for her. The scent of her jasmine perfume hits me as she gets closer, an addiction that I stopped fighting a long time ago.
"Anniversary?" She pauses, her gaze running over the suit, then back to my face. "I didn't think you kept track of dates."
"I keep track of the ones that matter. Twelve months since I became your favorite problem."
She lets out a short, soft laugh, shaking her head. "A problem? You're a full-blown crisis, Killian. But you're right. You are my favorite one."
I close her door and walk around the front.
People on the sidewalk give me a wide berth, an instinctive reaction to a threat they can't quite name.
Even in a suit, I carry the kind of presence that makes strangers look away.
I settle back into the driver's seat and take her hand.
Her skin is soft against my calloused palm.
"Where are we going?" She asks as I pull away from the curb.
"It's a surprise."
The drive through the city is quiet. I weave through the congestion, my focus on the road, but my attention is entirely on her. I don't need to look at her to know she’s there. I couldn't tell you a single face I've passed tonight, but I could describe every breath she's taken.
When we pull up to Le Ciel, she recognizes the building immediately. A tiny squeak of excitement escapes her before she turns to me with wide eyes.
"Le Ciel?"
"You mentioned wanting to try it," I say, pulling into the valet circle.
I hand the keys to the kid who approaches, my gaze lingering on his face until he shifts his feet, his eyes dropping to the pavement.
He looks about nineteen, and he’s already realizing that even a single scratch or a careless dent in this car would be a mistake he wouldn't survive.
He takes the keys like they're a ticking bomb.
Her eyes shine up at me as we walk toward the entrance, my hand resting lightly on the small of her back. "You remembered," she whispers.
"I remember everything about you."
The ma”tre d’ leads us to a table by the window.
From sixty floors up, the city is a sprawl of lights against the dark curve of the coast. For the first time since my recovery, I don't feel the need to look over my shoulder. There’s no way for anyone to reach us up here without me seeing them coming.
"This is beautiful," Ellie breathes.
I pull out her chair. The shimmering black silk of her dress shifts over her skin in a way that makes my dick twitch.
She looks at me over her shoulder, a small, private smile that’s reserved only for when we’re alone.
I take my seat across from her, the candlelight flickering between us, and I allow myself to breathe.
We work our way through the courses. The conversation loose in a way it never used to be.
Ellie tells me about a new intake at the foundation who finally talked today, her face lit with pride.
She teases me about my tie, her fingers brushing the silk, and I find myself actually enjoying the wine, and the fact that for once, there’s nowhere else I need to be.
"Ready to go home?" I ask. My voice is steady, but the intent behind it is clear.
She sets her wine glass down, her eyes telling me she’s reached her limit for being polite. "I want you somewhere I don’t have to behave. Let’s go."
The drive home is charged. Ellie’s hand is on my thigh, her fingers gripping the fabric of my suit just enough to make my concentration on the road start to fray. She knows exactly what she’s doing.
"If you don't stop," I murmur, capturing her hand but only pulling it higher, "the driveway is as far as we're getting."
She leans in, her breath warm against the side of my neck. "Then don't wait for the driveway."
I don't argue. I take the next exit, cutting onto the narrow, unlit gravel track that leads up toward Sentinel Ridge, an old Coast Guard lookout. It’s secluded, tucked behind a screen of overgrown pines that block the view from the main road, but the front of the car still catches the faint sweep of the harbor beacon.
I kill the engine, the silence suddenly heavy with the scent of the salt-water and the heat coming off her skin. I reach for her, pulling her across the center console and into my lap.
The Lambo wasn't designed for this. Even with the seat pushed back as far as it'll go, my tall frame makes it a struggle, my legs cramped against the dash.
But the confinement forces her closer. In this small, sea-salt and leather-scented space, the world is reduced to the glow of the dashboard and the weight of her body as she straddles me.
"In your precious car?" she gasps as my mouth finds her neck, her tone playful but breathless. "I thought this car was sacred territory."
"It's just a car, Ellie," I murmur, my mouth against the sensitive skin of her neck.
She pulls me closer, her fingers digging into my shoulders as she searches for my mouth.
I don't care about the risk or the cramped seats. I want the heat of her skin and the frantic way she’s pulling at my tie, finally as impatient as I am.
My hands slide higher, finding the edge of her underwear.
It’s thin, expensive silk. I trace the line of her hip, my thumb pressing into the skin until it flushes.
Even after a year, I'm still tracking the way she can be so composed one minute and so desperate the next.
I feel her moan against my mouth, a vibration that echoes in my own ribs.
"Then ruin them," she breathes.
The city lights and the harbor beacon fade into the background. There's only the heat of the car and the weight of her.
Later, we sit tangled together in the quiet of the ridge, the only sound the wind through the pines and the slow settling of our breathing. The windows are a blur of steam against the night, cutting us off from everything but each other.
"Happy anniversary," she laughs softly against my neck.
"We’re not done yet," I murmur, reaching for the keys. "Let's get you home."
The drive back is a blur. My hands are tight on the wheel, but my attention is trapped in the space between us and the unmistakable scent of sex that’s heavy in the car.
Every time her hand brushes my thigh, a fresh jolt of electricity surges through me, making the final few miles feel like a personal insult to my control.
By the time I pull the Lambo into its usual spot, I'm fucking rock-hard before I even get the door open, my cock straining against my zipper.
She's got a permanent claim on every nerve in my body, and she fucking knows it.