Killian
FIVE
My apartment isn’t much to look at.
Five hundred square feet of cracked brick walls, a bed that barely fits my frame, some weights, and a punching bag hangs in the corner like a decorative item. The kitchen is more of a kitchenette, the counter space limited and the stove without a working oven.
There’s a small table with two chairs that serves as the best space I have for entertaining guests and a bathroom with a shower that runs lukewarm hot water on a good day.
The one closet I’ve got is stuffed mostly with gym clothes, boxing gear, and weapons I use for work.
The only real decoration is the poster of Muhammad Ali, the greatest boxer to ever live, taped above my bed. A reminder of what I’m chasing every time I step into the ring.
My place isn’t glamorous, but it’s mine. I’ve never given a shit what anybody thinks about it.
…’til now.
Jhene stands frozen in the doorway, her large dark eyes sweeping across the space as if she’s startled by how barren it is. Coming from a girl who apparently lived in a cage for some time, I should probably be offended.
She’s like everybody else who’s seen my place for the first time—surprised a boxer and mob enforcer who rakes in millions lives so… modestly.
Have my entire fucking life. Got a problem with it?
“Make yourself comfortable,” I grunt, dropping my keys on the kitchen table.
“Sure,” she mutters under her breath. As quiet as she is, the sarcasm in her voice is loud. “I’ll just pick a corner.”
I ignore her smart fucking mouth and kick off my sneakers. My T-shirt’s next, peeled off and tossed onto the bed because it’s damp with sweat and I’m too damn tired to care about laundry right now.
That’s when I notice she’s gone rigid.
Gaze stuck on me, she’s somehow shrank even smaller, like I imagine a tiny woodland creature would.
Right.
Probably not the most comfortable thing for a woman who doesn’t know me to watch me strip down like I’m alone. Especially a woman who just got attacked by three guys less than a few minutes ago and was once trafficked by the fucking Bratva.
“Sorry,” I mutter, the back of my neck burning. “Easy to forget I’ve got company.”
“Not by choice,” she answers in another mumble.
I bite back the urge to snap at her. She’s had a rough night. We both have. No point making it worse by being an asshole.
More of an asshole anyway.
“Look, don’t worry about it,” I say, walking around the side of my bed. “You’ve got ’til the morning to suffer through my presence. Then we’ll figure out what to do with you.”
“Don’t worry about it,” she echoes coolly. “I’ll be gone the second you fall asleep.”
I turn to face her, crossing the cramped space to stand in front of her. She instinctually goes to take a step back but her hip bumps against the kitchen table. She’s left tilting her head up to look at me as I scowl and glare back down at her.
“An escape artist, are you?” I ask. “You escape the Bratva and you think it’ll be cake to do it with me?”
Her answer comes from the small breath she draws and the uncertain flicker in her eyes, glasses half down her nose.
“Well listen here, girl,” I go on. “You’re not as clever as you think you are—and you don’t make the fucking rules. Which means you’re gonna sit your little ass down and behave yourself like a good girl ’til morning comes and I figure out what the fuck to do with you. Got that?”
Her nostrils flare. More emotion flickers in her dark gaze.
I’ve realized she’s not only a rude little thing. Not only a stubborn little thing. But she’s also a nonverbal little thing.
Half of what she says remains unsaid—spoken only by the subtle tells and cues she gives.
Maybe it’s a side effect of being trafficked and held prisoner by the Bratva. You learn to stop using your voice and express yourself by other means.
Or maybe this is how the girl is.
Some say I’m a mystery for the same reason. I’m usually found scowling and brooding in the corner, arms folded with an aggressive energy that makes most people uncomfortable.
I prefer things that way. But, in truth, I don’t have much to say. The things on my mind are for me only.
We find ourselves in another staring contest, which seems to be our thing. Two moody assholes glaring at each other ’til one of us blinks.
…then my gaze accidentally slips to the plain white tank top she’s wearing, and I notice how it’s pretty fucking obvious she’s not wearing a bra.
This up close, under the studio lighting, her dark nipples peek through the thin fabric. The draft in the room doesn’t help matters, making them stiff and puckered.
Every man knows when you stare at a woman’s tits, you do so covertly; you do it as a quick, subtle glance when she’s not paying attention.
You don’t fucking do it when she’s glaring right up at you and can see your gaze drop to her chest.
But what can I say?
I’m a red-blooded male, and it’s been almost four fucking weeks since I’ve had a woman. I go cold turkey on them when training for fights, but with the constant testosterone surging in my veins, it’s torture at times.
It’s like putting a slab of red meat in front of a ferocious lion; it’s like I’m some horny dog ready to hump anything that moves.
Still, I quickly avert my gaze and mutter, “Shit.”
She’s spun around, her shoulders going rigid with tension as she gives me her back.
“I wasn’t… I didn’t mean to—”
“Can you just leave me to my corner?”
“Have it your way.”
We go our separate ways. Me heading off toward the bathroom. My temporary houseguest further tucking herself into the corner by the kitchen table and chairs.
I stalk toward the bathroom feeling like an idiot for being shamed in my own damn apartment. First for taking off my shirt. Now for accidentally peeking at her tits.
“I’ll be in the shower,” I grit out, snatching a pair of sweatpants from the dresser drawers. “There’s a spare rollaway bed I’ve got in my closet. I’ll pull it out for you so you can get some sleep.”
Jhene doesn’t answer, still facing away from me.
“For fuck’s sake. Just behave yourself, alright?” I growl, then slam shut the bathroom door. I crank the shower to its hottest setting and strip down to step under the lukewarm spray.
What the fuck have I gotten myself into?
I wake up to the sound of my own snoring, which is never a good sign.
It’s bright out, which tells me I’ve also overslept and missed my ass-crack-of-dawn training session at the gym, and the light floods the studio so much it burns my fucking retinas.
I squint and sit up, so disoriented you’d think I got shit faced last night.
Then it all comes back to me—the girl.
My head whips around, eyes scanning the five hundred square feet fully expecting to find it empty. For her to be gone like she promised she would be.
Instead I’m surprised to discover my houseguest remains. She stayed put through the night.
She refused the rollaway bed I offered her and stubbornly parked herself in one of the kitchen chairs. Her head is bowed forward, tucked into the arms she’s folded on the table.
She actually fell asleep.
A brief second passes where a vague sense of pity pulses through me. The girl must’ve been exhausted to sleep in a chair the way she has, shoulders slumped and glasses set down beside her.
She was sleeping in the fucking backroom of the pub for Christ’s sake.
I run a hand through my rumpled hair and get out of bed. She seems to sense sudden movement in the room and jolts awake.
“Morning,” I grunt.
“Stayed put,” she murmurs, sitting up straighter and rolling her neck. “Satisfied?”
“I won’t be satisfied ’til you’re outta my hair,” I answer bluntly. I’ve crossed the room to the kitchenette, pulling open a cabinet and grabbing the ingredients for my morning protein shake. I’ve already fucked up my morning workout; the last thing I need to do is fuck up my diet.
“I would’ve been out of your hair if you’d just let me go,” she points out, sliding her glasses back on. “It’s not like I asked to spend the night here.”
“You certainly didn’t help matters when you refused the police and shelter.”
“I told you—”
“Here’s what’s gonna happen,” I interrupt in between tossing ingredients in the blender, my most used kitchen appliance.
The only one I really use other than the stovetop to grill meat.
“I’m taking you to the police station. You’re gonna be a good girl and tell them everything—who you are, who’s after you, all of it.
They’ll put you in protective custody where you’ll be safe and outta my hair. Everybody wins.”
“No.”
I press the start button on the blender. The small studio fills with the loud mechanical whirring of the blades slicing into the chunks of banana and gobs of peanut butter, among other ingredients.
Once it’s satisfactorily blended and I’ve got a good thick sludge going, I rip the pitcher off the base and chug half the shake in a single gulp.
“No?” I grunt once I have. “That the only word in your vocabulary?”
“Hell no.”
I choke on my second taste of the protein shake. It’s really a laugh.
This fucking girl drives me insane… but I’d be a liar if I said Sean wasn’t half right about her—she is mildly entertaining in a no-fucks-given sorta way.
“That’s too bad. Because it doesn’t matter what you say. You’re going.”
“I already told you last night,” she blurts out angrily. More passion in her voice than I’ve heard in the hours since I’ve met her. “The cops can’t protect me. Half of them are on Fedorov’s damn payroll. I’d be dead within forty-eight hours.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know it better than you do. I’ve spent half my life as his captive! You don’t think I know better than anyone how he operates?!”
We slip into another glare off as we both dig our heels in and refuse to give in. She’s stubborn as hell, but I already knew that.
Most people would’ve caved once I started eyeing them like I’m about to crush their skull, but this girl simply doubles down. It’s as if no threats faze her.
Maybe after what she’s been through… few things can.