Jhene #3
I scurry around Killian and rush toward my backpack on the kitchen table. The sum total of everything I own crammed into one measly, frayed and faded backpack I got at the shelter. It barely holds the handful of things I call mine, but at least it makes for a quick escape.
I’m grabbing hold of the backpack when Killian’s grabbing hold of me.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” I retort, voice shaky. “Anywhere away from you!”
“You’re not allowed to leave. Put your damn bag down.”
“How many times do I have to tell you I go where I want? I do what I say!” I yell hysterically. The tighter he grips my arm, the harder I fight back.
I jerk against him, swinging the backpack at him. The sack of my things collides with his hard, broad shoulder and does approximately zero damage.
A man like Killian Rourke might as well be made of steel.
The backpack bounces off him, and then he’s snatching it away with relative ease. I release a howl of frustration as he’s so casually overpowered me. I charge at him and shove at his chest, jumping and hopping and grappling for my bag back.
“Give me my things!” I scream in a panic. “Those are mine!”
“Calm down first. You’re about to pass out, you’ve fucking worked yourself up—”
“GIVE ME THEM!”
My hands curl into fists that I slam against his chest. That I punch into his shoulder wildly, my glasses slipping down my nose and air bursting from my lungs.
It doesn’t change matters. It makes no difference.
But it makes me feel like I’m doing something.
I’m fighting back in some way.
I’m so frustrated, I’m in hysterics. I’ve exploded like a powder keg when normally I’m locked up tight. I’m a closed off, emotionally withdrawn fortress.
Killian’s brought it out of me, and the longer he keeps my backpack out of reach, the more the panic grows. The more I think about the times Fedorov’s men taunted me and withheld simple luxuries until I gave in and promised to obey.
Agreed to be his Myshka.
I shove at Killian’s chest as he holds me back and hot tears splash down my cheeks. I’m not sure when I started crying, but it’s the first time… in a very long time.
The emotion pours out of me, the fortress walls tumbling down.
“You don’t own me!” I scream. “Nobody owns me! Those are my things! You think I want to depend on you for safety? You think I like feeling like a burden? Do you know what it’s like to be treated like an object? Having no say or control over your own life? DO YOU?!”
I can barely finish what I’m saying. The cries have taken over, racking their way out of me.
I’ve gone from flailing erratically to sobbing in Killian’s arms.
I’m a mess, burying my face into his broad chest and surrendering to the tide of emotion. It’s a culmination of everything I’ve felt the past ten years.
Fear. Helplessness. Anger. Frustration. Sorrow.
And so much more…
Killian says nothing. He holds me where I am, collapsed against his chest, my face pressed into his shirt, tears dampening the fabric.
A large hand cups at the back of my head. Thick fingers stroke at tight curls, uncaring how each coil tangles around them.
The backpack’s been dropped to the floor, forgotten at our feet.
I sniffle and pull slightly back. My head tips up for a blurry-eyed glance at him.
To say I’m embarrassed… is possibly the understatement of the year.
The same humiliating heat returns to my face as our gazes meet, and I brace for more scolding. For him to finish the lecture he’d started.
I’m not sure what to think. But even through the tears blurring my vision, the look in his eyes sends a shiver coursing down my spine.
His eyes, normally deep like an ocean storm, flicker with understanding. They tell me he gets it.
He knows, even without me ever having told him.
He slowly reaches up as if giving me half a second to resist. Then he’s sliding the glasses off my face. I blink, wet eyelashes stuck together and heart lodged in my throat.
Carefully, he folds the pair and sets them aside on the kitchen table. I’m so startled, I’m frozen, unable to do anything but watch as his hands return to my face.
He cradles my cheeks in his enormous, calloused hands, and I’m still not sure what to expect. I’m lost as to what’s happening, even as he holds my gaze and more tears slip free.
But they don’t go far. They’re sliding down my face when his thumbs wipe them away.
He brushes them off one by one, catching them before they fall.
Once they’re gone, he moves to pick back up my glasses. To return them back to my face now that he’s cleared the tears away.
It’s dutiful and comforting. It’s tenderness unlike anything I’ve ever experienced.
All at once, if I didn’t before, I understand now who Killian is, and why he’s known as the Callahan clan’s righthand man.
He’s the resilient, dutiful soldier. The loyal one who stands guard and protects what’s his at all costs. He’s as real and honest and sincere as it gets.
A wave of gratitude washes over me. A sudden burst of bravery follows, only thinly disguising the abrupt affection underneath.
I grab his hand to stop him from putting the glasses back on my face. Looking him in the eye more certain than I’ve ever been in my life, I push myself onto the tip of my toes.
I take Killian Rourke by surprise and kiss him, pressing my lips to his.