Jhene #2
The bubbly woman doing my makeup giggles. “Chill, Kill. She’s not lost. She’s right here!”
She opens the door and nudges me into the hallway.
I stumble out into the hall and almost crash into the man who’s looking for me.
Killian’s in dark jeans and a V-neck T-shirt that shows off both his muscles and tattoos. His hair looks slightly more combed than usual, though I can tell he’s already run his hands through it at least a dozen times.
Our gazes meet as his eyes land on me, and then they track their way down the length of me. Starting with my face and then traveling down my neck and chest and the rest of my body.
Mint-green summer dress that’s a couple inches too short and strappy sandals and all.
I catch his pupils noticeably dilating before his stare hardens and tension clenches his jaw shut.
“That dress…” he says slowly, his tone throatier than usual. “That dress… is short.”
My cheeks warm up, and I bashfully run my hands over the skirt portion. “Oh. Um, yeah… it’s not really my thing.”
“Don’t be rude!” Chantal interjects. “She’s a ten, and you know it!”
Killian’s expression deepens into a glower. “Everybody’s already gathered. Time to head down.”
He turns and strides off without another word.
The heat’s still on my face, and I’m awkwardly standing in the hall as I watch him go. My heart sinks into my stomach.
That’s it? That’s all he had to say?
Maybe the kisses and the touches and falling asleep in his arms didn’t mean what I thought they meant. I’m just fooling myself thinking there was anything between us and he’d like how I looked in this silly summer dress.
I swallow the disappointment and follow him downstairs, ready for the party to be over with before it’s even begun.
The Callahan’s homecoming party is like all parties—full of people drinking socially as they gather around and chitchat. They’re basically having the time of their lives while I’m tucked away in a corner with a placeholder drink in hand.
The wine cooler is cold against my fingertips, the condensation dripping down the bottle, but I clutch it as if it’s a lifeline.
It’s one of the few props I have to make myself look as normal and nonchalant as possible in situations like these.
The truth is, even before I was taken hostage by Fedorov, social gatherings weren’t exactly my thing. Even as a kid, sticking my nose in a novel or puzzle book were my preferred past times.
Groups of people have always made me nervous. I’ve always felt woefully underprepared. As if I stick out like a sore thumb while everybody else mingles and bonds.
Still, the party is nice.
Chantal’s done an amazing job bringing everyone together. Everything’s gone off without a hitch, including the surprise welcome we greeted Ronan and Simone to when they walked through the door.
I’ve been sticking to the wall ever since.
It’s easy when I consider approximately three people I know are here. Four if you count Oona, who keeps shooting disapproving glances at anyone she believes isn’t eating enough.
Killian hasn’t said a word to me since the hallway incident.
He’s across the room, deep in conversation with an older, white-haired, lanky man who vaguely resembles the other Callahans.
His wife lingers beside him, elegant in pearls and a shawl.
They beckon over a younger woman with brown curly hair who must be their daughter.
The older man claps Killian on the shoulder and gestures toward the young woman like he’s making an introduction. She smiles up at Killian, hope in her eyes.
I look away before seeing his reaction, forcing down a sip from my wine cooler.
I have no interest watching him mingle with another woman; Bridget was enough for me.
It doesn’t matter either way.
He’s made it clear what’s happened between us was a fluke. He doesn’t see me that way, and I have to get it out of my head that there’s anything between us.
My gaze scans the rest of the room to distract myself.
Ronan and Simone are near the fireplace, both radiant and happy.
Ronan’s skin is tinged red as if he got too much sun during their honeymoon.
They’re chatting with an older Black couple I’m pretty sure are Simone’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. Langston, who have a natural regal aura about them as they converse with their daughter and her husband.
Sean is being Sean, which is to say he’s flirting brazenly with Monique near the open bar.
She seems to be tolerating it for the time being.
Apparently she’s newly single after dumping her Korean attorney boyfriend, according to the gossip I picked up earlier.
Sean probably thinks that makes her fair game.
Lochlan’s off in a corner with Seamus Callahan, the patriarch of the family. I study the old man for a moment, noting the way he leans heavily on his cane, a tremor in his hand.
He looks… frail. Fragile.
Almost as if a strong wind could knock him over.
Honestly, I wonder if he should even be here, or if he’d be better off in bed.
Mrs. Callahan—Ronan and Lochlan’s mother—is stationed at the bar too. She’s with Chantal, who seems a little nervous about the third drink she’s slurped down. Oona finally interjects and drags her off, guiding her toward a chair to sit down.
All things I catalog from my corner. Ever the watcher at social events. Never the participant.
Always the wallflower.
“You know,” says a voice from my right side, “corners are meant for furniture. Not beautiful women like yourself.”
I glance over to find Cian with a glass of whiskey in hand. He’s cleaned up nicely for the party, wearing a button-up like most of the men in attendance. His tattoos still creep into view, rising up his neck and even his shaven skull.
“Oh,” I mumble. “I prefer the corners. Less crowded.”
“Fair enough.” He leans against the wall next to me, surveying the room. “I do too, if I’m honest. Corners don’t talk back.”
My lips twitch slightly. “That’s basically it. Parties are… overstimulating. All the noise. The people. The smells.”
Cian raises a brow. “Smells?”
“Not everyone smells good,” I explain. “Some people spray way too much perfume or cologne.”
He releases a thick chuckle, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Sounds like you’re not so covertly talking about Sean. He wears that damned Ferocious Lion cologne he thinks makes him smell good to the ladies, but honestly? Smells like piss in an alleyway.”
“He might’ve been on my smells list,” I admit with a small laugh.
I happen to sense someone glaring from across the room. My gaze connects with Killian to find him watching us. A scowl darkens his features as he does.
To be honest? I can’t say I care.
Let him scowl.
Cian follows my gaze then looks back at me with a knowing expression. “Would you like to step out onto the terrace? Get some fresh air for a bit?”
I hesitate, once again hyperaware of Killian’s eyes on us despite the crowded room. But why should I give a damn anyway?
He’s been ignoring me all night. It shouldn’t bother him if another man wants to talk to me.
“Sure,” I say, setting down my wine cooler. “Fresh air sounds nice.”
Cian offers me his hand, and after a second of hesitation, I take it. His palm is warm and dry against mine as he leads me through the crowd toward the terrace doors.
I don’t look back to see if Killian is still watching.
I already know he is.
Compared to the inside of Callahan House, the terrace is peaceful and quiet.
Though it’s not completely empty, the few stragglers outside stick to their own corners. There’s a tipsy Brady off to one side, arguing with another buttonman about some football match from last night.
Mrs. Callahan’s retreated outside too, balancing out her one too many drinks with a cigarette she sucks from. She’s peering forlornly out at the gardens as if not really seeing them.
Cian guides me to the stone steps leading down to the lawn. The night air is still warm despite the sun having set, but it’s still a welcome reprieve from the stuffiness of the party inside.
“Better?” he asks.
“Actually, yeah. Much better.”
We sit in uncertain silence for a few seconds, more so listening to the sounds from inside. The typical buzz of conversation that comes when you’re at a party.
I pick at the hem of my dress, a nervous habit I’ve never been able to shake.
“You really do look beautiful tonight,” Cian says suddenly. “I meant to tell you earlier—I mean directly anyway—but wasn’t sure how to approach you.”
Heat creeps up my neck, spreading to my cheeks. “Errr… thanks.”
Beautiful.
It’s not a word I hear often. Not a word I’d ever use to describe myself.
Fedorov sometimes told me I was beautiful. But it was always followed by his cold hands on me. A memory that immediately makes me shudder…
“I’ve noticed you, you know,” he continues. “Since the first night I saw you at the Banshee. You were running around with your notepad, looking like you wanted to murder half the customers.”
“That, um, sounds about right.”
He chuckles lightly. “I appreciate how sweet you seem. Underneath all that.”
Sweet?
Both brows rise above my glasses as I cast him a sideways glance.
Nobody has ever called me sweet. I’m a downright grump half the damn time, prickly and withdrawn and about as warm as the arctic.
“Thanks,” I mumble again.
Mostly because I don’t know what else to say. My fingers keep picking at the hem of my dress, the only thing I have to fuss at without my wine cooler.
“I’d like to get to know you better,” Cian says. “Maybe we could go for dinner sometime. If your chaperone would allow it.”
I blink at him a few times. “Chaperone?”
“You know who I mean,” he says, a hint of humor in his tone. “Kill’s a great guy—one of the men holding the clan together—but everybody’s noticed how he is with you.”
“How he is with me?” I repeat slowly, completely lost.
“Territorial.” Cian shrugs. “Protective. Like he’d rip the head off anybody who did you wrong.”