Chapter 12 Lena
Lena
Something was wrong with Randall.
I noticed it the second I walked into the gallery the next morning. He was at his desk, staring at his computer screen, but his hands were shaking as they hovered over the keyboard.
"Morning, Randall," I called out, heading toward the break room to make coffee.
He flinched.
I watched his shoulders jump a little and his coffee sloshed over the rim of his mug, while his eyes grew extremely wide.
"Morning," he muttered without looking up, his eyes fixed firmly on his screen like it held the secrets of the universe.
I paused, frowning. "You okay?"
"Fine. Just busy." His voice was clipped, tight, nothing like his usual friendly demeanor.
"Okay..." I drew out the word, waiting for him to look at me, to smile, to do anything that resembled normal Randall behavior.
He didn't.
As I went to make my morning coffee in the small break room, my fingers fumbled with the scoop and acid crawled up the back of my throat like a centipede.
Suddenly, everything felt too bright and the break room itself felt as if it were closing in on me.
Even when I finally sat down at my desk, and took a sip of coffee, the sick feeling remained.
Something was certainly off and I just couldn’t figure out what.
Throughout the rest of the day, Randall avoided me like I carried the plague. It was around ten when I went to make copies of pamphlets for the Tinker Mountain exhibit that we were hosting in three months, that Randall physically flattened himself against a wall to avoid brushing against me.
I tried to ask him about a client meeting, he delegated it to Sarah, the office manager, without explanation.
When I came to ask him he grabbed his usual last coffee of the day and left so fast he nearly spilled it.
When I needed his signature on a purchase order that came in just as I was about to walk out, he told me to leave it on his desk and he'd get to it later.
By lunch, even Sarah had noticed.
"What's going on with you and Randall?" she asked, leaning against my desk with her arms crossed.
"I have no idea," I said honestly. "He's been weird all day."
"Weird is an understatement. He looks like he's about to have a panic attack every time you get near him." She lowered her voice. "Did something happen between you two?"
"No! Nothing. We were fine at the art show last night." I thought back to the gallery event, trying to remember if I'd said or done anything that might have offended him.
Nothing stood out.
He'd been his usual touchy, friendly self, making jokes, complimenting my work with clients. And then Killian had appeared at my side, and we'd left early.
Killian.
The sick feeling in my stomach intensified.
"Maybe he's just having a bad day," I said weakly.
Sarah didn't look convinced, but she dropped it and went back to her desk.
I tried to focus on work, but I couldn't shake the image of Randall's face when I'd approached him that morning. The fear in his eyes. The way his hands had trembled.
That wasn't just having a bad day.
That was terror.
When Killian picked me up that evening, I was still rattled.
"How was work?" he asked as I climbed into the truck.
"Weird," I said, buckling my seat belt. "Randall was acting really strange today."
"Strange how?" His tone was casual, but I caught the way his hands tightened on the steering wheel.
"He wouldn't talk to me. Wouldn't even look at me. It was like he was scared of me or something."
Killian was quiet for a moment, then shrugged. "Maybe he's having personal problems."
"Maybe." But I didn't believe that, and I could tell by the slight curve of his mouth that Killian knew I didn't believe it.
I studied his profile as he drove, looking for any sign of guilt, of acknowledgment, of anything that would confirm what I was thinking.
"Killian," I said slowly. "Did you do something?"
"Like what?"
"I don't know. Something to Randall."
He glanced at me, his expression perfectly innocent. "Why would I do something to your boss?"
"Because you were upset last night. About him touching me."
"I wasn't upset," he said evenly. "I just don't like other men putting their hands on what's mine."
The possessiveness in his voice should have been a warning. Should have made me pull back, demand answers.
But instead, I felt that traitorous heat pool in my belly.
God, what was wrong with me?
"Lena," Killian continued, his hand finding my thigh. "If something happened to Randall, it has nothing to do with me. Maybe he finally realized he was being inappropriate with his employee and decided to back off."
The way he said it, so calm, so reasonable, almost made me believe him.
Almost.
But there was something in his eyes when he looked at me. Satisfaction. Possessiveness. The look of a man who'd eliminated a threat.
And I knew.
I didn't have proof, couldn't prove anything, but I knew deep in my bones that Killian had done something to Randall. Had probably threatened him, maybe worse.
The thought should have horrified me.
It did horrify me.
But underneath the horror was something else. Something dark and shameful that whispered: He did it for you, he was protecting what's his, doesn't that mean he loves you?
I was so fucked up.
That night, I couldn't sleep.
Killian was passed out beside me, one arm draped possessively over my waist even in sleep, and I stared at the ceiling trying to make sense of everything.
How had I gotten here?
How had I gone from a woman trying to start fresh, to someone trapped in a cabin with a man who'd stalked her, manipulated her, and apparently threatened her boss?
I carefully extracted myself from Killian's embrace and padded to the bathroom, closing the door before turning on the light. My reflection stared back at me, dark circles under my eyes, a hickey on my neck from earlier, my expression haunted.
I didn't recognize myself anymore.
Pulling out my phone, I scrolled through my messages. There were dozens from friends back in North Carolina I hadn't responded to in weeks. Emails from my aunt asking if I was settling in okay. Missed calls I'd ignored.
I'd let Killian become my entire world, and I hadn't even noticed it happening.
Or maybe I had noticed and just didn't care because being wanted that intensely felt too good to question.
A text notification popped up from my Aunt Ellen.
Lena, I'm really worried about you. You haven't answered any of my calls. Please just let me know you're okay.
I stared at the message, my thumb hovering over the keyboard.
I could tell her the truth. Could tell her I was trapped, that I needed help, that I'd made a terrible mistake.
But what would I even say? That my boyfriend watched me before we met? That he sabotaged my car to keep me dependent on him? That he'd orchestrated everything to trap me here?
Who would believe that?
And more importantly, did I really even want to leave?
That thought stopped me cold.
Because part of me, some sick twisted part, didn't want to leave. Liked being the center of someone's obsession. Liked knowing that Killian would burn the world down to keep me.
But the rest of me, the part that was still sane, still rational, knew this couldn't continue.
I deleted the half-written response to my aunt and put my phone away.
When the next morning rolled in, I decided to test the waters.
Killian was making breakfast, and I leaned against the counter, trying to sound casual. "I was thinking maybe I should stay at my cabin for a few nights."
He went very still, the spatula pausing mid-flip. "Why?"
"Just to have some space. Some time to myself." I forced a smile. "It's nothing against you, I just…I haven't been alone in weeks and I think I need it."
Killian set the spatula down and turned to face me fully. His expression was calm, but there was something dangerous lurking beneath it.
"The roads aren't safe this time of year," he said quietly. "Your cabin isn't secure. The locks are shit, anyone could break in."
You’d know, I thought to myself.
"I'll be fine…"
"No." The word was soft but absolute. "You won't be fine. You'll be alone and vulnerable and I won't be there to protect you."
"Killian, I'm a grown woman. I can take care of myself."
"Can you?" He stepped closer, his eyes searching mine. "Because from where I'm standing, you need me. You've needed me since the day we met."
"That's not…"
"Isn't it?" His hand came up to cup my face, thumb brushing over my cheek. "Who fixed your car? Who made sure you had food, had warmth, had everything you needed? Who takes care of you, Lena?"
"You do," I whispered, hating how small my voice sounded.
"That's right. I do. And I'm not going to stop just because you're having some moment of independence." His grip tightened slightly. "You're staying here. With me. Where you're safe."
The underlying threat in his words was clear: you're not leaving.
I should have argued. Should have fought back.
But I just nodded, and he smiled, kissed my forehead, and went back to making breakfast like the conversation had never happened.
I stood there, my heart pounding, and realized with crystal clarity: if I didn't leave soon, I never would.
He'd make sure of it.
And the most terrifying part was how much I wanted to let him.
That night, while Killian slept, I lay awake making a plan.
I couldn't tell him I was leaving. Couldn't give him any warning. I'd have to wait until he left for some reason, to run errands, to check on something, anything that would give me a window.
Then I'd grab my important documents, some clothes, and run.
Not to my cabin. He'd look there first.
Maybe to my Aunt Ellen’s place Richmond. Or a hotel. Somewhere he couldn't track me.
But even as I planned it, I knew the truth: leaving Killian might be the most dangerous thing I'd ever done.
Because men like him didn't let go.
And if he caught me trying to run…
Fuck, I thought.
I didn't want to think about what he'd do.
But staying was destroying me.
So I had to try.
Even if it killed me.