Fedorov told me anything I wanted I could have too; he made it seem as if he was so kind and compassionate in the beginning.
That me and Eva weren’t in danger at all. That we were just temporarily in his custody while Mom figured things out.
Back then, I was naive enough to believe him.
Almost ten years later, I’m left with heavy dread filling me up. I can’t ever let my guard down, no matter what.
“Why’d you pick the Banshee?” Killian asks suddenly. “Out of all the places you could’ve gone, why there?”
It’s a reasonable question. One I should’ve expected. But I’m not about to tell him the truth. He doesn’t need to know more about me than what’s absolutely necessary.
“It was the only place that would hire me,” I say. It’s not entirely a lie. Only halfway. “I had no experience and no references. I didn’t even have a home address to give. Most places aren’t willing to hire someone who’s never had a job as an adult and has no real resumé. Tom was the only one willing to give me a shot.”
Killian grunts, seeming to accept this.
“For what it’s worth,” I add , “I didn’t mean to become a problem you feel like you have to fix. That wasn’t my intention.”
He sighs, scrubbing a hand over his bearded jaw. “I know that. It’s obvious you’ve been through hell. But it doesn’t make things any less complicated.”
I don’t have a response to that, so I just finish my eggs in silence.
He’s right. Things are complicated. More complicated than he even knows.
…and they’re only going to get worse.
The sound of the city bus rumbling past the studio window wakes me up the next morning. The brakes squeal as the bus makes its stop at the corner, and a few cars honk their horns as if in protest.
I jolt awake, blinking rapidly against morning sunlight. It’s bright enough I’m instantly able to recognize it must be late in the morning.
How long was I even asleep?
I’m so drowsy it takes me a few seconds to piece everything together.
Last night when we made it back to the studio, Killian insisted I take his bed. He grunted that it had been obvious I hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in a while, and that he was waking early for the gym anyway.
I would’ve normally been obnoxiously stubborn about it, but I was too exhausted to put up a fight. The second my head hit the pillow, I was out.
I actually slept through the rest of the night.Reallyslept without waking up every half hour out of paranoia Fedorov’s men had finally found me.
It’s easily the best night’s sleep I’ve had in years.
The studio is empty.
Killian must’ve left for the gym hours ago, slipping out at dawn like he said he would. The rollaway bed is already folded and shoved back into the corner, and there’s an empty proteinshake bottle sitting by the sink—the only evidence he was recently here at all.
He must go to the same gym where I’ve been showering.
From what I’ve heard, it’s the best gym in Brooklyn for boxing training.
The thought makes me suddenly acutely aware of how grimy I feel. It’s been two days since my last shower, and I can smell myself in a way that’s becoming impossible to ignore.
I crawl out of bed and stand there for a moment, taking in my surroundings. The sheets are rumpled and twisted from sleep, and a strange pang of guilt hits me for messing up his space.
One thing Idoremember from the seconds before I fell asleep last night was how distinct the smell of him was in the sheets.
As soon as I laid down, I could smell him.
Pepper and pine, a masculine earthy scent that belongs to him and I’ve already begun to recognize.
