“Good. We’ll hit up that diner a few blocks down. You seemed to like the food last time we were there,” I reply, shoving both hands in my pockets. “But this time, you’re ordering your own damn food. You’re a big girl. You can make those kinds of decisions on your own.”
She almost rolls her eyes despite how, for once, she seems tempted to laugh. “I’ll give it my best shot.”
EIGHT
Jhene
Sharinga bathroom with a boxer who breaks bones and buries bodies for a living is about as fun as it sounds.
It’s ten p.m., and unless Killian Rourke has developed a sudden case of amnesia, he knows damn well it’s supposed to be my turn. I’m actually starting to suspect he does things specifically to annoy me.
What better way to run off a houseguest than to irk their nerves until they’re desperate to leave? Maybe it’s some reverse psychology trick to get me to agree to moving upstate.
Call me paranoid, but I put nothing past my new roommate.
I’m standing in the middle of his cramped studio listening to the sound of water spray against the shower tile, and I consider if it’s even worth pointing out the violation.
Mornings are his. Evenings are mine. It was the only way two loners who very much prefer their own company and can barely stand each other could survive in this studio without someone ending up strangled.
Yet here I am on my day off, listening to him use up the lukewarm water that was supposed to be mine.
To put it mildly, the past few days have been… an adjustment.
Living with Killian Rourke means dealing with his before-dawn wakeups and the constant residue in the sink from the many protein shakes he drinks. It’s developing the ability to interpret the difference between his regular grunt and his irritated grunt and knowing when to look the other way when he comes home with fresh bruises and blood staining his clothes.
We existaroundeach other more thanwitheach other.
It’s exhausting in a different way than sleeping in shelters or in the backroom of the pub was. Even more than living in the Raguzins’ orbit for so many years.
Probably because I’m used to being ignored. I’m used to folding myself into corners and trying my damnedest to go unnoticed.
There’s nowhere to hide when you’re sharing a five-hundred-square-foot space with another person.
The water shuts off, and I hear him moving around in the bathroom.
A minute later, the door swings open and he emerges in a cloud of steam, wearing nothing but a pair of gray sweatpants that hang low on his insanely sculpted hips.
Seriously, if you googled Adonis belt, Killian could be used as the answer on the search results page.
My face warms up, and I divert my gaze to the brick wall. One of the deep cracks in the brick suddenly feels like it requires my undivided attention.
…at least that’s what I tell myself.
The obvious truth is Killiandoeshave a nice body. He drips masculinity as he strides out of the bathroom with his broad, tattooed shoulders and the six-pack abs and effortlessconfidence.
There’s a rough quality about him and his looks that admittedly does something to the female part of my brain—completely against my will.
It’s how unruly his dark hair is, often touching his brow, and how his flawed nose that’s obviously been broken several times only adds more character to his face. The same for his jaw that’s wide and angular and framed by thick scruff.
He’s tall and shredded, the kind of body that comes from hours in the gym. Hours on thestreetworking as an enforcer for the Irish mob.
His muscles—from the firm pecs on his chest to the well-defined lats and traps on his back and delts on his shoulders—contribute to his V-tapered torso and large, solid build.
The way he walks, heknowsit.
Killian carries himself like a man without fear. A man with the swag to know nobody in their right mind would ever fuck with him.
Exactly why I’ve busied myself with the brick wall, trying my damnedest to ignore how little beads of water still gleam on his chest and his dark hair is slicker than usual against his scalp.
