Page 100 of Then We Shatter

Sasha and I had seen firsthand how Grigor kept his victims alive so he could torture information out of them, or sometimes just for fun. Cutting off fingernails, then fingers. Cutting off ears and gouging out eyes so the victim’s senses were reduced to the sensation of their skin being peeled from their bodies.

Grigor’s breaths are labored. He knows his end is close, but not close enough for him to avoid paying the toll for his sins.

I’m fastening my pants when Sasha returns to the chamber. This is where she’s supposed to make some comment about us looking thoroughly fucked, but her expression is troubled as she looks to Killian. There goes my happy ending.

We join her by the door, on the opposite side of the room from Grigor so he can’t take in what’s happening.

“What have you found out?” Killian asks quietly.

Sasha’s features are grim when she says, “It wasn’t Malachy who betrayed you.”

Epilogue

Seven Months Later

KATARINA

It’s growing dark by the time we return home, my feet weighed down by the heavy Hebridean mud clinging to my boots. My hands are cold and I should have worn gloves, but I have one hand stuffed into my puffer jacket pocket and the other squeezed into Killian’s woolen jacket, his fingers wrapped around mine.

We head to the back of the cottage and Killian opens the door with his left hand so he can keep hold of mine. A year has passed since he was shot and while he’s made a full recovery physically, the need to keep me by his side is the last lingering wound to heal.

He only lets go once he’s pulled me inside the small boot room attached to the kitchen. We’re plunged into impenetrable darkness when I close the door behind us, but we’ve lived here long enough to do everything by touch.

Killian tugs off my boots while I unzip my coat and hang it on a hook. As I listen to the thud of two pairs of boots being dropped onto the flagstone floor, the only other sound is the soughing of the giant oak tree in our wild garden.

The sense of tranquility has been overwhelming at times, but I’m grateful for every day I get to wake up wrapped in the arms of the man I love. It’s a luxury I’ll never take for granted.

On the few occasions we’ve left our secluded Scottish isle to go on short expeditions, there’s never been any question of coming back here. This is home.

“I’m in the mood for a warm bath and an early night,” I say.

Killian shrugs out of his coat, and as he leans across to hang it up, he kisses my cold neck with his warm lips. “Are you now? And what else does my lady want?”

“You,” I say, but as I reach for the light switch, my hand stills. A sudden cold shudder runs down my spine, putting me on high alert. That shouldn’t happen. Not here.

I can’t hear anything to explain my reaction, and as I take a steadying breath, I’m met with the earthy smells from the mud we’ve trekked in, mixed with the warm aroma of the soup Killian made with the glut of produce harvested from our vegetable patch. We’re so domesticated it’s frightening, but right now it’s a different kind of fear that has my heart pumping.

Killian must sense it too because he pulls my hand away from the light switch. Stepping in front of me, he slowly and quietly opens the door to the kitchen. The windows in our cottage are small, but there should be the grey light of dusk filtering in through the blinds. It’s pitch black.

As I come to stand alongside my husband, I make a quick inventory of all the weapons we have on hand. Neither of us carry guns which, in hindsight, feels like a huge mistake. Our firearms are locked away in a cabinet in the pantry, and the only weapons within reach are in the knife block to my right.

I hope I’m overreacting, but as I still my breathing, the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. The sound of breathing continues and it’s coming from the other side of the room. I spin fast, finding the edge of the counter and reaching for a paring knife.

But before I can prepare to throw it, strong arms bind around my chest, trapping me. Arms belonging to someone who should know better than to restrain me.

“Killian, what the fuck–?”

I fight against his grasp as he turns me so I’m facing forward. I don’t understand. The Killian I know would want to keep me behind him.

A switch is flipped and as light fills the kitchen, a chorus of voices cut through the charged atmosphere.

“Happy birthday!”

I’m too shocked to tell my brain to defuse the explosive fury I was ready to unleash on unknown attackers, and the snarl I’m trying to hold back tickles the back of my throat as I scan the familiar faces watching me with a mixture of anxiety and amusement.

The nervous looks are from the staff who share our isle now that Rory’s restoration project is nearing completion. The king of the castle himself is grinning like a fool, as is Ash who’s standing next to Rory. I’d be tempted to introduce them both to the sharp end of my knife if Killian wasn’t pinning my arms to my sides.

“Is it safe to let you go yet?” my husband asks, resting his chin on my shoulder. I can hear his fucking grin. He was in on this.