Page 130 of Lucky 14

Kyan gives him a look, then takes a step forward.

“Back off,” Oakley says.

Kyan narrows his eyes, then sneers. “Don’t worry, I won’t hurt your precious girlfriend.” His voice lowers. “Move.”

There’s a beat of silence, and Oakley doesn’t move.

“Something isn’t right, and it started with her.” Kyan is seething now.

“Ky…”

“Don’t Ky me.” The anger in his face makes my heart race. I don’t know what to do with an angry Kyan. Something tells me I can’t control him like I do Wyatt.

“You’re going to get out of my way, she’s going to give me the phone, then we’re going to talk to figure out our little problem.” Kyan arches an eyebrow. “Now.”

He steps into us, so we take a step back. Step by step, until we get to the living room. Walking backwards, always keeping my eye on Kyan.

“Ky, I thought⁠—”

“Save it.”

Oakley continues trying to talk, but Kyan isn’t having any of it. When we get to the couch, I stand there reluctantly.

“Sit,” Kyan demands. Immediately, I remember how I made the same command to Wyatt in the kitchen. I know as soon as I sit, I’m giving up the power in this situation.

Kyan clocks my refusal immediately, his nostrils flaring. He stalks up to me, hand starting to raise toward me. I don’t have time to process what he’s about to do before Oakley jumps up.

“Don’t!” Oakley darts in front of me, and Kyan stops. He stops and stares, heaving in breath after breath. There’s hurt in his eyes. He looks at Oakley, and his voice comes out devoid of emotion. “Do you…think I’m going to hurt her?”

Oakley stays blocking me.

I see the emotions cycle in Kyan’s eyes, then his lip curls, and he motions at the phone in my hand. “I don’t hurt women. If you really knew me, you’d know that. Now, kindly tell Holland to give me the phone and sit the fuck down, or guide her down. I need a drink, and I don’t need her popping up and trying to brain me ‘cause she thinks I’m a psycho.” He closes his eyes and shakes his head the tiniest bit, like he’s trying to shake a thought loose.

Oakley glances back at me, and I realize that I need to sit down. I need to relinquish some of the control. Kyan isn’t trying to be an asshole; he’s…scared of me.

“She doesn’t think you’re crazy,” Oakley defends weakly.

The realization sinks in that Kyan is actually afraid. Of me. That thought seems so ridiculous, I just stand there for a second. Then I remember the power dynamics that come from being a therapist. How people automatically assign you a position of authority over them because you’re a behavior specialist. Kyan must feel I have some power over him ‘cause some part of him thinks he’s crazy.

So, I toss the phone on the couch nearest to Kyan and sit down. And only then do I see a slight shift in the way Kyan’s holding his shoulders. He goes to the kitchen, and it’s then that I realize that there is no alcohol left. I’ve scoured the kitchen in the last few days. Hell, I’ve needed a drink too.

“Fuck.” Kyan must realize the same thing, and runs his hands through his hair. I can’t help but notice his muscles as he does so, and the detail is so shocking. What the hell am I doing ogling this man?

Frustrated, Kyan stalks back around the couch, pulling the coffee table out to straddle it, then looks up at us. He steeples his fingers, gaze solely on me. “You can’t pull one over on me. I’m not stupid.”

He’s afraid that I’m exploiting his weaknesses. Which, I kind of am. I have mixed emotions about it, and I’m struggling to pin one down to pull a clinical therapy version of me out. “I don’t think you’re stupid.”

Kyan snorts. “How long?”

“How long what?”

“Have you…thought that I’m crazy?”

“I don’t think you’re crazy,” I say, and it’s the truth. “I think you’re traumatized.”

“Same thing, huh?” Kyan glances at the kitchen, swears under his breath, and starts rocking. He must need the alcohol. Without it, it’s too hard to mask the pain of the other alters.

That makes a twinge of empathy pull at my chest. “Not the same thing,” I say.