I should've left.
After everything, after Leo was safe, after the silent apology in Killian's eyes—I should've packed my things and run.
But where would I go?
Marcus was still out there.
The world was still cruel.
And deep down, some sick part of me knew... I wasn't ready to run from Killian yet.
---
Morning light bled into the room like a reluctant confession. I watched it crawl across the floorboards, watched it paint soft gold onto Killian's figure as he stood at the window, shirtless, a glass of whiskey in hand even though it was barely past dawn.
I should've looked away.
But I didn't.
His shoulders looked like they'd been sculpted by war itself—every inch hard, every scar a story. The raw, violent beauty of him made my stomach twist, and I hated myself for noticing.
I turned away too late, and his eyes caught mine.
"Couldn't sleep?" he drawled, voice like dark velvet.
"I don't want to talk to you," I muttered, pulling the blanket tighter around me.
He smirked. "That's not what I asked."
I ignored him, sliding off the bed and moving toward the bathroom, but in two long strides he was there, blocking my path, towering over me.
"You're not leaving until we talk."
I glared up at him. "Move, Killian."
"No."
His voice was calm, but his eyes… they were burning. I hated that they made my knees weak, hated that they knew me too well.
"You want to play this game?" I snapped, shoving at his chest.
His hand shot up, gripping my wrist, pulling me flush against him. My breath stuttered. His skin was warm, alive, vibrating with restrained power.
His mouth hovered near my ear, his breath ghosting down my neck. "The only game I play is the one where I win, Noelle."
I shoved harder, but he only pulled me closer. His other hand slid around my waist, fingers digging into my back.
"Let go of me."
"Or what?" His lips brushed my jaw. "You'll run? You'll scream? You'll fight me? You like pretending you're dangerous. You're not."
I hated him.
I hated him so much that my lungs burned with it.
But even worse? I hated how my body reacted to him, how my mind turned blank and traitorous when he touched me.
He chuckled darkly, sensing my hesitation. "There she is," he murmured. "The woman who trembles when I touch her but insists she can survive without me."
"Fuck you," I spat.
He laughed then, a low, wicked sound that slid down my spine like a blade.
"Say it again."
I swallowed, suddenly realizing how close we were, how his scent—whiskey, cedar, danger—wrapped around me.
"I said… fuck you," I repeated, voice shaking.
His lips curved. "Careful, Noelle. You keep tempting the devil, and he'll start to think you're inviting him in."
Then his mouth crashed onto mine.
It wasn't a kiss. It was a claiming. His lips devoured, his hands held me like he could crush me into him. My mind screamed at me to push him away, but my body betrayed me—my fingers clawed at his shoulders, my lips parted for him, my knees nearly gave out from the force of it.
He pulled back just enough to whisper against my mouth. "Say you hate me."
I gasped for air, dazed. "I… I hate you."
"Louder."
"I hate you!"
His hands gripped my jaw, tilting my face up. His eyes blazed. "Good girl."
A tremor tore through me. The words, his praise, the heat—every piece of me trembled on the edge of something dangerous and humiliating.
"Again," he commanded.
"I hate you!" My voice cracked this time.
He smiled, wicked and soft all at once. "Liar."
Then he kissed me again, slower now, more deliberate. His tongue tasted every hidden corner of my mouth, his teeth grazing my lower lip. I felt my walls shatter under each touch, each breath.
When he finally pulled away, I was shaking so hard I could barely stand.
He didn't let me go. His forehead pressed to mine, his hands cradling my face now, gentle and rough in the same breath.
"You can hate me all you want, Noelle," he said quietly. "But you're not leaving. Ever."
Tears burned behind my eyes. "Why? Why me? You could have any woman, any life—why do you have to ruin mine?"
His thumb wiped a tear before it fell. "Because you're mine to ruin."
I sobbed, my fists weakly pushing against his chest. "You're a monster."
His lips brushed my hairline. "I know."
---
He carried me to the bed, laid me down with surprising tenderness. My mind warred with itself—screaming at me to fight, to claw, to run. But my body… my body melted into his touch, traitorous and weak.
He laid beside me, one hand on my waist, thumb rubbing slow circles.
"You can't keep me here forever," I whispered.
He tilted his head, looking at me like I'd said something amusing. "Can't I?"
"My son—"
"Is safe because of me," he finished. "Don't forget that."
I swallowed hard. "He's all I have."
"You have me now too," he said. "And that scares you more than anything else."
I flinched. Because he was right. Because he saw straight through me.
A silence stretched between us. Heavy. Dangerous. Our breathing the only sound in the darkening room.
Then he spoke again, so low it felt like a confession only meant for the night.
"Do you know what you do to me?" His voice shook slightly, a rare crack in his perfect armor. "You make me feel alive. You make me feel things I thought I'd killed off a long time ago. And I hate it. I hate you for it."
I turned to face him fully, my heart thudding against my ribs like a trapped bird.
"Then why keep me here?" I asked.
He stared at me for a long time, eyes roaming every inch of my face like he was trying to memorize me.
"Because I'd rather live in hell with you," he finally whispered, "than rule in heaven without you."
A sob escaped my lips before I could stop it. I hated how the words carved into me, how they settled deep in my bones.
His hand found mine, fingers lacing together.
"You think this is a game," he said, his breath fanning across my lips. "But you've already lost. Because no matter how much you fight, your soul is already bound to mine."
I shook my head weakly. "No. No, I—"
He shushed me softly, pressing his finger to my lips.
"Yes," he murmured. "You'll hate me. You'll try to escape. But in the end, you'll come back. You always will."
He kissed me again, this time slower, almost reverent. It was a kiss that promised ruin and worship in equal measure.
I broke then. My tears mingled with his breath, my fingers fisting his hair as I let the dam finally crack.
When he pulled away, I was trembling, breathless, utterly undone.
"Sleep," he ordered softly, pressing a final kiss to my forehead. "I'll watch over you."
And for the first time in what felt like forever, I let my eyes close.
Because some part of me—a stupid, fragile, traitorous part—believed him.