Page 31 of Pretty Threats

“I came out to put my dish in the sink. Jamie was over there near the door with his back to me, so I thought I’d tidy the kitchen.”

A clean, organized space is calming for me, which helps with my productivity and a lot of other things. For that reason, I’ve gotten in the habit of doing a quick cleanup whenever things get messy. Killian knows this about me, so he needs to accept it.

“She’s telling the truth,” Jamie says as he walks across the expanse to get to the stairs. “We didn’t speak a word while you were gone. Your turn to watch her.”

As Jamie heads to the second floor, Killian moves closer to me. He runs a hand through his hair, which is mussed from the wind. The scent of trees and fall air clings to his clothes as though he’s been hiking.

“If you’re going to force me to stay the night, Killian, I’d like to wash the clothes I was wearing when I got here, so they’ll be clean for tomorrow.”

“Yeah, that’s fine. Washer and dryer are in the closet at the end.” He inclines his head toward the far side of the kitchen. “Listen, we talked to our bosses. They want you to stay here for a while.” His tone is gentler than I’ve ever heard it.

I start to object, but he holds up a hand for me to wait.

“I didn’t argue, Raine, because there was the WildSide post of you in the Cabaret costume. I don’t know if you read the text. It says you want a rape scene.”

No, it didn’t. I recoil, reflexively stepping back. Rape? What the hell is he talking about?

“There are only a couple reasons for a guy to post something like that. One, if he plans to rape you and he’s setting up a legal defense in case he gets caught. Or two, he’s trying to trick someone else, in this case me, into raping you. To punish you for something. Have you rejected anyone who took it badly?”

My mind reels as I mumble, “Other than you?”

The corner of Killian’s mouth curves into a smirk. Only a complete psychopath could find that line funny.

“A lot of guys make suspicious comments on your vlogs,” he says.

“Suspicious comments? You mean because they say I’m pretty? That’s just standard internet stuff, Killian. But why are you talking about rape? If that word had been used, I would’ve noticed.”

Killian gestures to the closest seating area. As I move toward a couch, I watch him from the corner of my eye. His tone is unusually patient right now. As though he expects me to unravel. I’m not going to do that when I’m trying to show his housemates and indirectly, his bosses, that I can be counted on to stay calm and collected during times of stress.

“They didn’t call it rape,” Killian says as he sits next to me on the edge of the couch. “The post says you’re looking for a CNC scene. Consensual non-consent. Basically, role-playing during sex, where the girl’s fantasy is to be forced.”

A flush creeps up my neck and into my face. “But she’s not really hurt, right?”

“Not unless she wants to be.” He studies me, and whatever he sees in my expression of furrowed brows and tilted head has him explaining about sex clubs and parties where kinky scenes can be played out safely between strangers.

My reaction to the post’s inherent threat dissolves as Killian leans in to describe adventurous sex play. The scent of his cologne reminds me of times with him in my old bed. And of things we fantasized about doing one day.

My nipples tighten as his deep voice belies an open invitation to experience any fantasies for myself—with him. Not wearing a bra, I raise my forearms as if to rub my hands together, hoping he won’t catch sight of the blatant puckering behind my dress.

“Can I see the picture again?”

He opens the screenshot on his phone.

Reading the post, I try to put myself in a WildSide user’s mindset. “It’s dangerous to request that kind of scene from a random stranger. Is that usual? Wouldn’t guys know the post was fake?”

Killian shrugs. “It is suspicious, but the app is specifically designed for people who want unconventional sexual encounters. It’s a match-making app that’s trying to put together people who like the same kinds of sex play.”

“How did you get on it?” A different ache than the one between my legs thrums inside my chest. Killian is no angel. I’ve known that from the moment he mocked my gaming shirt the first day we met. And I was the one who ended whatever it was that we had. But now, sitting next to him, listening to him explain in detail the things people do on this app, an app he has on his phone, makes me feel things I very much don’t want to feel when it comes to Killian Callahan—jealousy.

“I know the guy who created it.” His eyes give nothing away, but mine must because before I can ask anymore questions, he draws a line. “I need to think about whether I want to tell you more. You’re carrying a lot already. Stuff I’ve confided. Things you’ve seen me do. Maybe you’ve got enough twisted memories and ideas from me.”

It’s the first time he’s ever admitted that knowing he’s killed someone and seeing him assault someone could be a source of trauma for me. This, right now, is a breakthrough. I wonder if War said something during the drive to trigger it, because normally, Killian doesn’t show empathy. I’m not sure he’s even capable of it.

“Last night, when I looked in the barrel, Killian, I thought you were burning trash. I saw what I believed was a white plastic tablecloth on top. The flames were an interesting mix of colors against the darkness, so I decided to capture it. I wasn’t thinking it was related to anything criminal. But I know it must be or everything that happened afterward wouldn’t have.”

Killian is silent with an unreadable expression, which is typical for him.

“Even so, if your housemates hadn’t been there, you would’ve shown me the post and let me go, right? Because you know I wouldn’t talk about something you told me not to.”

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