Page 11 of Arrogant Bastard

“I can arrange that too,” I reply, despite the shakiness taking root inside me.

He chuckles. “Okay, have at it. The gun is right there next to you. Pick it up and shoot me if you feel that strongly about living without me.”

“What?”

“Your speech is clearer now. You can probably move now too. Give it another minute and you can sit up and grab the gun.”

My breath catches a little as another cold memory slides into place. That of taking a life. “That’s how you want me to prove I don’t want you? For me to commit murder?” Again?

“It’s certainly a definitive way to end this,” he replies. “You can put us both out of our misery.”

There’s no humor in his voice. A weird sensation grips my nape. Jesus, he can’t mean it, can he? I shake my head to clear the last of the fuzziness. The expanded range of motion confirms that whatever he gave me is leaving my system.

My temple throbs a little as I raise my head and look around properly. I take my time, delaying the moment I have to look at him again. The gun is where he said it was, sitting on a low, expensive-looking coffee table made of solid dark wood and glass. Across from me, a long sectional sofa like the one I’m lying on sits beneath a wide glass window. From the angle of the lights outside, I can tell we’re high up. Damn, that means my chances of getting out of here are limited. I try not to show the dread that morsel of information brings me.

I take in the sleek, suspended marble fireplace, the plush carpeting, the tasteful pieces of art and expensive furniture. The space may be minimalist, but it’s the type that screams class and money.

I’m not surprised. Killian Knight was seriously loaded long before I met him. A technology-genius-and-coder-turned-spy, he was amply rewarded by a government eager to win the espionage war, and pounced on his every invention.

He was twenty-nine when we met and ready to retire. Or so he said. It may have been a lie. We excelled at those too. Especially the ones we fed ourselves.

What has time done to him? In the shadows of the park, I didn’t get the chance to see him as clearly as I wanted to. I’m still not sure I want to. But I can’t stay on this damn sofa forever.

Stomach clenched tight, I tentatively sit up and swing my legs to the floor. Only then do I notice my hoodie is gone, and so is my cap.

“Where are my things?” I demand with my eyes trained on the fireplace.

“You can’t avoid me forever, sweetheart. Look at me,” he commands.

Self-preservation urges me to scream no. But enough of this shit. Making grown men cry is literally part of my job description. Time to take this bull by its horns.

I turn my head slowly to the left and set eyes properly on Killian Knight for the first time in over four years. As predicted, and as I vainly hoped wouldn’t be the case, I lose the ability to breathe the moment our gazes lock.

Cobalt-blue eyes cut through the armor I’ve erected around myself like a hot knife through butter. Eyebrows a couple of shades darker than his brown hair rest broodingly over his watchful eyes.

His face is leaner and his cheekbones a little sharper than I remember. The meaner look is heightened by the square, stubble-shadowed jaw and longer hairstyle. But it’s his mouth that captures my attention. Nothing about Killian’s lips has changed. His upper lip is a harsh, curved line that always hints at darkness and cruelty. Whereas his fuller bottom lip is the last word in carnal temptation. The memory of what those lips have done to me, how they’ve made me scream and beg and claw in ecstasy, glides right through the crack he’s opened with his potent stare.

That silent, deadly scrutiny rakes my face, taking in every inch of my skin before he looks into my eyes again. “Hey, baby,” he murmurs, his voice deep and rough with whatever emotions he’s experiencing. The sexiest sound known to woman. Aimed straight at my core.

I snatch my gaze away before the sound weakens me further, and I gulp in a deep breath. Desperately, I focus on something other than the man sitting a few feet away, watching me with a single-minded concentration that is freaking me out.

He’s sitting in a black leather armchair. The type that squats low on the floor and looks expensive enough to cost a whole month’s rent in the Gramercy Park apartment I call home. Next to him is a smaller coffee table with the glass of water he promised me. Beside the glass is a bowl of ice chips, a towel, and a straw.

He has no weapon, which means with my gun I’ll have the upper hand. But I’m not going to shoot Killian Knight. We both know that. However, I’m not above disabling him to make my escape if I have to.

“Whatever you’re planning in that gorgeous head of yours, have mercy on me and make it lethal?”

The casually murmured words ramp up my agitation. “God, could you please stop talking like that? I’m not going to shoot you.”

One corner of his mouth lifts. “Okay. I’m glad we’ve got that cleared up. Can we talk about us now?” he suggests.

I jerk to my feet and grimace when I sway a little. “There’s nothing to talk about. Whatever us there was before is over and done with. Where are my things?” I look around while studiously avoiding looking at him.

“You’ll get them back when you need them. Sit down. You shouldn’t be on your feet just yet.”

“I’m fine,” I snap, just before a particularly heavy throb pounds my temples. I lift my hand to massage the area before the weakness of the action registers. I drop my hands but it’s too late.

He stands and I can’t help myself. I watch him walk over with the glass of water in his hand. Killian has kept himself fit. I knew that from the park when I was pressed against his hard body. But seeing him now, watching his broad shoulders and his long-legged sexy swagger that used to draw immediate attention when he walked into a room, I feel decidedly, shamefully frailer.

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