Page 50 of Arrogant Bastard

With that taken care of, I smile a little to myself as I put away my phone. Axel is much farther gone about Cleo than he lets on. What I know of his baggage suggests it’s as heavy as mine. But he’s dealing with it. Whereas I vacuum-packed my guilt, swapped sensible Mary Janes for fuck-me Louboutins, and very rarely looked back until the past slammed into me three weeks ago.

Shit, something else I need to tell Killian.

I turn over, and the sheets tangle between my legs. With one problem taken care of, Killian is front and center of my mind. And in front and center of that is the memory of the erection tenting his pants when I left his study. The thing was fucking huge. Gloriously ready and available. I felt actual pain when I shut the door behind me. The slickness between my legs now tells me I’ll be feeling it for a long time.

Unless I give in. Take what he claims is mine. The temptation is unrelenting. But what I fear more than fucking Killian again is becoming addicted to the us that should never have been in the first place.

I lost everything even before we hooked up the first time.

I lost what little was left when I went off script and severely jeopardized our mission. Killian doesn’t know it, but I have nothing left to give.

We thought we covered our tracks well when I packed my bags the day after Matt’s funeral and claimed I needed time and distance. But my friends and family knew. Disapproval turned into harsh judgment. Then into rejection. I didn’t give a shit. High on my giddy little adventure, I flipped everyone that mattered the bird on my way to my new, exciting life. And even broken and battered as I am now, I don’t think I want to go back. That part of my life is behind me. Besides, I don’t deserve forgiveness. I’m irreparably altered, and I can’t bear to see the evidence of that change in others’ eyes.

The last time I saw my mother, she stared at me with sad, condemning eyes. “It’s a mercy your sister isn’t here. She always looked up to you. God knows what she would think of you and what you’re doing now.”

I didn’t tell my mother Julia was partly the reason I embraced my new life. But I hated my mother a lot for saying that. Because I would give anything for Julia to be alive, just so she would learn from my example and not make the same mistakes.

Thoughts of my sister propel me from bed and out of the bedroom. I’m still wearing my tank top and panties, and I don’t stop to throw on any more clothes. It’s a reckless little move with guilt and temptation flowing in my blood like the headiest drug. But fuck it. My damned soul could do with being a little more damned. Maybe then I’ll embrace my doom and get some actual sleep.

I hear the rapid clacking of a keyboard, and I don’t hesitate to push the study door open. The light from the monitor reflects his stupidly gorgeous face. Although it’s clear he hasn’t been to bed yet, or his night has been as shitty as mine.

He looks as wrung dry as I feel. Against my will, my earlier irritation over his possessiveness dissolves. Yes, I want to fuck the living shit out of him, but I also want to cradle him in my arms, caress his forehead with soothing fingers, and watch him sleep the way I used to. But then his eyes meet mine. And tension whistles through me.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” he responds. Sizzling blue eyes take in my semi-naked body before returning my gaze. The memory of his hoarse plea from earlier rams into me. But I can tell the mood is gone for him. Or at least temporarily cloaked by something else. I find out a second later.

“While you were sleeping Betty coughed up something else. Anything you wanna tell me?”

I frown, start to shake my head, and then grimace. Damn. Busted. “Maybe.”

He exhales and drags his hands down his face in that calming technique that tells me he’s fighting the need to punch something. “Baby, you’re really testing my last nerve—”

“Okay! She found me.”

“Just so we’re clear, who found you?”

“Fionnella Smith. Or at least that’s what she calls herself now.” An innocuous name that hides so much more.

Killian snorts. “Do you mean who I think you mean?”

I nod.

He cracks a hint of a smile. “She always had a warped sense of humor.”

“I didn’t think it was funny.”

“I know, baby.”

My heart jerks at the endearment, and I hate myself for loving it so much. “I wish you’d stop that,” I grumble. Just because.

“I can’t help it,” he says simply, the same way he did when he stated earlier that I belonged to him. Killian’s possessiveness is ingrained. Sometimes I wonder why I bother fighting it.

“Try,” I suggest, perhaps a little desperately.

He just stares at me. His eyes tell me he doesn’t want to, and my heart drops a little because I know in that moment I’m in deep trouble. That’s always been our problem. We couldn’t help ourselves, and, ultimately, we didn’t want to. We discovered our weaknesses in each other, and we ruthlessly exploited them.

“How did she find you?”

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