Collarbones and Scratched Steel

POV SIENNA

What blazed as consuming fire last night returned this morning as undeniable proof, glowing beneath the grey light like a secret threatening to reveal itself at a single glance.

At seven o’clock the pale cold light of winter seeped through my window, casting everything in a leaden hue that felt like silent accusation. I stood before the bathroom mirror, resting my knuckles against the chill edge of the marble, unsure how to face my own reflection. The left strap of my lace nightgown hung frayed over my shoulder, torn where Killian’s teeth had pulled it free with that mix of fierceness and tenderness that left me breathless. Beneath it across my neck and the slope of my chest lay reddened marks, small and deep, forming a burning map of everything we had shared in the shadows, marks that would take far longer than a few hours to fade completely.

I dressed with deliberate care, choosing a thick flannel shirt buttoned all the way to the collar, straight‑cut jeans and heavy soled boots to muffle my steps. I pulled my hair into a tight ponytail, ensuring no loose strands would betray the nervous tremor running through me. Every movement felt calculated, conscious that any sudden gesture might expose what I tried so hard to hide.

When I reached the dining room the scene appeared polished and serene, the very image of a united prosperous family. The air carried the scent of fresh coffee, warm rye toast and crisp bacon, comforting aromas that clashed sharply with the cold knot in my stomach. Marcus sat at the head of the table with a tablet in his hands and thin‑rimmed reading glasses resting on the bridge of his nose. My mother looked radiant in a sand‑coloured knit set, pouring fresh orange juice and humming softly, entirely unaware of the tension coiled tight within me.

And there directly across from my usual seat sat him.

Killian wore a black cashmere turtleneck fitted precisely to his broad shoulders and arms paired with dark tailored trousers. His hair was combed with its usual neatness yet his posture had shifted, his spine held unnaturally straight as if leaning back against the wooden chair would prove too much. I knew exactly why. My nails had dragged deep furrows across his shoulder blades and ribs before the sound of Marcus’s footsteps tore us apart. Though his kind healed swiftly the skin remained raw and hypersensitive, and every movement seemed to cost him deliberate effort.

I sat down without meeting his eyes but he kept his gaze fixed firmly on his coffee.

"Good morning, dear," my mother said placing a plate of scrambled eggs and toast before me. "You have such dark circles. Did the wind keep you awake? It battered the west wing windows all night long."

"It was just the wind," I replied, my voice sounding thin as I lifted the glass of juice with hands fighting to stay steady. "Nothing to worry about."

Marcus set his tablet down and studied me with eyes that seemed to see past every spoken word. Decades of leadership had sharpened his perception until it felt as though he could draw out confessions no interrogation ever managed.

"Killian also appears to have had a restless night," he observed evenly. "I brought the quarry reports to your study around a quarter past one and you were not there. I heard movement near the guest wing."

Killian’s fork halted millimetres from his plate. Ice‑cold fear slid down my spine. If Marcus had stood that close to my door…

"I went to the underground gym," Killian answered with unnerving calm. "The contractor meeting left me wired. I needed to burn off excess energy."

Marcus raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced.

"That must have been quite intense. Punching bags rarely strike back."

He nodded toward the side of his son’s neck. As Killian lifted his mug the high neckline slipped just enough to expose the unmistakable mark beneath his left ear, two thin fresh scratches exactly where my nails had dug in while he kissed me.

My mother noticed and frowned innocently.

"Heavens, Killian, did you do that training? It looks quite raw. You should ask the pack healer for something to clean it before you head in."

Killian set his mug down with a sharp deliberate click. Slowly he adjusted his collar to cover the skin once more, and when his hand fell away his grey eyes bypassed both his parents to lock directly onto mine. No indifference remained there, only a burning golden heat dark and possessive, flaring so intensely I felt it sear through my flannel shirt.

"It was close‑quarters sparring," he said, his voice low and rough. "Someone was reluctant to learn their place. They had to be persuaded."

My mouth went dry and I gripped my fork until my knuckles blanched.

"Be careful with those who resist," Marcus advised returning to his screen, missing every undercurrent. "Some pretend to yield only to strike when your guard drops."

"I am counting on it," Killian said never breaking eye contact.

My mother spoke then completely oblivious to the tension thick enough to ignite.

"Speaking of busy days, what time do you finish classes Sienna? You spoke so highly of Liam. He seemed such a lovely boy. Perhaps we could invite him to dinner soon to thank him for guiding you around campus."

Metal snapped. The silver spoon in Killian’s grasp bent clean in half before he dropped it onto the plate with a harsh clatter. Marcus looked up sharply.

"Is something wrong?"

"Nothing at all," Killian said standing abruptly and pushing his chair back hard enough to scuff the floor. "We are simply running late. It is twenty‑eight past seven. If we do not leave now the north bridge traffic will make me late for my first meeting."

He stood tall and imposing, his shadow falling over me completely.

"Grab your bag, Hayes. To the car. Now."