Chapter 23: The Journey North

We traded the sleek sports car for a massive, armored SUV. It looked like a tank painted matte black. The trunk was loaded with supplies: blankets, medical kits, dried rations, and enough weapons to arm a small militia.

"Are we going to war or a camping trip?" I asked, climbing into the passenger seat.

"With where we are going, there is no difference," Killian replied, sliding a handgun into the holster at his waist before starting the engine.

The drive was long. We left the manicured lawns of the Silver Moon territory behind, heading straight North. The scenery changed from green hills to rocky, grey jagged cliffs. The temperature dropped with every mile.

Four hours in, my stomach gave a loud, treacherous growl.

Killian glanced at me, a smirk tugging at his lips. "The twins are hungry?"

"They want grease," I admitted. "Burgers. Fries. A milkshake. The healthy stuff isn't cutting it right now."

"Your wish is my command," Killian said.

He pulled off the highway at a flickering neon sign: THE LAST STOP DINER.

It was a run-down place on the edge of the unclaimed territories—a lawless zone where rogues and exiles lived. The parking lot was full of rusted motorcycles and beat-up trucks.

"Stay close," Killian warned as he helped me out of the car. He put a heavy coat over my shoulders, buttoning it up to my chin. "Don't make eye contact."

We walked in. The bell above the door chimed, and the chatter inside died instantly.

The air smelled of stale beer and frying oil. Every head turned to look at us. We stuck out like sore thumbs—Killian in his expensive tactical gear, looking like a god of war, and me, clearly pregnant and clean.

We took a booth in the corner.

A tired waitress threw two sticky menus on the table. "What can I get you?"

"Three cheeseburgers. Two large fries. And a strawberry milkshake," Killian ordered without looking at the menu.

"And coffee. Black," he added.

The waitress eyed Killian appreciatively, then looked at my stomach with a sneer, before walking away.

"They are staring," I whispered, feeling eyes crawling all over me.

"Let them stare," Killian said calmly, his eyes scanning the room. "They are scavengers wondering if we are prey. They will learn soon enough that we are not."

The food arrived quickly. I dove into the burger like a starving wolf. Killian didn't eat. He just watched me, sipping his coffee, his body relaxed but his eyes alert.

"Hey, sweetheart."

A shadow fell over our table.

I froze, a fry halfway to my mouth.

Standing there was a large man with a scar running down his nose. He smelled like sour whiskey and unwashed dog. Two of his friends stood behind him, leering.

"That's a lot of food for a little lady," the man said, leaning his dirty hands on our table. He ignored Killian completely. "You look too fresh for this part of town. Why don't you ditch the stiff and come party with real men?"

Killian slowly set his coffee cup down. Clink.

"Walk away," Killian said. His voice was quiet. Conversational.

The man laughed. "Or what? You gonna call the cops, rich boy? We don't have laws out here."

He reached out to touch a lock of my hair.

"She's pretty. Bet she tastes like—"

CRACK.

It happened so fast I barely saw it.

One second the man was standing there. The next, his face was smashed into the table. Killian had grabbed the back of his head and slammed it down with terrifying force.

The man groaned, blood pooling around his nose.

His two friends roared and lunged forward.

Killian didn't even stand up. He grabbed a metal fork from the table and jammed it into the hand of the first attacker, pinning him to the booth wall. Then he kicked the second man in the knee, shattering the bone with a sickening snap.

In five seconds, three men were on the floor, writhing in agony.

The entire diner went silent.

Killian picked up a napkin and wiped a speck of blood from his hand. He looked around the room.

"Anyone else want to interrupt my wife's lunch?" he asked pleasantly.

No one moved. The tough guys at the bar suddenly found their drinks very interesting.

Killian turned back to me. His expression softened instantly.

"Eat your fries, Elena," he said gently, pushing the plate closer to me. "They're getting cold."

I looked at the groaning men on the floor, then at the man sitting opposite me—a violent, dangerous King who treated me like porcelain.

My heart hammered in my chest. Not from fear. But from a thrill I shouldn't be feeling.

I picked up a fry and dipped it in ketchup.

"You're scary," I whispered, taking a bite.

"I know," Killian winked. "But only to them."

We finished the meal in peaceful silence, stepped over the bodies on our way out, and got back into the car.

As we drove away, leaving the diner behind, I realized something.

The Keeper said the woods would test our trust. But watching him defend me back there... I didn't think I had ever trusted anyone more.