4 - Escape

Killian’s POV

The next sound I heard was the click of Anna’s key in the door.

She stepped in, a little flustered from a late lecture, the evening air clinging to her cardigan. She paused, her eyes lifting at the delicious scent wafting from the kitchen.

Her nose twitched. “It smells delicious in here.”

I smiled from the couch, pretending my thoughts weren’t storming in ten directions. “I made you a special dish.”

She glanced at the covered plate on the counter and lit up. “Gosh, you are the best brother. I'm so famished.”

Her bag slid from her shoulder with a thud, and she practically danced into the kitchen. I heard the clatter of her spoon against the plate as she started eating, humming her approval between bites. Just like old times—at least on the surface.

After her meal, she showered. The sound of water running behind the bathroom door reminded me that she was still here, still safe, still unaware of how close the danger had come. And that wouldn't last long.

She joined me on the couch after, wrapped in her oversized tee and warm socks, toweling her damp hair as she dropped beside me. A half-finished movie played, but my focus had scattered into pieces.

I didn’t want to ruin the moment, but there was no perfect moment. No clean way to say what I had to say.

So I took a breath and spoke over the movie’s soft hum. “I got offered a job.”

She looked over, her eyes bright. “From the café, right?”

I paused, then shook my head. “No. From my previous employer.”

She stilled. “You should reject it.”

“I can’t. My hands are tied.”

Her face twisted. “Is it about the money?”

“No,” I said quickly. “Of course not. I have enough to take care of both of us for generations, if it came down to it.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Then why?”

I leaned forward, elbows on my knees. “I'm being threatened. That’s all I can tell you—for your safety. Confidentiality. They’re watching.”

Her mouth parted, but she didn’t speak. Then she asked quietly, “I don’t have a say in this, do I?”

“I'm sorry Annie.”

A beat of silence. Then she whispered, “When do you start?”

“Tomorrow.”

She flinched as if I’d slapped her. “That soon?”

“Yeah. I know.”

“For how long?”

“I don’t know yet,” I admitted. “It should be around three months. Maybe a little more.”

She looked down at her lap, her voice tight. “Okay. It’s fine. Just… make sure to come back alive.”

I nodded. “I will. And you need to protect yourself. If anyone comes looking for me, you say you don’t know where I am. You don’t. I’ll be checking in, but keep things low.”

She reached over, her arms suddenly around me, hugging tight. Her cheek pressed against my shoulder. I held her, feeling the tremor of her sadness soaking through the silence.

After a long pause, she pulled back and tried to smile. “I have to meet Lizzie at the pub downtown at six. I might not be back on time, so don’t wait up.”

I nodded. “Be safe. I’ll also be out meeting Darius.”

It was nearly seven when I headed out. The night air buzzed with noise—traffic, faint music from rooftop bars, the laughter of people who weren’t on the verge of doing something that could get them killed.

I met up with Darius at The Bolt, a gritty pub with red lighting, industrial metal stools, and whiskey-stained counters. He had just gotten off shift. A Valerian police officer, tired as hell, his badge still half-visible under his jacket.

“Hey, pretty boy,” he said as I slid into the booth. “You look like someone just offered you either a dream job or a death sentence.”

I chuckled low. “Something in between.”

He flagged the bartender and ordered us two whiskeys, neat. Then he slouched back. “So, this mysterious ‘assignment.’ You gonna tell me what’s up, or just sit there brooding all night?”

I shrugged. “It’s classified. High-level.”

“Damn. That kind of job, huh?” He smirked. “Gonna need me to cover up a murder or two?”

“Not unless it gets messy.”

He laughed, and I couldn’t help but join in.

After our second glass, he loosened up. He started talking about the usual shift stress, his growing hatred for parking tickets, and how he hadn’t gotten laid in weeks.

“I swear,” he muttered, “I’ve forgotten what skin feels like.”

I smirked. “You need to get out more.”

“Says the guy who hasn’t brought a date around since the day we met.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“Brooding in that penthouse of yours doesn’t count.”

I grinned, my eyes sweeping the pub casually. “Well, maybe I’ll fix that tonight.”

“About time.”

That’s when I felt it—that heat. Someone watching.

I looked toward the bar and met his eyes. Dark, smoldering, half-lidded. He was leaning against the counter, swirling his drink with long fingers. He had broad shoulders under a black tee and jeans that hugged his thighs like they’d been sewn on. His tongue flicked across his bottom lip, just once.

Darius noticed. “Bingo.”

“He’s cute,” I murmured, finishing my drink.

“More than cute. He’s practically eye-fucking you.”

“You think I should go over?”

Darius chuckled. “If you don’t, I will.”

I stood, tossed some bills on the table, and said, “Wish me luck.”

“Bring a condom.”

I rolled my eyes and made my way toward the stranger. He didn’t move—just kept that slow, calculated look trained on me. When I reached him, I offered a calm smile.

“Mind if I sit?”

He didn’t answer. He just shifted slightly, his legs parting enough to imply welcome. I took the stool beside him.

“Rough night?” I asked.

He tilted his head. “Better now.”

His voice was smooth—like velvet dipped in wine. I saw the way he looked at me, and it wasn’t innocent.

“You look like someone who needs to forget a few things,” he said.

I raised a brow. “And you look like someone volunteering to help.”

A flicker of a smile. “Is that a problem?”

“Not at all.”

His fingers brushed mine. Just lightly. But I felt it in my chest.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

He hesitated. “Kieran.”

“Killian.”

We shook hands slowly, our eyes locked. His skin was warm. Rough. Real.

The music shifted—low bass and darker tones, sensual and heavy. Kieran leaned in just a fraction, close enough for his breath to tickle my jaw. “You want to stay here or…?”

I didn't answer. I just stood up.

We got a room a few blocks away at an anonymous hotel. We paid in cash, no questions asked, for a queen bed and dim yellow lights.

The moment the door shut, I was pinned against it, his mouth on mine—hungry, greedy. I kissed him back hard, desperate for something that made sense, something physical, real.

His hands mapped me—my back, my waist, the hard lines of my chest. I groaned into his mouth and pulled his shirt over his head. He was toned, slightly scarred, real. I didn’t need names. I didn’t want them.

He pushed me onto the bed and crawled over me, his teeth brushing my collarbone.

It wasn’t love. It wasn’t comfort.

It was escape.

And for tonight, that was enough.