BENITAThe home doctor peeled back the last of the gauze around her ankle. His touch was brisk but careful, hands gloved, eyes avoiding hers.âThere,â he muttered, pressing a flexible patch down where the deepest wound used to be. âYouâre good to walk again. Just donât run a marathon.âBenita nodded. âWasnât planning to.âHer voice sounded distant, like it belonged to someone else. Her mind had already drifted elsewhereâ another ankle. Wondering if it was still wrapped in stiff gauze.Was he still limping? Had he let it heal, or had he been too stubborn to sit still?She hadnât seen him since the night they found her. Hadnât heard his voice since heâd been warned to steer clear of her. The midafternoon light poured into the Bellingtonsâ private sitting room like honey through lace. The air smelled faintly of bergamot and restraint.Benita tugged her pant leg back down and flexed her foot. It didnât hurt anymore.She sank into one side of the low table, looking around like she had jus
CILLIANThe front door shut behind him with a dull, final click.Cillian stepped into the dim hallway of his own house, a house that now felt more like an echo chamber than a home. Somewhere in its walls, the warmth had vanished. Everything was black, white, or grey.He shrugged off his coat.Sylvester was already waiting.He sat at the long dining table, posture stiff, hands folded like a confession begging for release. Between them: a half-empty bottle of whiskey and two untouched glasses.âYou look like you need a drink,â Kent said quietly, sliding a glass across the table.Cillian caught it mid-slide without breaking stride. He glanced once at Kent.âGive us a minute.âThe command hit hard. Kent blinked but didnât argue. He glanced between them, reading the tension like smoke thickening in a closed room. Then he walked away.Cillian waited for the soft click of Kentâs door before turning fully to Syl.He took a slow sip of the whiskey, set the glass down with quiet precision.âI w
Cillian watched the last gate close behind him with a thud. The hallway stretched aheadâtoo clean, too quiet.The air was thick with the smell of disinfectant and hopelessness. Heâd been here before. Six years locked away, and the man he was about to face had put him there.The guards led him down into the visitorâs bay.No one had visited him back then. Not once.That was what it meant to be alive and erased. Men like Shanon, the Bellingtonsâthey didnât kill people. They buried them alive.Belleâs words still echoed in his mind: âIf I see you anywhere near my daughter again, Iâll make sure you never see the light of day again.âSheâd said it with her whole face clenched.The door buzzed, and Ben walked in.He slumped into the chair across the partition, face twitching like static.âI get it now,â Cillian said quietly. âTo love something enough to give anything to protect it.âBen blinked, confused. âThis about Benita?ââNo. Itâs about you. I understand you now.âBen scoffed, leaning
The hospital lights were too clean.Too quiet. Too antiseptic. The silence pressed against Cillianâs ears after the smoke and screaming and fire alarms. Now, everything smelled of bleach and sterile air. He sat beside Benitaâs bed like he was afraid the world might rip her away again.His hands were still streaked with soot. Her IV clicked steadily.But she was breathing.Awake.âDo you want water?â he asked, voice barely above a whisper.She shook her head. Slow, deliberate.Her throat was raw. Her ankles, tightly bandaged. Her gaze? Distant. Shaken.âI keep thinking I missed something,â she whispered. âThat if Iâd turned half a second fasterâŚââYou didnât miss anything,â Cillian said. âSomeone pushed you. Thatâs not your fault.âHer eyes lifted to hisâburning, hollow. âThen why canât I stop replaying it?âHe leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. âMe neither.âHer voice dropped even lower. âDo you think it was Shanon?âCillian blinked. âWhat?âThe door slammed open before
The hallway was on fire.Not literallyâyet. But the smoke curling out from under the stairwell reeked of accelerant, and the faint orange glow flickering against the warehouse walls didnât bode well.Shanon didnât pause. âLeft flank. Close the exits.âHis men vanished like ghosts. Kent coughed into his elbow, eyes stinging. âWhereâs Ben?ââRunning away,â Syl said.âLetâs go after him,â Cillian said, pushing off the wall. âWhy are we talking?ââWaitââ Kent moved to steady him. âYouâre barely standing.ââI donât care.âBenitaâs voice rang out sharp. âHeâs right.âEveryone turned. Her face was still pale, her wrists rawâbut her eyes burned clean.âHeâs not getting away. Not again.ââBenitaâââIâm going. With you. Donât argue.â She looked at Cillian. âBen is my problem.âHe stared at her. And saw that her mind was made up.They moved fast. Shanonâs team spread through the maze of steel corridors, barking coded commands into their comms.But suddenly, the fire alarm blared, distorting ever
đ CELEBRATING 500 VIEWS SPECIAL đKent looking hot in a suit:âHello, ladies and ladies!Welcome to the Too Late to Want Me 500-Views Celebration Red Carpet. We have some questions for you if youâll just step into the spotlight! Alright, there you are. Thank you for coming. Q1: Whoâs do you think is most dramatic in this cast?Q2: Which character is most likely to cry during a movie?Q3: What message do you have for the characters?Q4: Do you think Shanon is good for her?đŹ From the Author:When I started writing Too Late to Want Me, I didnât know whoâd show up. That you are hereâ500 reads inâis wild, emotional, and surreal. Whether youâre here for the fire, the slow-burn tension, the heartbreak, or just Kent being chaotic: thank you.And just know⌠this story? Itâs only just getting good.