All Chapters of The Killer's Kitten: Chapter 41 - Chapter 48

"How long have you been tracking my location," she said.He didn't answer."How long, Vincent.""Since the safe apartment." His voice was flat. Honest. "I needed to know where you were. In case something happened.""In case something happened. Or in case I did something you didn't approve of.""That's not—""You picked me up without asking. You tracked my location when I was out with friends. You've been checking my phone like I'm a—" She stopped herself. Swallowed. "Like I'm an asset. Something you need to keep inventory of.""That's not what this is.""Then what is it."He didn't answer. She waited. The silence stretched into something cold."You're tracking me," she said quietly.His silence was the answer.She walked past him to the bathroom. She didn't slam the door. She just stood in the dark with her back against the cold tile, listening to the silence on the other side, and tried

She was an hour late getting back from lunch.Traffic on the 101. She'd sent a brief message from the Uber—*Stuck. Home soon.*And she knew he'd been sitting with those four words for sixty minutes, resisting every instinct that told him to open Find My, to call, to make sure she was still breathing.She walked through the door. He was on the sofa. Reading. Or pretending to read. His shoulders were set in that rigid line she'd come to recognize—the one that meant he'd been fighting himself and was still not sure he'd won.She dropped her bag on the kitchen island. Walked over to him. Sat down beside him, close enough that her thigh pressed against his.She looked at the book in his hands. The pages were still. He hadn't turned one."You didn't track me," she said.He didn't answer."You wanted to. But you didn't.""I said I wouldn't.""I know." She reached over and put her hand on top of the book. "Thank you."He finally looked up. His jaw was tight. His eyes were tired. But he was he

The rain came down in sheets on Friday night. By the time Gaby sprinted from the Uber to the apartment lobby, she was soaked through. Her hair clung to her face. Her shirt stuck to her ribs.She left a trail of water across the marble floor, her shoes squelching with every step.The elevator ride felt endless. She watched herself in the mirrored walls—dripping, shivering, her mascara probably smeared. She looked like a drowned cat.When the doors opened, Vincent was already standing in the hallway.He had a towel in his hands.She didn't ask how he knew. He'd probably heard the rain. Or calculated her return time, the way he always did.He didn't say anything. Just stepped forward and draped the towel over her shoulders. His hands pressed down, once, firm, soaking up the worst of the water through the fabric. Then he pulled another towel from somewhere—she hadn't even seen him grab it—and placed it over her hea

He went to the gym three times a week. Not for aesthetics—for function. It was one of the few habits he'd kept from his old life, like checking exits and scanning rooms. She'd never asked to go with him. She just showed up one Tuesday.He was already mid-set when she walked in. Tank top, black. His arms were bare. She'd seen them before—she'd touched them, traced them, fallen asleep against them—but never like this. Never under the fluorescent lights, where every muscle was pulled tight, every scar visible against his skin.She climbed onto the treadmill. Set it to a walk. She told herself she was going to exercise.She spent most of the time watching him.He was on the bench now. Barbell in his hands. Up, down, controlled, like he was measuring the air between each rep. No wasted motion. No sound. Just the weight and his breathing and the quiet strain of his jaw.She thought abo