All Chapters of The Killer's Kitten: Chapter 51 - Chapter 60

69 Chapters

51 Just let me hold you

He came home at six-fifteen. Keys in the door. Jacket hung. The same rhythm as every night.She heard him from the sofa, where she'd been sitting for hours. She'd changed into his shirt—the old white one she'd stolen weeks ago, soft from too many washes. Her laptop was open on her knees, but the screen was dark. She'd been staring at nothing for the last forty minutes.He walked into the living room. Paused when he saw her. His eyes moved over the plate on the counter—the toast, the eggs, barely touched. The coffee cup, half empty. Cold."You didn't eat, Kitten" he said."I ate some.""You ate the coffee."She didn't answer.He stood there for a moment. She could see it in his jaw—the thing he was holding back. Not anger. Something else. Something that looked like disappointment folded into worry."I was going to," she said."Were you.""I woke up late.""You woke up at one."She looked at him. "How do you know that.""Because you always wake up late when you stay up working." His voi

52 Not tonight

He finished cooking in silence.She sat at the kitchen island, watching his back, watching the way his shoulders moved under his shirt. He didn't turn around. He just kept moving—stirring, tasting, plating. When he set the plate in front of her, he didn't meet her eyes."Eat," he said.She looked down at the pasta. Steam rose from the surface. It smelled good. It always smelled good.She picked up her fork. Took a bite. He sat down across from her with his own plate. They ate in silence.She watched him. He didn't look at her."Vincent."He looked up."What are you thinking."He held her gaze for a moment. Then: "That you're going to get sick if you keep this up.""That's not what I asked.""It's what I'm thinking."She set her fork down. "I'm not going to get sick.""Gaby.""I'm not." She pushed the plate away. "I'm just—" She stopped. Didn't know how to finish.He w

53 The Words He Couldn't Say

She found him in the kitchen the next morning. He was at the stove, back to her. Shirt untucked. Coffee cup in one hand. Spatula in the other. The light caught the silver in his hair, the line of his shoulders.She didn't stop to think. She crossed the kitchen and wrapped her arms around him from behind. Pressed her face into the space between his shoulder blades. Her cheek rubbed against his back, soft and slow, like a cat claiming its spot.He exhaled. His free hand came up and covered hers."I'm making breakfast," he said."I know."She pressed her lips to his back. "I'm sorry," she murmured against his shirt. "About last night. I shouldn't have snapped."He was quiet for a moment. Then: "You were tired.""That's not an excuse." She tightened her arms around him. "You were trying to take care of me. I just—"She stopped. Pressed her forehead into his spine."I know," he said.She felt something in his sho

54 The Ghost She Left Behind

He didn't know how to tell her.The man in the motel—the one who'd pushed her against the wall and growled her name against her throat—belonged to the old life. Somewhere along the way, without meaning to, he'd packed his hunger for her into the same box he'd packed the violence, the danger, the sharp edges of who he used to be.Not because he didn't want her. Because he'd convinced himself that wanting her like that—urgent, consuming, without asking—was part of the person he'd left behind. That if he let himself have her the way he used to, he'd be letting that person back in.He couldn't say any of this. He didn't have the words.So he plated the eggs and poured the coffee and told himself that keeping her fed was the same as keeping her safe.She watched him. Felt something curdle in her stomach. Not anger. Not yet. Something closer to grief.He didn't say anything. He just stood there, spatula in one hand, c

55 The Breaking Point

She drove. Not to Tom's—she'd never go to Tom's. Tom was a ghost she'd exorcised months ago. She drove because she needed to move, needed to feel the wheel under her hands and the road beneath the tires.The Mercedes purred around her. His car. His leather seats. His jazz station still programmed into the presets.She turned the volume up. It was the same song from the night they'd met. She pressed the accelerator. The city thinned. The road climbed. The tears came and she let them fall, hot and fast, blurring the streetlights into streaks of gold and white.Then the tracking system notified him: the car was going at an unsafe speed. His heart raced.He grabbed his phone, his hands still shaking from the wall he'd punched. The plaster dust was still on his knuckles."Gaby, slow down." He redialed her number, urgency straining his voice. "Pick up the phone."Silence."Answer me, dammit!" He clenched his phone, tracking her locati

56 Do you really want to end this?

He led her to the turnout. Once there, he turned to face her. The mountains stretched behind him, pale in the morning light. His silver hair caught the sun, but his eyes were dark—tired, worn, carrying something he hadn't let her see before."I shouldn't have pushed you," he said. "But I can't stand seeing you hurt yourself."She looked away. "You knew I would from the start. You knew who I am.""I know." He looked out at the mountains. "A free spirit. Always on the move. But that doesn't mean I can't worry."She crossed her arms. "And you know why I'm acting like this."He turned to face her. "Because you're torn.""No." She shook her head. "It's because our lives frustrate me. I thought things would be different if I chose to live with you. But it turns out lives are all the same. The spark, the passion—they eventually fade, no matter how strong they were." Her voice cracked. "And everything turns into a routine. Like me

57 The Box He Built

"No," she said. "I don't want to end this."He watched her. Waiting."I love you, Vincent" she said. "But I can't—I can't live like this. Waking up next to someone who feels like a stranger. The same breakfast. The same silence. The same distance."He said nothing."I chose you because you were different," she continued. "Not safer. Not easier. Different. And now you're giving me everything I left Tom to get away from."He turned away. Looked at the mountains. The sun was higher now, the shadows shorter. She could see his jaw working. He was fighting something."I know," he said finally. His voice was quiet. "I've been telling myself the same thing for weeks."She stared at his back. "Then why—""Because I don't know how to be both."She waited.He turned to face her. His eyes were darker than she'd ever seen them. Not cold. Just—raw."The man in the motel," he said. "The one who pushed yo

58 The Cabin Road

They didn't speak for the first ten minutes.She sat in the passenger seat of his other car—the one he'd chased her in, not the Mercedes she'd abandoned on the mountain road. He'd left it there, told her he'd send someone for it later. She didn't ask who. She was too tired to care.He drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gearshift. His jaw was tight. His shoulders were set. But something in the air between them had shifted—the way the pressure drops before a storm. The worst was behind them. What came next was the part neither of them knew how to do: rebuild.She watched the trees thicken beyond the window. The city was long gone. The road was narrow now, winding, lined with pines and the occasional glimpse of distant peaks."Where are we going," she said."You'll know when we get there.""Sure." She didn't argue. She turned to look at him. His profile was sharp against the morning light

59 I thought you'd leave

"How long have you had this place," she asked."Longer than I've had you."She watched his back. The firelight caught the edge of his shoulders, the way his hands rested on his knees. He hadn't turned around. He was still staring into the flames like they held answers he'd been looking for.She stood. Crossed the room. Knelt beside him on the cold stone hearth, close enough that her knee touched his. She reached out and took his hand—the one with the scar she'd bandaged in a motel room a lifetime ago.He didn't pull away.She turned his hand over in her lap. Her fingers traced the thin white line along his thumb. Then another. Then a third, higher up on his wrist."You told me once," she said quietly, "that you got hurt and you never said anything. That you'd had worse." She looked up at him. "How many of these are from before you were old enough to fight back."He was quiet. The fire crackled. The wind moved through the p

60 Hot Tub

She woke to the smell of woodsmoke and the sound of wind through the pines.The fire had burned down to embers while she slept. She was still on the rug, and there was a blanket draped over her that hadn't been there when she'd closed her eyes. He must have gotten up at some point. He must have covered her.She sat up slowly, her back stiff from the floor. The cabin was quiet. The air was cold. She looked toward the window and found him standing there, his back to her, looking out at the snow that had started falling while she slept."It snowed," she said.He didn't turn around. "It does that up here."She stood, wrapping the blanket around her shoulders, and walked over to him. The snow had transformed the landscape—everything soft and white and silent. It felt like the world had been muted overnight. Like the fight on the mountain road had happened in a different lifetime."How long have you been awake," she asked."A while."

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