He had always been mine のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 61 - チャプター 70

KILLIAN POV The Hale tower looked exactly like the kind of building that swallowed people and returned them rearranged.Glass. Steel. A lobby designed to make anyone without a badge feel like they had already lost an argument by walking through the door. I stood across the street for a full minute with my hands in my jacket pockets and the cancelled show sitting in my chest like a stone that had finally found its weight. Then I crossed.The revolving door spilled me into cold air-conditioning and polished stone. A security desk sat to the left. A bank of elevators straight ahead. People moved through the space with the quiet confidence of those who belonged there. I did not belong there. That was the point.I went to the desk.“I’m here to see Brandon Hale.”The man behind the counter looked me over once—jeans, paint-stained boots, the jacket that had never cost what the coats around me cost—and his expression settled into polite refusal before I finished the sentence.“Do you have a

KILLIAN POV The wall hit my shoulders hard enough that the air left my lungs in a sharp sound.One second I had been at the edge of his desk, leaning in, every ugly thing I had stored for ten years finally coming out of my mouth. The next his hands were in the front of my jacket and my back was against the wall and his mouth was on mine open, claiming, rough enough that my head tipped back against the plaster. Something on the shelf beside us rattled. I didn’t care. I shoved at his chest with my free hand and twisted, trying to turn my face away, and he followed the movement like he had been waiting ten years to do exactly that.He caught my lower lip between his teeth hard enough to sting. The sound that left me was supposed to be protest. It frayed at the edges into something else. His thigh shoved between my legs, deliberate, and pressure hit me exactly where I didn’t want him to feel anything—and my body betrayed me anyway. Heat flooded low and fast. I thickened against the hard

KILLIAN POV The elevator doors closed on Remington’s blank face and the quiet corridor behind him.I stared at my own reflection in the brushed metal as the numbers dropped. My mouth still felt swollen. There was a faint taste of coffee that wasn’t mine. The front of my trousers had mostly settled, but the shame of how hard I had been against his palm sat under my ribs like a second pulse I couldn’t shut off. I kept my hands at my sides and watched the floors tick down and tried not to replay the exact moment my hips had pushed into his hand before I remembered I was supposed to be fighting.The lobby was the same polished stone and cold air as when I had walked in. The guard at the desk glanced up, then away. Rachel was nowhere in sight. I crossed the space without slowing and hit the revolving door hard enough that it spun me out onto the sidewalk in a rush of street noise and ordinary daylight.For a second I just stood there.People moved around me—suits, phones, a courier with a

KILLIAN POV Morning came too early and without any of the relief sleep was supposed to bring.I woke before the alarm with the argument still sitting behind my eyes—the wall, his mouth, the mug, the way I had walked out of the Hale tower like distance could finish what the words had started. Beside me Maya was turned toward the window, breathing even. For a few minutes I only stared at the ceiling and catalogued what my body still remembered. The faint tenderness in my lower lip. The shame that rose every time I thought about how hard I had been in his hand. The cold certainty that he would not treat yesterday as an ending.I got up carefully.In the kitchen I made coffee and stood at the counter while the apartment stayed quiet. The cancelled show, the fall scraps Elias had offered, the bruise I had left on Brandon’s temple—all of it arranged itself into a single line I still had not fully placed in this house. Maya knew I had gone to see him. She knew we had fought. She did not kno

KILLIAN POV Brandon’s POV)The message showed as delivered.It stayed that way through the evening and into the next morning no reply, no read receipt shifting into something useful, only the clean line of text sitting in a thread that had never needed many words to do its work. You left something unfinished. I’m not in the habit of leaving things unfinished. I had sent it from the car on the way out of the tower, temple still aching, collar still faintly stained under a fresh shirt, the argument still arranged in my head in the order he had thrown it at me.By morning the thread had changed.Not with an answer. With a block.I stared at the notification on the encrypted secondary line long enough for the coffee in my hand to go cold. A block was a boundary drawn by someone who still believed boundaries worked on me the way they worked on ordinary men. It was also information. Someone had told him to do it, or he had decided the silence needed a harder edge. Either way, the move had