Page 62 of Crown of Lies

Steeling myself, I give him a curt nod. “Do what you need to do.”

I grit my teeth as he starts to clean the wound. The sting of antiseptic is nothing compared to the memories that keep finding their way to the front of my mind. I focus on my breathing, trying to keep it steady, but I can feel the tremors starting again.

No. Not now. I can’t fall apart in front of him.

I clench my fists, willing my body to stop betraying me. But it’s no use. The shaking intensifies, and I know Killian notices when his hands pause.

“It’s okay,” he says softly, his eyes meeting mine. “This is a normal reaction after what you’ve been through.”

I bristle at his words, hating how easily he can read me. “I’m fine. Just finish patching me up.”

He sets the gauze aside and grimaces. “You’re not fine. I’ve seen you like this before, remember? It’s PTSD. You can’t just will it away.”

“Don’t fucking psychoanalyze me,” I bite out, pulling away from him. “You don’t know what’s going on in my head.”

“Maybe not exactly, but I know enough. We can’t control what triggers these memories. Trust me, I know.” He ignores my huffed breath, continuing anyway. “You think I don’t have my own demons? I can’t wade into a fucking lake without having flashbacks of my mother trying to drown me. Random things can set it off, and there’s no shame in that.”

His admission catches me off guard, and I feel some of my anger deflate. Still, I hate that he thinks he suddenly understands me so intimately, even if he can apparently relate to this weakness.

No.

Nope.

I’m not going down this road with him.

Instead, I glare at him with my jaw clenched tight. “I don’t need your fucking empathy. Just patch me up and leave me alone.”

He doesn’t flinch at my harsh tone. “I’m not going anywhere, siren. You can push all you want, but I’m staying right here.”

“Why?” I narrow my eyes, my pulse still racing far too fast. “Because you think you understand? You don’t know shit about what I’m going through.”

His eyes harden, but his hands remain gentle as he finishes cleaning the wound. “I know more than you think. And I know you’re trying to push me away because you’re scared.”

“Fuck off,” I growl, shoving at his chest. “I’m not scared. I’m pissed off.”

He doesn’t budge, just continues working on my stitches. “You can be both.”

I fall silent, seething as he finishes. He might be right, but I’m not in the mood to hear it. And I’m sure as hell not ready toadmit it. The moment he’s done, I leap to my feet, ready to bolt from the room. But he’s faster than I expect.

His hand shoots out, grabbing my wrist and yanking me back. Before I can react, he spins me around, pinning me against the wall. His body presses against mine, trapping me in place.

“Let go of me,” I hiss, struggling against his grip. But there’s not much force behind the words. My breath is coming faster, my pulse racing—and this time, it has nothing to do with PTSD or flashbacks.

He leans in, his eyes fixed on mine. “You’re scared, siren. And you’re trying to hide it behind anger and words.”

I open my mouth to argue, but the words die in my throat as he tightens his grip on my wrist. Being manhandled like this should feel threatening, but instead, it’s doing something else entirely to me. Something I don’t want to admit or analyze.

My arousal bubbles up, unwelcome, mingling with the flood of other confusing thoughts and feelings I’m having. I’m aware of my nipples hardening against the fabric of my bra, of the ache building deep in my core.

“You don’t want to be comforted,” he says, his voice low and intense. “You want me to take control. To make you feel something other than fear.”

I try to speak, but he cuts me off, his lips crashing down on mine. The kiss is rough, demanding, and it sends a jolt through my body.

His free hand tangles in my hair, pulling my head back to expose my neck. The sting of his teeth on my skin makes me gasp, and I can feel him smirk against my throat. His hand slides down my body, reaching for the button of my jeans.

I start to protest, but he silences me with another bruising kiss. His fingers find their way under the denim, stroking me through my panties, and I moan, unable to hold it in another second.

“Tell me you don’t want this,” he murmurs, his breath hot against my ear. “Tell me to stop.”

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