Page 66 of Crown of Lies

Gradually, her shudders subside. She melts against me, her breath evening out as she relaxes completely in my arms. It strikes me how soft and vulnerable she is in this moment—such a difference from how she usually acts around me.

As I hold her, my mind drifts to the times I fucked her as The Phantom. Back then, I always had to leave right after she passed out, cleaning her up quickly before disappearing into the night. I never got to experience this part—the aftermath, the intimacy of holding her as she comes down from the high.

I’m surprised to find I like this maybe even more than the sex itself. There’s something profoundly satisfying about being here for her in this moment of vulnerability, providing comfort and safety after pushing her to her limits.

The room is quiet except for our breathing, which has finally slowed to a steady rhythm. I’m not sure what to say or do next, so I simply exist with her in this moment, stroking her hair and letting her take comfort in my presence.

Time passes, although I couldn’t say how much. Eventually, she stirs slightly in my arms. Her fingers trace along my forearm, pausing on a jagged scar near my wrist.

“What’s this from?” she asks, her voice hoarse after so much moaning and crying out.

I glance down at the mark. “My mother,” I reply, keeping my tone neutral. “She caught me sneaking food from the kitchen when I was seven. Threw a plate at me. It shattered, and a piece caught me here.”

Her finger moves to another scar, this one on my bicep. Her touch is gentle, questioning.

“That one? Cigarette burn. My mother again. I spilled her drink by accident.”

I feel her body relax further against mine as I speak. She traces another scar on my shoulder, and I tell her about that one too. The stories are awful, but I’ve distanced myself from the pain. I tell her each incident matter-of-factly, as if describing something that happened to someone else.

“You have a lot of scars,” she says after a while, stating the obvious.

I nod, my hand still stroking her hair. “Yeah, I do. It’s why I’ve never wanted to get tattoos or seen the point of them. I already have marks on my body. What do I need more for?”

She shifts slightly, her gaze meeting mine. For a moment, time seems to stand still. There’s something in her eyes, something warm and inviting that I’ve never noticed before. For just a split second, I feel the urge to lean down and kiss her. It’s a strange sensation, one I’ve never felt the need for before.

Instead, I brush her hair back from her face, my fingers lingering on her cheek. She leans into my touch, her eyes never leaving mine.

After a moment, she settles back down, resting her head on my chest. I can feel her breath against my skin, slow and steady. My arms tighten around her instinctively, holding her close.

We stay like that, silent and still, for what feels like it could be eternity but still not quite long enough. Right now, in this moment, it’s just us.

20

QUINN

I wake slowly,my body aching in a way that’s uncomfortable but well-earned. The events of last night flood back, and I feel a rush of warmth along with more than a little vulnerability. My muscles protest as I stretch, reminding me of how thoroughly Killian used me.

Opening my eyes, I realize I’m still in his bed. The sheets are soft against my skin, a welcome relief from the rough ropes that bound me hours ago. Killian isn’t here, but his scent surrounds me—leather, sweat, sex and something uniquely him. I breathe it in deeply, letting it wash over me.

For a moment, I allow myself to feel comforted by his lingering presence. It’s strange how safe I feel here, in the bed of a man who could still be my enemy. But last night was different. The way he held me afterward, the gentle way he stroked my hair and told me about his scars… it revealed a side of him I’ve never seen before.

I roll onto my side, wincing slightly at the soreness between my legs. My mind drifts back to the intensity of last night—not just the physical sensations, but the emotional release. I’d cried out, begged, and surrendered completely to him. It should make me feel weak or ashamed, but instead I feel lighter somehow.

Sitting up slowly, I survey the room. There’s no sign of Killian, but I can hear faint voices from downstairs. My clothes are in a pile at the side of the bed where he stripped them off of me.

I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and reach for my clothes before remembering how tattered and torn they are. Looks like I’ll be walking back across the hallway without anything on.

Whatever.

These men have already seen me naked.

I stretch instead, allowing my movements to become more deliberate, fueled by a growing anger. It’s not directed at Killian or even the other men. No, this rage is reserved for the faceless puppet master pulling our strings.

The more I think about the situation with The Saint, the more infuriated I become. Some mysterious figure is treating my life like a game board, moving pieces around for their own amusement or gain. I’m sick of feeling like a pawn, clueless about the rules and stakes.

I pause, gripping the back of the chair as a wave of determination washes over me. This isn’t just about whatever value I might have anymore. It’s about reclaiming control of my own damn life.

I step out into the hallway, bare-ass naked, but freeze as I pass the landing on the top of the stairs.

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