Page 35 of The Final Contract
Her eyes flick to Finn. “I thought this was your night off.”
He shakes his head, steady. “Wouldn’t sleep a wink until I knew your place was secure.”
A flicker of light returns to her eyes. Small. Fragile. But enough.
The mood crashes again the moment we exit the elevator and walk into the lobby. Bags in one hand, my other resting at the small of her back, guiding her out. My gaze sweeps every corner as the doors open, scanning the lobby, the valet line, the shadows outside.
Three Ledger men are already stationed, covering angles.
I get her into the passenger seat myself, ignoring the valet’s offer to take her bags. I don’t let go until everything’s inside and the door shuts.
Her sigh fills the cabin when I climb in beside her, the sound deep, weary. Her head falls back against the headrest like she’s finally exhaled the weight of the night.
She feels safe with me. Safe enough to let go a little. I keep noticing it. And I like it. Fucking love it. Too much.
Which is exactly the problem.
Because every second I sit here, I’m split in two. Half of me wants to wrap her in armor, lock her away somewhere no onecan ever touch her again. The other half wants to tear that soft cotton off her body and bury myself inside her until she forgets anyone else exists.
Both urges are violent in their own way. And I can’t give in to either.
The duality drives me insane—because I can’t protect her cleanly, and I sure as hell can’t fuck her cleanly. And the longer this goes on, the more I’m losing my grip on which one will win.
The second we walk through the door, I know.
Killian didn’t say where we were going, but I can tell it immediately when he unlocks the door and ushers me inside. His place.
The air hits me first. It smells like him—clean, sharp, and threaded with whiskey. It’s disarming, like walking into a space I shouldn’t be allowed in, private and unguarded in a way he never is.
He carries my bags down the hall toward a room, leaving me standing in the middle of his living space. My eyes roam before I can stop them.
“You collect records?” I ask, a little surprised, noticing the shelves stacked neatly against one wall.
“Eh, I’d warn you against hearing me sing to them though,” he calls back. “My Irish tends to come out and it’s a bit frightful.”
The corner of my mouth lifts before I can stop it. “That Irish coming out a little wouldn’t be so bad, huh?”
It’s meant to be casual, teasing—but the words come out softer, heavier, like I’m hinting at something else entirely.
He reappears, one brow raised. “I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.”
I let out a breathy laugh, grateful for the banter, even as heat coils low in my stomach.
He gives me a short tour, his hand brushing along a light switch here, a wall there, as if reminding himself the space belongs to him.
It’s beautiful in a way I didn’t expect. All rich browns and leathers, dark grays and metal accents. Masculine, sleek, but lived-in.
Either he has an eye for interiors, or he hired someone with one. Either way, I like it. It tells me something about him—that even with the chaos of his work, he cares about the space he comes home to. Even if, from the look of things, he hasn’t been home much since he took on guarding me.
The realization tugs at me.
So does the guilt.
I should have told him sooner. About the stalker. About the notes, the roses, the way I’d brushed it all off as if ignoring it would make it go away. Naïve. Stupid. And now—after tonight—I know better.
It’s not just me at risk anymore. I see how wrong I was, and the weight of it presses down on me until I can hardly breathe. Someone could get hurt. Maybe even him.
And that thought cuts deeper than I want to admit.
