15. Kaden

15

KADEN

Layla stands on her porch with her arms folded when I slow my truck in front of her cottage the following morning, the ocean waves frothing against the weathered cliffs below. She's wrapped herself in a soft blanket since I dropped her off a few hours ago and returned to the warehouse for my things, the salty air tangling her hair under the eerie glow of the fog-twisted dawn.

That same brackish tang fills my lungs as I step out, the crunch of gravel beneath my boots the only sound between my grim face and hers.

The darkness in me thrives on this—the intimidation, the control—but there's a shimmering undercurrent of something else. Something disturbingly like guilt that I crush into nonexistence as I hoist a box from the back of the truck and stride up to her door.

"Don't you dare step inside," she hisses as a greeting.

I don't bother with a reply. Instead, I shove past her into the cottage .

The space is cozy, imbued with an inviting warmth that I fight against absorbing. Her scent lingers everywhere, the same way it did when I first broke in to set up surveillance equipment—a disquieting mixture of florals and ocean breeze.

It sinks into my skin.

Unloading the box onto the nearby table, I let my gaze sweep across the room, taking in the peculiar blend of nautical history and her attempts at modern comfort. The ground floor is an open space, combining a small kitchen and living area. Exposed wooden beams crisscross the ceiling, weathered by years of sea air. Layla's added splashes of teal and coral in the curtains and throw pillows in a pitiful attempt to brighten the space.

A narrow, spiral staircase dominates one corner, leading to the upper floors. As I ascend, I note the walls lined with faded nautical charts and her father's amateur watercolor attempts at seascapes. The second floor holds a small bathroom and guest room, with Layla's bedroom occupying the former watch room.

The top floor, a sole octagon shaped room with windows for walls, serves as Layla's home office. Its glass enclosure provides a 360-degree view of the surrounding cliffs and ocean, but the inside is cluttered with more of her father's driftwood sculptures and collections of sea glass.

Layla's at my heels, her face colored and eyes flashing. I pivot, almost crashing into her.

"You have no right to?—"

I ignore her unfinished sentence and descend back into the bottom floor. I move briskly through the living room, deliberately knocking over a tower of stacked books and scattering them across the worn hardwood.

It's a cheap power play, but I can't deny the perverse satisfaction it brings .

"You son of a bitch!" Layla shouts from behind me.

I turn to face her, watching as she bends down to retrieve her fallen books. She raises her head to glare at me and something wild sparks between us—a dangerous heat that has me clenching my fists.

"Keep biting at my heels, and I'll go for your father's pretty artwork next."

"I'd rather you went for his stuff," she retorts, her lips shimmering with her spit. "I don't give a damn about his paintings. These books are my favorite of all time, and if you touch them again, I'll?—"

I cock my head. "You'll what?"

Her mouth twitches with all the profanities she'd no doubt love to hurl at me.

A burst of laughter rushes from my lips before I can squelch it.

"Are you always this fierce, or is it just for me?" I ask, my tone more mocking than curious.

Instead of voicing any of the ways in which she likely wants me to die, she collects her fallen books, cradling them like wounded animals as she storms over to the corner where a rickety bookshelf leans against the wall.

"Get out," she croaks, pointing toward the door behind me.

My amusement fades as quickly as it came. "You care more about your romance books than your father's legacy?"

Layla pauses and looks at me over her shoulder, a careful expression on her face. "Why should I?"

"They are all that's left of him," I say before I can stop myself.

"My father left behind more than enough baggage," she snaps, her voice brittle.

I arch a brow, advancing closer. Layla has no idea how close she's coming to treading on my weakness, the one aspect of honor I've retained, or how fast she'll trigger me if she so much as scoffs at it. "Family is everything, Layla. You should give a damn."

Her hands curl at her sides, the color draining from her face as I advance.

"My father left when I was a baby," she says in a tight voice. "He chose the sea and this fucking lighthouse over his daughter. Don't lecture me about giving a shit."

I blink, momentarily taken aback by the rawness in her tone. Even so, I press on, my anger flaring, ripping open old wounds. "Yet you live here, in his shadow. Why?"

"I didn't have a choice," she retorts, her voice choked with emotion. "Fictional worlds in books are better than fathers, anyway."

"Watch your mouth," I bite out, stopping only once we're inches apart.

"Oh, did I hit a nerve?" She looks up at me, her blue and brown eye narrowed, but a tremble to her lips betrays her bravado.

I stare down at her with an intensity that has her stepping back involuntarily against the bookshelf.

"You don't know a fucking thing about me or my father," she snaps, her voice quavering despite the fire in her eyes.

I lean in closer, relishing the hitch in her breath. "You're right. I don't give a shit about your daddy issues. But I do care about you getting in my way."

Her gaze darts to my lips before meeting my eyes again. "I'm not afraid of you."

"Is that so?"

Without warning, I slam my palms against the bookshelf on either side of her head. She winces as several volumes topple to the floor. "Doesn't seem that way to me."

Layla swallows hard, her cheeks returning to that beautiful, rosy red. But she tips her chin up. "Do your worst, then. It's nothing I haven't survived before."

A twinge of something unfamiliar stirs beneath my rib cage. I examine her face, taking in the dark circles under her eyes and the way her chapped lips tremble. She looks exhausted. Haunted. And much too young to wear such disillusionment.

Blinking away the alien sensation, I shove off the bookshelf and turn my back on her. "Stay out of my way, and there won't be a problem. For either of us."

I stride for the door to grab my remaining boxes, but her voice stops me cold. "How did she die? The girl you couldn't save?"

My breath stalls. My shoulders go rigid. And a deep black void takes the place of my thoughts.

"That has to be what drives you," she stupidly continues on behind me. "Because you carry your guilt like a shroud. It's in the way you move, the way you speak ... and the way you can't stand to see me reading about happy endings."

My hands fuse to my sides, knuckles turning piercing through skin with restrained fury. I don't know what's more infuriating: her audacious assumption or the fact that she's so close to the truth.

"Or maybe you're just jealous that a bunch of fictional characters are capable of finding the love that you can't."

I turn, slowly, my gaze scorching with a warning. A threat.

"Oh, you are so full of hypocritical shit." She releases an acrimonious laugh.

I snarl, an explosion of pent-up anger detonating in my chest as I storm toward her, forcing her to backpedal until she's pinned against the wall. Heat radiates from her body as mine presses against her, my voice a resonant snarl in my throat. "You know nothing about me."

Her breaths come thin and fast, her eyes wide but steady in the face of my rage. "I only know what you've shown me."

My hand flies to her throat, gripping tightly as my fury blazes unabated. "And what's that? That I'm just some heartless killer?"

Her lips part, but no words escape, fingers clawing at my hand as she gasps for breath. But dammit, it's the distress shimmering in those contrasting eyes that snuffs out my anger like a gust of wind extinguishing a flame.

I let go abruptly, stepping back as if burned. She slides down the wall, massaging her throat.

But those incredible eyes of hers remain bright when she rises, pushing off the wall and standing despite being cornered. "You're just a broken man trying to find solace in his retribution. But here's the truth: it won't bring her back."

Every nerve-ending in my body howls in denial, but instead, I find myself closing the distance between us until we're pressed together, my hands finding their way to her shoulders.

"Exactly," I snarl with enough force that she blinks in surprise. "So don't forget your place. You are nothing but a tool to me. Nothing but bait. Remember, I'm the one with the gun here."

Layla grips my wrist, her nails biting into my skin. But it's her piercing stare that adds to my scars. "Then use it on me already."

Red tinges the edges of my vision. But with a monumental effort, I force my fingers to relax.

"You don't know what you're asking for," I rasp.

I shove away from her and stalk out the door, slamming it shut behind me .

Only when I'm back in my truck, gripping the wheel, do I allow myself to exhale.

Layla's scent clings to my clothes, my skin, and pumps through the very organ I thought long dead.

And I wonder which one of us is more haunted.