Chapter 10

Tori Townsend

Pulling over to the side of the road, I gently place the car in Park. It idles for a moment, rumbling and vibrating me in my seat, before I turn the key, shut it off, and begin toying with my black crystal bracelet. Everything falls silent, just like the thoughts in my head. I can't help but stare to my left at that yellow dotted line that divides the traffic. That's where I hit her; that's where I ended her life.

I can sense Killian curiously glancing around from the passenger seat. I look over at him. My face is blank even though my insides feel like they're ripping apart as the entirety of guilt that I've been ignoring slams back into me.

"What is this place?" he asks, peering at the field of lilies. The raincloud may have covered up the sun, but the white petals still stand out among the green stems.

"This is where I killed someone." My tone is devoid of any emotion despite feeling them all.

His head whips my direction, and he pinches his brows together. He looks me up and down for a second, probably seeing me in a different light. "So it was you."

"What?"

He shrugs a little. "The accident made the local news. You don't seem the murdering type."

"I'm not." I rake a hand through my hair. "At least, I wasn't."

"I don't get it," he rumbles.

Shifting slightly, I point to the road and blow out a slow breath. "I hit a pregnant woman there the other night, and she died in my arms."

He's quiet for several beats, and I don't dare look at him because what if I don't like what I see? What if I see fear? Rage? Or worse, sympathy?

"Did you know her?" he inquires quietly.

I give a small shake of my head. "No one does. The man she was running from" – I pull at my fingers until they pop – "they think she was in trouble or something. Kidnapped, probably."

Killian makes a humming sound of understanding at the back of his throat, and it's then that I chance a glance from under my lashes. He's searching the road as though he can see her ghost. I know that he won't find anything there. It's as though it never happened; the rain had washed away any evidence that anything had happened there.

He's so quiet, ever lost in thought, that I can't help but wonder what he thinks when he goes silent like this. What he holds back and what makes that secretive mind work, what makes it tick.

I don't know what it is about him, but he makes me want to learn more, to discover everything there is to know about Killian Savage. I want to know his story, and I want to know what he doesn't say and why he keeps it to himself .

Looking past him, I spot a wood bench that looks freshly made. The wood doesn't look splintered or worn by weather yet, and on the back is an engraved gold plaque that says, ‘Donated by the Wordon Family'.

I clear my throat and tip my head in that direction. "Want to sit with me?"

Before he has a chance to answer, I get out of the car and head to the bench. The ground is soft under my flip-flops, and the wet grass kisses my toes.

As soon as I take a seat, the passenger door opens and closes. For a second there, because he didn't join me right away, I didn't think he was going to come sit with me. Not that I'd blame him. I don't know him, and he certainly doesn't know me. The attraction is there though because why else would he imply that he'd screw me if I asked?

I've tried not to think about that because it would be too tempting and way too typical for me. But I get the feeling that if we did have sex, it would shift my life. Nothing would be typical about that, and I think that frightens me a little. It's probably the same reason I invited him here; because I felt some sort of connection – a different one than any friendships I currently have.

However, if he asked about sex again . . . I certainly wouldn't be capable of saying no.

He sits next to me and rests an arm on the back of the bench. We're quiet for a moment, staring out at the lilies, when he suddenly but gravely asks, "Why did you bring me here?"

I shrug a little. "Because you don't seem like the type who would overdose me with sympathy, and I didn't want to be alone when I came here."

The hum he makes again is deep and rumbly. We listen to the thunder in the distance and the birds that haven't sought shelter from the storm yet. "It gets easier," he suddenly murmurs.

I swivel my head in his direction. "What?"

His jaw clenches once, and then he's looking me dead in the eyes. "The guilt."

"Oh," I whisper. My gaze drifts across his face until it lands on his lips. "How do you know?"

"I know a lot, dollface."

My cheeks heat at the endearment, and I flick my eyes back up to his. "Care to share?"

He gives a small shake of his head, and an equally small sigh escapes me because I should have known better. "It's buried in the past, and I plan to keep it there."

My lips twist to the side, and instinctively, I scoot closer to him. If he notices, he doesn't say anything. "You must have had one hell of a life if it hurts too much to tell a stranger about it."

He cocks an eyebrow. " Are you a stranger?"

I try a smile at him. "I suppose not anymore. I mean, you do know a tragic thing in my life now, and you offered to fuck me, so . . ."

His chuckle is as deep as his hum had been, and the sound goes straight to my clit. It takes everything I have not to squeeze my legs shut. "What is this place? Why a field of random lilies?"

I exhale because, honestly, I don't know what he'll do with that statement, but he obviously doesn't want to talk about his past. So much so that he's switching the subject. "The flowers were planted in honor of Neil Wordon."

"I see that last name everywhere in town, and I read the article about his murder, but it didn't say anything about hundreds of flowers."

Tucking a hair behind my ear, I nod. "My best friend Tegan planted them. Everyone says she should have planted roses, but she said he'd had enough time with roses."

He turns a frown in my direction. "What's that supposed to mean?"

I wave a hand in the air. "It's a long story."

His eyebrows flick up for a second, almost as if they shrugged themselves. "My job came with certain downfalls."

My heart stutters through the next beat because I honestly hadn't expected him to share something with me after the subject change. "The getting people to tell the truth thing?"

The bun on the back of his head bobs more than his head does when he nods. The desire to let it loose and run my fingers through it is so strong that my fingers twitch. "There was a lot of death involved."

"I see," I whisper because I'm honestly too scared to say anything else. Another uttered word might frighten him off, but damn if I'm even more curious now. What the hell did he do for a living?

"Most of the time, it didn't end well. For anyone."

His face is devoid of emotion, just like mine had been in the car. I get that. Strong feelings can sometimes shut us down. "Including you?"

"Everything comes at a cost."

"Don't I know it," I murmur. Without a second thought, I grab the black crystal bracelet off my wrist and slide it onto his. "Here, you need this more than me."

"What is it?"

"A protective charm bracelet." I scowl because I had been wearing it the night of the accident. "I don't think it actually works, but it's worth a shot on someone else."

His frown is small, but he stares at the black crystals with curiosity.

Quietly, I continue, "Whatever happened to you to come this far west, I'm glad it did."

He lifts an eyebrow and turns his attention back to me. "Why?"

I shrug a little, and a ghost of a smile plays on the edges of my lips. "Because then you wouldn't have met me."

There's that deep chuckle again, and it gives me a thrill that I brought it on. He's like a treasure chest. I picked the lock, and the deeper I dig inside, the more treasures I find. "Your bossy, stubborn, sexy self?"

I blush again and look down at my lap. "Exactly." I wouldn't exactly call myself sexy. I may have been at one time, but since then, I've let myself go. Does he not see that? Or does he like his women bigger? I'm too nervous to ask him, but if I had to take a guess, I'd pick the latter one.

With the arm resting against the back of the bench, he raises his hand and twirls a finger in a loose strand of my hair. I nearly purr, and I dare not move.

"Look at me, Tori."

I glance at him from under my lashes again. "Why?"

"Because I want to see your expression when I kiss you."

I lift my chin completely, utterly shocked by his statement. He smiles at my wide eyes and slowly leans forward until his eyes close and his lips press against mine. I'm so surprised by it that I stiffen. However, his lips linger until I relax, and then he parts them and slides them along mine until I respond. I moan a little into his mouth and kiss him back, and my god, does it send electric bolts to every part of my body.

His lips are warm, and I don't know why, but he smells like cinnamon and that panty-melting, all-consuming aroma of men's soap. I didn't know I liked the scent of cinnamon until I smelled it on him. It swirls in my head, and I commit it to memory because I doubt this will ever happen again. I doubt he'll ever make another move on me and certainly not to kiss me this way.

Gently, his tongue darts out and traces the seam of my lips. I know exactly what he's asking for, and when his hand cups the back of my neck to tilt my head, I open. His tongue immediately dives inside, and I moan again because he tastes exactly as he smells. Pure. Undiluted. Powerful. Man.

I feel the kiss all the way down to my toes, and they curl against my flip-flops. It's automatic when I reach and rest my hand in the crook of his neck. The power under my fingertips is incredible, the shift of muscle when he leans a little more into the kiss.

A throat is cleared from behind us, and I pull away from the kiss. Quickly, I glance in that direction, and my soaring heart plops into the pit of my stomach when I find Pastor Kent standing there.