4. Talia

Chapter 4

Talia

K ieran walks toward me across the shadowed cement, every inch a wolf on the prowl. Long, loose limbs in the same sweatpants from this morning. A hooded sweatshirt encasing his torso. Broken-in sneakers. Squared shoulders with no hint of tension. His walk tells me he knows his own body and the impact of the space he takes up, but that he isn’t cocky about it. His grace suggests a history with martial arts but also vividly reminds me of watching a younger, skinnier man float backward over cobblestones.

A man shadows him, the same one I glimpsed in the hallway outside my office this morning. Mid to late forties. Blond buzzcut. A few inches shorter than Kieran but substantially more muscled. His expression is watchful as he scans our surroundings. There’s a notable bulge at his hip under a light jacket .

I’m confident this is Sven Akerman, the man who called me two hours ago to introduce himself as Kieran’s chief personal protection officer and let me know his men would arrive ahead of time to “sweep and secure” the location. They were polite and professional, identifying themselves immediately at the gate. They, too, were armed.

I address Sven first. “Dylan and Gabe are currently inside and should be done momentarily. I’ve given them remote access to the outdoor security cameras. The interior feeds are automatically purged every night to protect my clientele.”

His roaming gaze pauses on me. “Thank you for accommodating us, Doctor.” His voice is a deep, distinctive gravel; I recognize it from our call. “We’ll keep out of the way.”

He looks at Kieran, who extrapolates meaning from a subtle shift in the man’s expression.

“Thank you, Sven,” he murmurs.

Sven nods, turning his back to us. Despite his bulk, it suddenly feels like he’s merely another shadow in the night—albeit a lethal one.

While I’m used to clients having security personnel, these men are on a different level. Clearly ex-military, highly trained and hyper focused on Kieran’s safety. All of which leads me to deduce being the CEO of Lumitech isn’t only about innovation and board meetings.

Putting my curiosity aside, I focus on the here and now. “Follow me, Mr. Hayes.”

As I walk into the building, his footsteps follow me down the central hallway lined by false walls. Industrial-sized can lights on the distant, unfinished ceiling provide ample light to the partitioned rooms on either side of us, each denoted by a brightly painted door.

Dylan and Gabe emerge from the last room on the left. The former gives us a nod and slips past us toward the entrance. The latter pauses to say, “All clear,” to Kieran before giving me a parting smile. “Thanks, Doc.”

When I hear the front door close, my curiosity becomes too much. I slow and turn to face Kieran. He stops and regards me impassively, but there’s a knowing glint in his eyes.

“Are you in danger?” I ask.

“You tell me,” he drawls.

When I merely stare at him, he releases a small sigh. “Not right now, no.” He pauses, his voice lowering. “I trust those men with my life, and so should you.”

I consider this and finally nod, knowing better than to ask for details. Like whether there have been threats or attempts on his life. We’re not there yet—might never be—so for now I file the information away.

Down the hallway, I stop at the third door on the right. Kieran stops behind me, close enough that I feel the heat of his body. I glance over my shoulder and crane my neck, waiting for him to notice the invasion of my personal space. His eyes widen slightly, like he’s surprised by how close we are. He doesn’t apologize, but he does take a smooth step backward so he’s no longer looming over me.

Blue eyes dance over my features before veering over my head. “Interesting place you’ve got here.” His bland tone doesn’t fully disguise his skepticism.

I smile slightly. “It gets better.”

I open the door and step inside, waiting for him to follow before closing it. The long room boasts a single large table, the surface cluttered with a disjointed mix of items: old televisions, computer monitors, glassware, lamps, cheap pottery, empty wine bottles, and more. Past the table is an empty space with a giant X spray-painted on the floor. Unlike the other three walls, which are plywood and plaster, the wall behind the X is thick cement.

Kieran looks around, a faint line between his brows as if he’s just now realized what he signed up for. As he surveys the rack of protective gear beside us, his shoulders lift a fraction. When he sees the hanging hammers and bats, they lift even more.

His cues of increasing discomfort—as minor as they are—are normal for those who have extreme, repressed emotions. An invitation to unchain the beast that lives within each of us is an inherently scary prospect. When it’s not a little frightening? That’s a cause for concern.

“Never been to a rage room, I’m guessing?” I ask as I pull a jumpsuit off a hook and hand it to him. XL because the man is a literal giant.

“No,” he grunts.

He stares at the coarse fabric in his hands long enough that I wonder if he’s going to bail. Then he blinks and turns away to pull off his sweatshirt, tossing it to the floor beneath the bats. Hesitance leaks from every jerky movement of his limbs as he steps into the jumpsuit and zips it up.

I make a split-second decision and grab one for myself, pulling it on swiftly over my clothes. Another break from habit; I usually let my clients have the space to themselves, observing via CCTV from my onsite office. I don’t dwell on it—every client is different. And this one might be the most different I’ve ever had.

I swipe a pair of protective glasses and gloves, and he does the same.

“What are the rules?” he asks, voice as tense as his shoulders.

Striding to the table, I grab a wine bottle and hurl it hard at the cement wall. It shatters on impact, raining glass over the X.

I smile back at him. “Who said anything about rules?”

An hour later, I hand Kieran one of the water bottles I retrieved from the fridge in my office. He accepts it with a mumbled, “Thanks,” and drains it in a series of convulsive swallows.

A bead of sweat drips from his hairline to his jaw. His skin is flushed. The top half of the jumpsuit hangs loose around his waist, exposing a damp black T-shirt that clings to his chest and stomach. After an initial, purely selfish perusal of his muscled arms, I make it a point to ignore them. Especially the veins in his forearms and the freckles strewn across them like grains of sand.

“Your sweat smells like alcohol,” I say after taking a sip of water.

A smirk tilts his lips. “I’d be surprised if it didn’t.”

I take another sip. “How do you feel?”

He studies the mess we made. The painted X is barely visible beneath the destruction. Behind us, the table is empty.

A delayed chill skates down my spine as I reflect on Kieran’s rage. Mostly silent. Deceptively mild. Like an earthquake deep in the ocean that isn’t felt until its result—a tsunami—hits land.

I broke the wine bottle, a lamp, and a porcelain bowl.

He obliterated everything else.

“Tired,” he answers. There’s a long pause. “I still don’t want to talk about my problems.”

“I don’t recall asking about them.”

He huffs, eyes alighting briefly on my face. “Do you want me to say I feel better? I don’t. But I’ll probably sleep tonight, so that’s a positive.”

I nod. “Fair enough. What do you normally do on a Saturday night?”

There’s a minuscule pause. “Drink and fuck.”

My stomach flutters, but my voice stays calm. “And what’s a normal Sunday like for you?”

A line appears between his brows. “Why?”

“Just answer the question, Mr. Hayes. ”

Amusement flares in his eyes. “For Christ’s sake, call me Kieran.”

I take an aggressive step toward him. He stills, eyes hardening, fingers clenching on the water bottle and making the plastic crackle. I stare up at him, showing him the predator inside me and how utterly unimpressed she is.

“I’ll call you by your first name when you stop being a brat, Mr. Hayes. ”

His eyes widen, then narrow, glittering. But the worst of his rage is already spent, the beast inside him too tired to do more than snarl. Which doesn’t mean the aftermath isn’t still a viable threat. He’s going to crash hard. Since I set the process in motion, it’s my responsibility to try to defuse it before he leaves. If I can’t… well, he has three babysitters. Hopefully they can contain him tomorrow.

When his lips twitch, I breathe a mental sigh. He maintains the stony expression for another moment, then gives in and laughs. A real laugh, warm and deep. I ignore the pleasant vibrations of it in my chest.

He finally calms. Someone new looks out of his eyes. Or perhaps someone old—a memory of a different, more lighthearted man. An echo of a boy I didn’t really know but whose irreverent optimism probably saved my life.

And I wonder if he can be resurrected.

“You sounded just like my mam.”

“I like her already.”

He laughs again, but it lacks the previous warmth. “Do you call all your clients brats when they don’t dance to your tune?”

I shrug. “If the shoe fits.”

All traces of humor vanish from his face, replaced by unnerving focus. My heart thuds a warning that my mind translates and my instincts confirm. I suddenly know where this conversation is headed and have a good idea who’s to blame.

He shifts half a foot closer. If I were anyone else, I might take a step back. But I’m not, so I only tilt my head more to maintain eye contact.

“The shoe does not fit,” he murmurs. “But out of curiosity, how do you require brats to address you in return?”

I was right.

Dammit, Gail.

I’m not ashamed of my past work as a dominatrix—especially since it helped pay for my degrees—but it’s also not something I advertise, especially to male clients. It creates… problems.

“I assure you there will be no scenario in our work together for which you’ll need to call me anything but Dr. Stirling.”

He growls, “Good to find we’re on the same page.”

Subduing the urge to roll my eyes, I redirect. “Now that that’s settled, I have some homework for you.”

His brows lift. “Is that so?”

I cock my head. “Unless you’re no longer willing and would prefer to end things now. ”

The spark in his eyes tells me I’ve pissed him off again, but the heat fades after a moment.

“What’s the homework, Dr. Stirling?”

I don’t miss the slight emphasis on my name. Nor am I able to completely ignore a burst of dangerous curiosity. An image flashes in my mind—alarming, provocative—and I pick it up and throw it much as I did the wine bottle. Thankfully, it, too, smashes on impact.

“No drinking. Monday morning, you’ll go back to work. Keep your workdays under ten hours. Exercise in the mornings. Eat three healthy meals. Go to sleep early. Be at my office at seven p.m. on Wednesday.”

He bares his teeth. “Oh? Is that all?”

I lift a hand. “Before you throw another tantrum, consider something for me. Would you be this offended if a man of my qualifications gave you the same instructions?”

His chest rises, then falls as he slowly exhales. Chagrin darkens the skin of his neck. “Probably not, no.”

I smile. “Kudos for self-awareness. You have my number. Feel free to call me if you need to. Otherwise, I’ll see you Wednesday. Any questions?”

He sighs. “No.”

“Then we’ll call it a night.”

I step outside the room and wait for him to join me. He emerges a minute later sans jumpsuit, his sweatshirt back on. The hood is up, dark hair fanning his cheeks. My heart snaps against my ribs; I stare a beat too long.

“What?” he asks, eyes wary .

I think fast. “Just deciding whether or not to tell you I’m proud of the work you did tonight.”

He smirks. “Better not. Might go to my head.”

My lips press against a smile. We don’t speak as I walk him out. He doesn’t say goodbye, just slips into the back seat of his car after Sven opens the door for him. The man gives me a long look, then a nod that probably means something I’m too rattled to decipher. Dylan and Gabe hop into an identical BMW and I open the gate for their caravan.

Once they’re gone, the gate closed again, I lock up the warehouse and retreat to my car. I don’t start it, knowing I can’t drive until I allow myself to feel the effects of the last hour. To purge the emotional transference from watching Kieran destroy property with the same ruthless savagery he might have displayed against a hated enemy on a long-ago battlefield.

Fine tremors take ahold of my muscles. Energy with no outlet zings beneath my skin while delayed fear softens the edges of my vision. Inhaling slowly through my nose, I count to four, then release the breath from my mouth. I do it several times until intellect overcomes the primal response.

I’m not afraid of Kieran Hayes. I’m afraid for him—and, if I’m honest, for myself.

I’ve traveled many dark, twisted roads with my clients over the years. Some would say it’s my specialty. I’m an excavator of hidden realms, a hunter of the psyche’s most warped, stubborn treasures. But I’ve never felt so out of my depth. Never struggled so hard to remain safely outside the vortex of their pain.

And it’s only the first day.

Closing my eyes, I relive the peak of his rage. The repeated swing of a bat against a computer monitor on the floor. Muscles straining, lungs heaving like bellows. Blow after blow. A mindless machine. Then like a switch was flipped or a plug pulled, he stopped. The head of the bat clanked on the floor, the grip loose in his fingers. For thirty seconds, he stared at what he’d done.

Then he looked at me, and what I saw in his eyes… He might as well have been on his knees, begging me to save him. For those brief moments, he was unveiled. Raw and helpless and so exquisitely broken. Our prior roles fundamentally reversed.

“Fuck,” I whisper, thudding my forehead repeatedly against the steering wheel. The physical jolts are jarring rather than painful. As intended, they drag me from the rabbit hole of my thoughts.

Straightening, I start the car.