Chapter 8

CHAPTER

EIGHT

Noah

I lay in the bed and watched Killian pull his pants on, then sit on the edge of the bed and shrug on his shirt, covering a body I'd tried to devour in all ways. I didn't pretend to know what this was, if it was anything, but he'd said a lot of things last night, said things that had made my heart swell, made me think I wasn't alone, made me hope there might be something more than living for today because tomorrow might never come.

"I'll be back tonight." His voice was thick from lack of sleep and from taking my cock between his lips. His hair, usually styled smooth, was a ragged mess, and his face had gained this weird thing called a smile. I hadn't known he was capable of that, but there it was.

"Hey?"

He looked over his shoulder, and I reached for him but let my hand drop, not sure if we were there yet. Not sure what we were.

"Be careful," I said. I'd never worried about him before. Never cared where he was or what he was doing. He was just there, always saving me.

He touched my hand. I raised my fingers, and his brushed mine. Not really hand-holding, but a soft, tentative promise of what could be.

"It's just a question," he grumbled, standing.

But he didn't ask my father questions. That wasn't how it worked.

I stretched under the covers and watched his gaze spill down my exposed parts, then pour over my bare leg, my hip, my chest, in all the places where his tongue had explored thoroughly a few hours ago.

It was a damn shame Killian hadn't had anyone in five years, because he was fucking dynamite once his fuse was lit. The love he'd lost had torn out his heart. I saw that now—saw him. And I was fucking scared as he headed for the bedroom door; scared he might not return, scared we'd never get to explore this crazy thing we'd discovered between us.

But the snow had stopped, and that life was pulling him back.

This cabin, this bed, all the things we'd done—it was already melting away.

"Stay here," he said, opening the door. He hesitated, and I told myself if he looked back, then it was real. He'd said it was real, said I was his.

But he didn't look back, and a little while later, the car engine burbled outside and the crunch of tires on snow signaled his leaving.

It didn't matter.

Even if we discovered who the liar had been, there was only one way out of this for both of us. One way my father wouldn't come for him eventually. For him to live, I had to die.

But that was okay. While he'd dozed like a sleeping dog next to me, I'd figured out what to do. When he came back later, we'd fuck, trying to make up for all the years we'd ignored each other, and when he slept, I'd take his keys, drive north, and keep on driving until the car ran out of gas. Then I'd get on a coach and keep running. It was the only way to save him. Because if my father suspected Killian and I were close, closer than fixer and troublemaker, closer than a mob boss's son and sometimes bodyguard should be, and that Killian had lied to keep me alive, Valentine King would kill him.

So I would run. Vanish. As good as dead. And the problem that was me would be solved for everyone.

I left the bed, washed up, threw on my creased but mercifully clean clothes, stoked the fire, and made breakfast. And waited.