Chapter 44

Aurelia's POV

“You are ruining people's lives,” I said in a quiet whisper. "I'm not comfortable with that."

“Buy you're comfortable with being stalked by them, blackmailed into going out with a professor?" He asked, sounding amused. "I'm not ruining lives, Lia. I move problems out of your way,” he said, his voice calm as he reached for the glass of water on the nightstand. He took a long sip and then set it back down.

“You don’t get to choose for me,” I said, turning my face toward the window though the curtains were shut tight.

“I choose to keep you safe."

“Safe or trapped?” I asked, letting out a slow breath.

“Safe. Always safe,” he said, rubbing his thumb along the edge of the blanket.

“You scare me,” I muttered. My fingers twisted the fabric near my knees absentmindedly.

“You stay alive,” he said, lowering his hand to the mattress and leaving it there between us.

“I never asked for this.”

“You don’t have to ask,” he said, tilting his head until his hair fell across his forehead.

I pushed the blanket aside and sat up, sliding until my back touched the headboard of the bed. “You keep saying safe,” I said, pulling my knees close. “What does that even mean to you?”

Killian shifted on the bed and rested an elbow on the headboard. “It means you stay... Alice and unbothered."

“That’s it?” I asked, brushing hair from my face. “That’s all it is for you?”

He tilted his head and let a small smile show. “That’s the start.”

"Well, I am bothered by you."

"Because you want me."

“Killian..." I began, and trailed off, not knowing what to say.

”Yes?”

“The other day with Ivy—you were talking about a murder. Who was that?

“Oh yes, you seem to have a knack for eavesdropping,” he said, letting out a soft breath as he looked toward the dark window.

“Stop dodging,” I said, pressing my palms into the blanket. “What murder?”

“Names get messy,” he said, leaning forward so his hair fell across his forehead. “Better to think of it as a clean cut. You think she's innocent and I'm the bad guy huh?”

“That doesn’t make sense.” I moved another inch back though there was nowhere else to go. “Ivy isn’t some killer. I don’t love her but I know her. She likes money, men who give her gifts, maybe too much sex, but she isn’t a murderer.”

He traced a line on the blanket with his thumb. “And what does that tell you about her?”

“That she’s selfish and shallow,” I said, staring at him. “That’s all.”

He gave a slow nod. “You’ve answered your own question.”

“That isn’t an answer,” I said, heat rising in my chest. “You said murder.”

“I said what I said,” he replied, resting his head back against the wood. “Words are pieces. You decide how they fit.”

“You play with words,” I said, shifting so my feet slid down the sheet. “You want me to guess.”

“You’re sharper than you act,” he said, a small grin flickering across his face.

“Stop it,” I said, grabbing the edge of the blanket again. “Why were you talking like that if nothing happened?”

“Because something always happens,” he said, tapping a slow rhythm on his knee. “People think the ground stays still. It doesn’t.”

“You think you sound deep or like I don't know... some crazy philosoger... or you think you're in a movie... what? The blacklist? You think you're Raymond Reddington?” I said, rubbing my forehead. “You don't sound like him. You sound fucking insane.”

“Insane is a matter of time and angle,” he said, his voice light. “Stand on a roof long enough and the street looks like a wall.”

I shook my head. “You’re doing it again. Talking in circles.”

“Maybe circles are where the truth waits,” he said, a faint smile still there.

"You're doing this on purpose "

"Of course," he grinned. "It's great to see you confused."

I dropped my hands to my lap. “Did you really hurt someone? Did you mean that you can do it again and again?”

He met my eyes and stayed quiet.

“Killian,” I said, my voice sharper now. “Did you?”

Silence held the space between us.

I pulled the blanket tighter. “This isn’t a game.”

“No,” he said finally, slowly and evenly. “It isn’t.”

“Then tell me,” I said, leaning forward. “Tell me what you did.”

He reached out and touched the edge of the blanket near my foot, not looking at it. “Tell me something first,” he said. “Your father. Six years ago?”

My breath caught. “I’ve never told you that,” I said.

“You didn’t have to,” he said, eyes still fixed on me. “I know the story. Or the version they gave you.”

I stared at him. “What do you mean by this version?”

He shrugged, letting his shoulders drop as if the question was light. “Your father. Natural causes. Heart attack. That’s what they said, right?”

“That’s what happened,” I said, my voice tight. “What else would it be?”

“Natural,” he said, almost to himself, “is a generous word. Nature is a clever mask.”

“You’re not making sense,” I said, gripping the blanket until my knuckles ached.

“You ever think to check?” he asked, tilting his head. “Ask for the file? The doctor’s notes?”

“I don’t need to,” I said, my heart picking up. “Why would I?”

“Because blood speaks,” he said, running a hand through his hair and letting it fall. “Sometimes it sings for years before anyone listens.”

“Stop,” I said, shaking my head. “You’re making things up.”

“Maybe,” he said, a small shrug. “Maybe not. Have you gone to a doctor for yourself lately?”

I blinked at him. “Why would I do that?”

“Check your heart,” he said, voice almost soft. “Some things are hereditary, aren't they?”