PHEOBE THORNE – JOURNAL ENTRY: NOT THAT I KEEP ONE. BUT IF I DID...
The envelope with my name on it might as well have had a bullet inside.
Killian hadn't spoken since we got back in the SUV. The drone was gone. The envelope was in his jacket. And I?
I was spiraling.
Because someone out there — someone with a grudge — didn't just know I had a bodyguard.
They knew what I'd done to the last one.
Which made one thing very, very clear.
This wasn't about protection anymore.
This was blackmail.
No, worse.
This was personal.
By the time we reached the second safe house — deeper in the mountains, surrounded by pine and shadow — I was ready to claw the truth out of his throat.
But Killian Cross wasn't talking.
He parked. Got out. Slammed the door without looking back.
So I followed.
Of course I did.
Because no matter how much he wanted to keep me quiet, controlled, locked up like some pet with teeth...
He couldn't ignore me forever.
The second villa was colder than the first.
Smaller.
Older.
Like someone had taken a luxury hideout and scrubbed it of every emotion.
One bed. No WiFi. One fireplace. No power grid.
Off-grid in the cruelest way.
"Where's the rest of the security?" I asked.
"There isn't any."
"And you think that's a better idea?"
Killian set down the duffel bag like he hadn't just dragged me through hell.
"I think we've been compromised. I think someone's watching. I think the quieter we are, the longer we stay alive."
He looked at me then. Really looked.
"You good with that?"
I crossed my arms. "Define good."
He didn't smile.
Didn't blink.
Just pulled the envelope from his jacket and tossed it onto the wooden table with a thud.
"There's only one bed," he muttered.
"You taking the floor?"
"Yeah."
But I knew that tone.
That cold lie.
He didn't intend to sleep at all.
Hours passed.
He didn't move.
Neither did I.
I sat on the windowsill, watching dusk melt into ink. My breath fogged the glass. His shadow moved across the room in silence, pacing like a lion in a cage.
Neither of us mentioned the flash drive again.
Not yet.
Not when the silence said more.
Not when trust was a detonator waiting for a thumb.
At 2:11 a.m., he said it.
"I played it."
I turned slowly.
Killian stood against the doorframe, arms crossed, jaw tense.
"The file," he said again, lower this time. "I watched it."
My chest tightened. "What was on it?"
His eyes didn't leave mine.
"A hotel suite. Two people. You. And your last bodyguard."
My stomach dropped.
"What else?"
Killian tilted his head.
"Isn't that what you should be telling me?"
"I—" I hesitated. "It was a setup."
"That's not what it looked like."
"And I suppose you watched the whole thing?"
His silence answered that for me.
"You think I slept with him?" I said, heat blooming in my cheeks — rage or shame, I didn't know which.
"I think someone filmed you," he said. "And I think they were waiting for the right time to use it."
I stood. "It was four months ago. He crossed a line. I fired him."
"You mean your father fired him."
"Because I asked him to!"
"And now someone wants to make it look like you seduced him. Used him. Destroyed him."
His words were knives.
Sharp.
Fast.
But the part that killed?
He didn't ask if it was true.
He assumed.
"Why are you even here?" I asked.
His voice dropped. "To keep you alive."
"No," I whispered, stepping closer. "You're here because you're addicted to the way I make you lose control."
He exhaled once.
Ragged.
And when I passed him, brushing my fingers against his as I walked to the bed, I felt it.
The shift.
The crack in his armor.
The part of him that stopped being a weapon and started being a man.
I lay on the bed, back to him, staring at the flames in the fireplace.
They cast everything in gold and red.
Alive and flickering.
Just like me.
I heard him move.
The creak of the floor.
The whisper of fabric.
Then silence.
I rolled over.
He was sitting on the floor at the foot of the bed, elbows on knees, back to me.
"You could've asked," I said.
"About what?"
"The video. The truth."
"I didn't want you to lie."
I sat up, pulling the blanket around my legs. "I don't lie."
He looked over his shoulder.
"Then why didn't you tell me about him?"
"Because I didn't think you needed to know."
A beat.
Two.
"Was he the first?" Killian asked.
"No."
A pause.
"The last?"
"Yes."
A silence settled between us.
Heavy.
Shared.
Then, slowly, he stood.
He walked to the edge of the bed, stared down at me.
I should've been scared.
Should've been furious.
But all I felt was heat.
Coiling.
Tightening.
"I'm not him," Killian said.
I nodded. "I know."
"If you try to manipulate me the way you did him—"
"I won't."
"Good."
And then...
He climbed into the bed.
On top of the covers.
Fully clothed.
But he didn't leave.
And I didn't ask him to.
For hours, we didn't speak.
Didn't move.
Just existed in that bed like two loaded guns pointed at the same heart.
I closed my eyes.
Tried to sleep.
Failed.
Because I could feel him.
Every breath.
Every flex of his hand.
Every time he shifted closer — not by intention, but by instinct.
Like his body was giving in before his mind could stop it.
Around 3:47 a.m., I whispered, "Killian?"
He didn't respond.
But I knew he was awake.
So I rolled toward him.
And pressed my forehead to his shoulder.
He didn't flinch.
Didn't speak.
But his breath hitched.
And his hand, slow and hesitant, reached under the blanket and curled around mine.
No words.
No promises.
Just shared silence.
A fragile thing.
But it felt like the only truth we had left.
When I finally slept, I dreamed of fire.
Not the kind that burns you alive.
The kind that makes you feel reborn.
The kind that only starts with a match.
And a dare.