PHEOBE THORNE
First Person
It was a rare morning. Almost… soft.
Snow dusted the mountain's edge like powdered sugar. The windows of Safe House 9 bled golden with weak winter sunlight, and for the first time in days, Killian wasn't looming like a prison guard.
He was in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, wrists flexing as he brewed coffee like a ritual — dark, obsessive, silent.
And I?
I wore his shirt.
Not for seduction. Not this time.
Just because it smelled like something steady. Like burnt cedar and secrets and things that didn't break when you leaned on them.
I walked across the living room barefoot, mug in hand, humming something under my breath — the kind of tune you can't name, only feel.
And that's when I saw it.
A flicker of red.
On my chest.
Centered.
A small, round dot — like a cruel joke. Like someone had reached into my ribs and painted a target on my heart.
I froze.
Everything inside me froze.
Not fear. Instinct.
I'd seen it before — in the news, in films, in files I wasn't supposed to read. But never on me. Never for me.
The sniper's dot.
Then I heard it.
Glass.
Shattering.
"DOWN!"
A roar.
A shadow surged from behind me like a black wave — a force, a body, Killian — and suddenly I was flat on the floor with his arms around me and his weight crushing the air from my lungs.
The second shot cracked through the air like a whip.
Then — silence.
Too quiet.
Wrong kind of quiet.
His hand was over my head, shielding. One arm across my back, caging me in.
My ears rang.
My heart… didn't.
I couldn't hear it.
I couldn't feel it.
"Killian?"
No answer.
Just a breath. Ragged.
Another.
And then... I felt it.
Warmth.
Wet warmth.
Seeping through the back of my shirt.
Sticky.
Dark.
Slow.
Blood.
His.
"No," I whispered.
He still didn't move.
"Killian."
His grip stayed firm. Protective. Fierce. Unrelenting.
Even with a bullet inside him.
I clawed out from under him, shaking so hard I nearly cracked. His shoulder — bleeding. Gushing.
A clean shot.
Too clean.
His face was pale, eyes slitted, jaw clenched like it was the only thing keeping him conscious.
"You're hit—" I choked.
"Wasn't aiming for me," he grunted. "You okay?"
He asked me that.
While bleeding.
I stared at the hole in his shoulder, my hands stained red just from touching him. My brain scrambled for something — anything — from the first aid training I'd ignored at prep school.
"Okay, okay, pressure, we need—where's the med kit?"
He didn't answer.
He just looked at me.
And for the first time since I met Killian Cross, I saw something that terrified me more than any sniper rifle:
Pain.
Real.
Human.
Bleeding-through-his-control kind of pain.
I dragged him to the couch.
He didn't protest.
Didn't help either.
Which meant it was bad.
His shirt was soaked, and beneath it, a jagged wound screamed up from his shoulder blade.
"You need a hospital."
"No."
"You need stitches."
"No."
"Killian, you're not Superman."
"No. But I am the reason you're not dead."
That shut me up.
Not because he was right.
But because the guilt stabbed sharper than the bullet ever could.
I patched him up.
Shaky fingers. Swearing under my breath. Knees pressing into hardwood floors as I tried not to look like I was crying.
He hissed once.
Twice.
But didn't move.
Not even when I said, "Why did you do that?"
He blinked slowly. "Because it was you."
That's all.
No dramatic speech.
No vows of protection.
Just that.
It was me.
I don't remember falling asleep on the couch beside him.
But I remember waking up.
Sometime near dawn.
To him sitting up.
Shirtless.
Bandaged.
With a Glock in one hand and a satellite phone in the other.
His voice was low.
Dangerous.
Not like a soldier.
Like a killer.
"No one should've known where we were," he said into the phone. "We scrubbed the files. Check again. I want names. Now."
Pause.
"You know what I do to leaks, Wallace. I make them bleed where their loyalty used to be."
He ended the call and looked up.
Saw me awake.
He didn't flinch.
Just said, "They've made it personal now."
I sat up. "So what happens next?"
He stood.
Still injured.
Still terrifying.
But this time...
There was a war in his eyes.
"Next," he said, "I start hunting."
CHAPTER 12 — HOSPITAL LIES
POV: Phoebe Thorne
The scent of blood isn't just metallic. It's personal.
It clings to me. Warm, raw, screaming. A memory before it's even a memory.
Killian's blood.
It soaked my white silk blouse like red ink on innocence.
I hadn't stopped shaking since he shoved me down behind that stone pillar, just before the shot cracked the sky and chaos swallowed the rooftop. The sniper's dot had marked my chest like a kiss of death—and Killian had taken the bullet meant for me.
And now, I'm running.
Not away from danger, but straight into it. Through sterile white halls that smell like ammonia and denial. My heels clack violently against the polished floor of Saint Aurelia Medical. People stare. I don't care.
Because the man I love—no, the man I can't love—is bleeding out in trauma room three.
"Excuse me, ma'am—"
The nurse reaches for me. I flash her a glare I inherited from three generations of politicians and powerbrokers.
"I'm his fiancée," I snap, before I even realize what I've said.
And just like that, the world parts for me.
Like I belong here.
Like I matter to him.
The doors swing open, and I rush into a room too bright, too clean, too loud. Monitors beep like ticking time bombs. A trauma doctor barks orders. Scrubs blur past in chaos-colored motion. But all I see is him.
Killian Cross.
Laid out on the surgical table, pale as the sheets beneath him. His shirt is shredded, soaked dark crimson. A line of sweat gleams on his temple. His chest rises and falls shallowly, rhythm slow.
One of the nurses turns. "You shouldn't be—"
"She's his fiancée," the doctor says without looking up. "Let her stay."
My lie swells into reality.
I walk to the side of the bed, legs numb, eyes locked on his face. "Killian," I whisper. "You idiot."
He stirs slightly. A tremor. A muscle in his jaw twitches. His lips part.
"Phoebe," he rasps, barely audible.
And then he's gone again.
The hours crawl.
They let me stay in the private waiting room because I'm "family." I don't correct them.
My blouse is stiff with dried blood. I keep touching my collarbone, as if the red dot might still be there. As if the sniper's laser branded me.
Why did he do it?
Why did he save me?
He could've let me die. Hell, I'd made it easy for him.
Maybe he thought it was just part of the job.
Or maybe… he didn't think at all.
Two hours later, the surgeon walks in. White coat. Worn eyes. Bloody gloves gone. He peels off his mask.
"He's stable," he says.
The room spins. I grip the edge of the chair so I don't fall. "Stable?"
"He's lucky. The bullet missed his lung by a few centimeters. Broke two ribs. No internal bleeding. We removed the round. He'll need rest. But he's going to be fine."
Relief tastes like acid. I choke on it.
"You can see him once he's moved to recovery. We'll inform the next of kin."
I stiffen. "That's me."
The doctor raises a brow. "You're not listed in his military records."
I lie again. "We just got engaged. He's... protective."
The doctor nods. "Makes sense. He took a bullet for you."
No. That wasn't protection. That was madness.
His hospital room is dim.
Soft light from the bedside lamp spills over his bandaged torso. Tubes snake into his veins. Machines hum with life. And him?
He looks like war incarnate.
Even unconscious, his body is tight, muscles coiled like they're waiting to spring. His jaw locked. His brow furrowed.
Killian doesn't sleep like mortals.
He sleeps like a loaded gun.
I drag the chair beside his bed and collapse into it.
For the first time since the rooftop, I let myself feel the fear. The overwhelming, gut-wrenching fear that he might have died. That he might've bled out before I ever got to ask him why.
Why he hates me.
Why he saves me.
Why he's still here.
"You didn't have to do it," I murmur. "You're not Superman. You're not my savior. You're just—"
"I'm just your bodyguard," he mutters.
My heart stops.
His eyes crack open, sleepy and slow and entirely too alive.
"How long have you been awake?" I ask.
"Long enough to hear your emotional monologue," he croaks.
I shoot up from the chair. "You asshole."
He winces, lips twitching. "Ow. My ribs. Insults hurt more now."
"You jumped in front of a sniper."
"I noticed."
"You could've died, Killian."
"And you could've been dead if I hadn't."
Silence.
It slams between us like a steel door. Heavy. Unyielding.
"I told them I was your fiancée," I say.
His eyes narrow, but his voice is even. "Why?"
"Because they wouldn't let me in. And I couldn't stand being on the other side of that door not knowing if you were—"
I stop.
His gaze pierces mine. "Say it."
"No."
"Say it, Phoebe."
I turn away. "You already know."
"I want to hear you say it."
I cross my arms. "I couldn't stand not knowing if you were dead. Happy now?"
He smiles faintly. "Not happy. Just alive."
My chest aches in ways I can't explain.
I pace the room, trying to wrestle the emotion back into its cage. But it's clawing out now.
"I don't get you, Killian. You act like you can't stand me. You track my every move, control everything I say, treat me like a hostile target. And then you throw yourself in front of a bullet for me like I'm precious cargo."
He doesn't answer right away.
When he does, his voice is rough. Real.
"I don't get me either."
I stop.
He shifts on the bed, pain flashing across his face.
"I was trained to protect. Not to feel. Not to want. You…" He swallows. "You make me forget that."
My breath catches.
"You make me reckless," he says. "And if that's not dangerous, I don't know what is."
I walk back to the bed slowly. My fingers brush his.
"Then be reckless with me," I whisper.
His eyes search mine like he's trying to read the fine print of a contract that could end his life.
"I don't want to lose control."
"Too late."
He pulls our hands together, squeezing gently. "They'll use this against you. Against us."
"I know."
"We can't—"
"Then don't kiss me."
His eyes flare.
I lean in.
"Don't kiss me," I murmur, "unless you're ready to break every rule we both swore to live by."
Our faces are inches apart. His breath mingles with mine.
"Phoebe," he rasps.
But then a knock.
The door swings open.
"Miss Thorne?" It's a nurse. "We have a situation."
I step back. Too fast. Too late.
"What kind of situation?" I ask.
The nurse glances nervously at Killian. "Security said a man claiming to be your fiancé is downstairs. He's demanding to see you."
I freeze.
Killian goes still.
And suddenly, every molecule of air feels weaponized.
"Did he give a name?" I ask.
The nurse nods. "Julian Westbrook."
My ex.
My ex who tried to sell my secrets to the press.
My ex who had political ambition, no soul, and a temper that bruised more than pride.
I glance at Killian.
His eyes are wildfire.
"Send him away," I say.
But Killian's voice cuts sharp. "No. Bring him up."
The nurse hesitates. "Sir?"
"Bring. Him. Up."
She vanishes like smoke.
I round on him. "Are you insane?"
"I'm lying in a hospital bed," he replies. "Not much threat to him, right?"
I narrow my eyes. "You're planning something."
He smirks. "I'm always planning something."
And just like that, I remember why Killian Cross is the most dangerous man I've ever met.
Because even when he's bleeding… he's still playing chess ten moves ahead.
TO BE CONTINUED...