PHEOBE THORNE
First Person:
I've always known how to make people uncomfortable.
It's a gift.
Or maybe a curse wrapped in lip gloss and broken promises.
But Killian?
He wasn't just uncomfortable.
He was unraveling.
And it made me hungry.
For answers. For control. For the tiny flicker in his gaze that said he wanted something from me and hated himself for it.
That morning, the air in the villa was sharp with snow and unspoken truths. My hands were frozen from washing dishes. His were scarred from God-knows-what, gripping a mug of black coffee like it owed him answers.
We hadn't talked about the bed.
About the hand he'd held.
The breath he'd hitched.
He was back to business.
Back to cold.
And I hated him for it.
Hated how he could just shut it off.
How he could touch me like I was glass one night and glare at me like a security risk the next morning.
"I'm not hungry," I muttered, pushing the breakfast tray aside.
"Eat anyway," he replied.
"I said no."
"And I wasn't asking."
His voice was all steel and gravel.
I looked up at him, letting my fork clatter to the floor.
"You don't get to control what goes into my body."
Killian's eyes flicked up from the file he was reading. "If your body gets too weak to run, I'm the one who has to carry it. So yeah, I do."
I stood. "You're not my father."
He stood too. "No, but I'm the one cleaning up his mess."
"His mess?" My voice shot up, furious. "You mean me?"
Silence.
Deadly.
And that's when I did it.
I reached for the drawer behind me, pulled the first thing my hand touched — a small kitchen knife — and laid it flat on the counter between us.
His eyes went to it instantly.
I didn't lift it. Not yet.
Just let it sit there like a silent dare.
"Touch me like that again," I said slowly, "and I won't aim for your heart. I'll aim lower."
He tilted his head slightly. Calm. Too calm.
"Go on," he murmured. "Pick it up."
I didn't blink.
I picked it up.
And before I could think twice, I closed the space between us and pressed the blade against his chest, right over his heart.
It wasn't sharp enough to cut through his shirt — not unless I pushed — but he stilled anyway.
Muscles tense.
Eyes locked on mine.
The only sound was my breathing.
Heavy. Quick.
His?
Steady.
Infuriatingly steady.
"I could make you bleed," I whispered.
"You could try."
I shoved harder.
His hand flew up — not to stop me, but to catch my wrist — and in one seamless, practiced movement, he twisted my arm behind my back, spun me around, and slammed me into the kitchen counter.
The knife clattered to the floor.
I gasped — not from pain, but from the feel of him behind me, flush against my spine, every inch of his body heat crawling into mine like sin.
"You done?" he growled in my ear.
"Not even close," I snapped.
His grip tightened.
"You don't scare me, Killian."
"Good," he murmured. "Because I'm not trying to scare you."
Then he spun me again, this time so fast I barely had time to breathe before my back hit the fridge and he stepped in close, pinning me without touching me.
Our faces were inches apart.
His chest rising. Mine heaving.
His gaze? It wasn't cold anymore.
It was burning.
And then...
His eyes dropped to my lips.
My heart stopped.
He leaned in.
So close.
So damn close.
I felt his breath on my skin. The tick of his jaw. The tremble in my knees.
He almost kissed me.
Almost.
But then...
He stepped back.
Just a breath.
Just enough.
The air between us turned to ash.
And Killian — stone-faced, jaw tight — walked away like he hadn't just shattered the last bit of me I was trying to keep sane.
I didn't move.
Not for a full minute.
Because the worst part wasn't that he didn't kiss me.
It was that I wanted him to.
Later, when I was alone, I found the knife where it had landed.
Still on the floor.
Still harmless.
But my hands wouldn't stop shaking.
Because the real weapon in this villa wasn't it.
It was him.
And maybe, just maybe... me too.