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...