The honeymoon suite smells like betrayal masked in sandalwood.
Room 409.
Key card handed to us by a woman who called me "Mrs. Blackwood" with a smile too sharp and practiced to be real. Like the whole world believes it now — that I'm his. That we're happy. That this isn't a national stunt dressed in ivory.
The elevator ride is silent.
The kind of silence that feels like standing too close to fire with gasoline in your veins.
He doesn't look at me.
I don't look at him.
But I feel him. Every breath. Every shift. Every glance I pretend not to catch in the elevator's mirrored walls.
The doors open.
Room 409 is too much.
Gold finishes. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Aurelia's skyline. A rose-petal bath already drawn. Champagne chilling on the credenza. A king-size bed so large it could host a coup.
There's only one bed.
Of course there's only one bed.
The door clicks shut behind us. We don't move. For a long moment, we just stand there, like statues posing for a lie.
Killian speaks first.
His voice is low. Measured. "There's a second room."
"Where?"
He jerks his chin toward the far door. "Adjoining suite. They offered it in case you wanted space."
I say nothing.
He walks over, opens it, shows me. A smaller room. Same view. One bed.
So that's the theme of the day: No matter where I go, there's always one bed.
I don't step into it.
Instead, I walk toward the suite's fireplace, toss my clutch on the velvet chaise, and say, "What happens now?"
He leans against the doorway. Arms crossed. Tie loosened just enough to make him look less like a soldier and more like a storm in silk.
"You sleep," he says.
I laugh. "In this dress?"
"You could sleep in fire and wake up untouched."
That line lands somewhere between a compliment and a dare.
I sit on the chaise, slip off one heel, then the other.
He watches.
Of course he does.
"Did you mean it?" I ask.
His brow lifts. "Mean what?"
"The clause. No falling in love."
He doesn't answer right away.
Instead, he walks to the minibar. Pours whiskey. One glass. No ice.
Takes a sip.
"I meant it," he says finally. "At the time."
"And now?"
He looks at me. Really looks.
Then sets the glass down.
Walks toward me.
Stops just close enough to feel dangerous.
"Now," he says, "I don't know what I mean anymore."
My heart stutters.
"Because you kissed me like it meant nothing," I whisper.
"I didn't kiss you."
"Exactly."
Silence.
I stand. We're too close. But neither of us moves.
"You burned the contract," I say.
His eyes flicker. "I did."
"Why?"
"Because it was already broken."
By who?
Him?
Me?
Both of us?
He lifts a hand.
Fingertips brush my shoulder. Barely. Like he's tracing the edge of a promise he never made.
"You're allowed to hate me," he says softly.
"I already do."
"Good."
His hand falls.
I exhale.
Turn away.
Walk to the window. Press my palms to the glass. The city burns gold below us. Like Aurelia's on fire and we're the match and the gasoline.
Behind me, I hear him move.
The click of his belt. The whisper of silk as his jacket drops to the chair.
"I'm not sleeping in the guest room," he says.
I nod. "Fine."
"I won't touch you."
"That's not the problem."
"Then what is?"
I turn.
He's standing at the bed now. Shirt undone at the collar. Body still coiled like he's ready to throw a man out a window.
I say nothing.
I don't need to.
He reads it in my face.
The truth.
The problem isn't that I don't want him to touch me.
It's that I do.
He walks into the bathroom. The door closes.
The sound of water running.
I sit on the bed. The mattress dips under me, soft like sin.
And I wonder what I would say to him if I wasn't so goddamn afraid of what he might say back.
He returns in a white hotel robe. Wet hair. Bare feet. Gun still strapped to his thigh.
Because Killian Blackwood never stops being dangerous — not even when he's clean and barefoot and two feet from the bed I'm in.
"Your turn," he says.
I stare at him.
"I'm fine."
"You'll be uncomfortable."
"Like I've ever been anything else."
He walks over, grabs the phone off the nightstand, and dials room service.
"Spa robe," he says into the line. "Size two. Delivered in five."
He hangs up.
"Do you always solve problems like that?" I ask.
He shrugs. "You weren't gonna ask. But I knew you wanted it."
The robe arrives in four.
He doesn't look as I change in the bathroom.
Or maybe he does. I didn't look either.
When I come out, he's on the bed. Lying on top of the covers. One arm under his head. Eyes closed.
I crawl under the sheets.
There's exactly thirty-two inches between us.
I count them.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
Silence stretches.
Then, softly—
"Phoebe," he says.
I don't answer.
"I lied."
I turn my head. "About what?"
"That kiss. At the wedding."
"You didn't kiss me."
He opens his eyes. "Exactly."
Pause.
"I wanted to."
My breath stutters.
"Why didn't you?"
He turns on his side. Faces me. Doesn't touch me.
"Because I don't get to want things."
My throat burns.
"I'm not a thing."
"No," he says quietly. "You're the only thing that feels real."
We lie in silence.
Thirty-two inches between us.
But the heat in the space is unbearable.
I close my eyes.
Try to sleep.
Fail.
I feel him move.
Just a shift. Nothing more.
But I feel it.
Then, out of nowhere—
"I killed someone once," he says.
My eyes fly open.
He's staring at the ceiling.
"He hurt someone who didn't deserve it. I told myself it was justice."
"Was it?"
"I thought so. Until I looked in the mirror and realized I'd liked it."
I can't speak.
He turns to me.
"Do you still think you're marrying a bodyguard?"
I stare at him.
And I whisper:
"No. I think I'm sleeping beside a loaded weapon."
He doesn't smile.
He doesn't deny it.
The city lights flicker across the sheets.
I don't sleep.
And I know he doesn't either.