by Angel Payne
I followed, at least until reaching the doorway. Damn. Even now with tension clouding things between us, the sight of her yanked my cock to attention. The breeze played with the silky hem of her dress and the burnished ends of her hair, tempting me to reach out and play with both.
She turned her head to look down the street as the hourly light show on the Eiffel Tower started. In her eyes, I watched the light and dark dance together, fascinated by how her beauty accommodated both. It was a reflection of her soul’s strength and her heart’s capacity. Was I underestimating both? Should I just bring her in, sit her down, and tell her?
Tell her what? That the man she fell in love with isn’t who he says he is at all? That despite what the records say, he’s not really a Stone, and was only turned into one because of the family’s archaic ideals about an heir to the dynasty? That all you are is a stud horse with a glorified saddle?
I could practically write the script for the rest of that scene now. Oh, she’d smile in all the “right” ways, tell me that it just didn’t matter, spew the politically correct nonsense—but for how long? How many weeks, even months would it take for the masquerade to eat at her spirit, so dedicated to authenticity that even the damn paparazzi didn’t know what to do with her sometimes? How long would it take for me to hate the compromise I’d be forcing on her? This wasn’t like requesting she sleep on a different side of the bed or change her brand of coffee creamer. This was asking her to bend her moral compass and help perpetuate a lie in the name of the Stone empire.
A church clock somewhere in the streets below announced the arrival of midnight. At the same time, the wind kicked up, making her shiver a little.
“Come inside,” I bade softly. “It’s getting cold, fairy.”
I meant every drop of the protectiveness in my tone. I hated the thought of her getting sick. I’d caught a bad cold after Christmas and she stayed for an extra couple of days in Chicago to nurse the shit out of me—then gone home and promptly come down with it herself. I’d flown out to her place to repeat the treatment in reverse.
“I think, by this point, I’m fully aware of what my health can withstand, Mr. Stone.”
I had that one coming.
And accepted the blow in silence.
I walked out and draped my jacket over her shoulders. Though she still had her pashmina wrapped in place, the long scarf was a thin thing designed for fashion instead of warmth and it took all of two seconds for her to wriggle deeper into my covering. A fast glance of her gratitude, though given reluctantly, followed. I wasn’t about to push for more. Again not saying anything, I leaned against the rail and stared out over the famous city.
Down the avenue, the Eiffel still glittered. The show would only last for a few more minutes, the last one for the night. The lights of the city complimented the sight, a mix of modern and classic illumination that served up a magical representation of the city’s well-deserved nickname.
I meshed my fingers together. It was the only way to avoid hauling her into my arms. We should have been savoring this sight entwined around each other, not standing like strangers on a misty terrace, as good as miles away from each other.
“Kil, I’m not the enemy.”
“I know.”
“No. I’m not sure you do.”
“Professes the person who’s ‘not my enemy.’”
I rose and turned, deliberate about the challenge of it. I wasn’t sure what to expect in return, though her silent amber gaze wasn’t a shock. But the fingers she raised to my face, silently running along my jawline as the magic of that stare intensified? One perfect shock, coming right up.
My own hand lifted, as if drawn by the magnetic field of hers. When our fingers meshed, my whole body felt like the tower up the street, a thousand blinking strobes. Did she know what she did to me? Could she feel this, too, how she ignited even the darkest parts of me? Did she see how my life had lights before, but possessed light now—and how terrified I was of the dark now?
Decision made. I wasn’t going to lose her. If that meant some unconventional warfare, then so be it.
“Do you remember, after we first met, when you asked me to let go?” she finally whispered. “You begged me—hell, ordered me—to trust you enough to stop running. When I finally listened, you made me the happiest woman in the world.”
I scowled. She was moving toward a point, and I was fairly certain I wouldn’t enjoy it. But her touch and her voice were a goddamn hypnosis, turning me into her fool whether I liked it or not. “What does that have to do with—”
“I stopped running, Killian. Now you have to stop hiding.”
I managed to glower harder. “Baby, why do you keep thinking that I’m—”
“I’ve overheard things, all right?” She rushed on, reacting to the glare I hadn’t even begun to form, “Not intentionally. But Trey hasn’t been the most subtle bastard about any of this. He’s taunting you like a wild dog off his leash and peeing all over the furniture while he’s at it.” She let her hands slip down to my shoulders. “It’s because he’s confident you’re not going to yank back the restraint. Why?”
Of all the women in the world to fall in love with, I had to pick one with perceptive powers that bordered on supernatural.
“Fuck,” I muttered.
“Tell me,” she entreated.
“Fuck.”
“Killian. Dammit!”
I jerked away. Wasn’t gentle about it. My actions bore testament to the shit that churned in my gut before exploding to the ends of my limbs. If this were a movie, it’d be the part where the murderer watched his alibi unraveling, with all the evidence pointing to him.
No. No.
This isn’t going down like that.
I wheeled around and stalked back inside. The frantic pace of Claire’s pursuit, on the terrace then the carpet, kept up from behind. I halted her by spinning back around with one arm extended like some ridiculous sorcerer. Lame as the comparison was, I got the point across. She froze in place, only her chest moving, pulling in desperate breaths. As if I really had left a dead body behind in the rain.
“Dammit.” It snarled from me, slow and seething. “I am Killian. Fucking. Stone!”
For half a second, her mouth opened. A little. Didn’t mean anything. I’d seen the woman preface some fireballs of rage with less preparation. I should’ve known she wasn’t going to make this easy. Should’ve realized that with the soft squirm of her shoulders and the pleading moisture in her eyes, she’d unravel me worse than any raging comeback.
“And I’m the woman who desperately loves him.”
I grunted. Dropped my arm as my hand twisted into a fist—and wondered why it hadn’t morphed into the paw of an ogre. “Then do that,” I finally flung. “Love me, Claire. Stop trying to break me!”
Her mouth fell open again. A lot wider this time. “Break you? Is that what you really think I’m about here?”
I firmed my jaw. “You want the one-word yes or the extended essay answer?”
Her eyes narrowed. “You know what? Screw you. This isn’t some game show, Killian. I’m not going for the win and the designer dining room set for a prize just because I crack you open in some way.”
“Damn good to know,” I didn’t relent my gaze. “Because you’re well past the crack.”
She stepped back. The good news about her insightfulness? It had also allowed her to see the hundreds of places in my life where no other person, let alone a woman, had been before. With that recognition softening her features, she replied, “I know. And I’m grateful, Kil…but—”
“But it isn’t enough.” The pain of my own words backlashed on me. “Is it? When will it be enough, Claire? Or will it ever be?”
“Stop it. You’re making me the enemy again.”
“Right. Of course I am.” Bitterness lent me new strength. There was enough left over to spread my arms across the back of the couch, one of my favorite power stances. Over-the-top analogy? The longer this dragged out, the
more I thought not. Was this a lovers’ tiff anymore—or a battle of control? The thought of the latter should have encouraged me. I never lost such skirmishes. But had fate picked tonight to pop my cherry on that, too?
“I’m not fighting against you, Kil! I’m fighting for us.”
“And I’m not?”
“I didn’t say—”
“So your holy war is fine, but mine isn’t?”
“If we’re on the same side, it shouldn’t matter.” She came toward me again, elbows angled back, sexy skirt swirling, and anguish flashing in her eyes. “I’ve given you everything I am. Every corner of my thoughts, every secret of my heart, every drop of my love. I will follow you into any damn battle, Killian. I will defend you against any enemy that life hurls at you.” Her arms flung out, fingers spread and upturned. “I. Am. Yours!”
It wasn’t just her offering. It was her plea. I knew it, saw it, heard it…but was paralyzed by it. I’d been dumped into an emotional wilderness to which I’d never journeyed before, without a fucking compass. Fear was a monster in my blood while desperation ate at my gut. Fear was not part of Killian Stone’s vernacular. Desperation sure as hell wasn’t. They were never a choice in the survival guide from the first day I’d walked through Keystone Manor’s front door. Mentally, I tore them to shreds.
“You don’t think I know that?” I finally got out. “And dammit, I’m yours, too—”
“Are you?” Her head fell to one side. Her lips trembled. “Are you?”
I couldn’t conquer the fear this time. It was a damn demon, trailing fire from its claws as it dominated my guts, my chest, my limbs. Survival instinct took over. Attack or be decimated. And losing wasn’t an option.
“What the hell do you want from me, Claire? What? My fucking soul?”
She straightened her head. During the trip, a glare ignited every inch of her face. “Let’s at least start with the honesty of it, Kil. How about that for once?”
More of my gut tore apart. The sound of my name on her lips, spat like a necessity instead of whispered in adoration…it raged my instincts into a huger wildfire, fed by kindling of a raw, defensive rage.
“Fine. You want honesty?” I grabbed my jacket. Dug into the pocket for the velvet box I’d been hauling across Europe with us. A dozen times, I’d almost dropped to my knees with it. No kneeling now. With my glower on her, unblinking and unrelenting, I let the thing tumble from my fingers to where it landed, crazily enough, upright on the cushion between us. “How’s that for fucking honesty?”
Her lips parted. Her stare didn’t leave the box. “Wh-what…is that?”
“I want to marry you. That’s what that is. Honest enough? Real enough? Is that what you wanted, Miss Montgomery?”
Moments in life sometimes came with their own pre-sets of expectation. I’d learned long ago not to rely on those damn buttons—or at least thought I had. The pre-sets were blown to shit, and reality’s revision was a disaster of epic proportion. After Claire backed away from the couch like I’d tossed down a snake instead of a custom velvet box from Harry Winston, her chest vibrated on harsh breaths. I moved back myself, possibly wondering if I should’ve just killed a guy on the terrace. The stare she finally lifted at me, glistening with pain and tears, confirmed that.
“Really?” she shouted. “That’s the way you want to do this? That’s the way you did?”
Dinner was nothing but bile in my stomach. How had everything gone from the bliss we’d known in Italy to this fucking fiasco?
Pretty easily, ass wad…when you refuse to be completely real with the woman you love.
I was on the brink of spearing a mental middle finger at the voice when my cell rang.
The Celtic-sounding chime identified the caller as Britta. Back home, it was still late afternoon—but it was Sunday. A number of conclusions came to mind as explanation. None of them were good and all of them led back to one name.
Trey.
“What the hell has he done now?” I spat into the device. When I could hear Britta’s labored sigh but nothing else, I insisted, “Goddammit, Britta, out with it!”
“Killian.”
Her soft utterance made me sink onto the couch’s arm. It wasn’t uncommon for her to use my first name, but never in this somber, careful tone.
“What?” It spilled from the new pit of dread in my gut.
“You need to come home. Now.”
“Why?”
“Keystone Manor’s on fire.”
Chapter Five
Claire
Keystone’s burning.
The words played in my head on a continuous loop. Every time they hit my frontal lobe, a new meaning settled in with them, ranging from the surreal to the stunned.
I held Killian’s hand as we sat on the SGC jet, strapped in like ordinary passengers on a plane heading home from any other vacation. But as much as I wished it so, we weren’t. Though we flew high over the clouds, I had a feeling the bigger storm was only beginning.
Every time I tried to relax about the premonition, all I had to do was look at Kil for a fresh shot of stress. He fixed his gaze everywhere and nowhere, his eyes glazed, his mouth a taut line. I was sure I’d be able to look out in the clouds and find his mind…and my gut clenched while wondering if I’d ever connect with him again.
So I held on tighter. Meshed my fingers with his and gripped with every emotion I had, forcing myself to let it be enough for now. Afraid to let go. Half-sure that if I did, I wouldn’t be able to find him again.
I hated this feeling. Really, truly, hated it.
We’d packed our bags with the help of the staff at the Fouquet, assured if we’d left anything behind—and I’m sure we had—they would send it to us in Chicago. I’d been in robot mode ever since, simply going through the motions but more concerned about Killian than ever before.
“Keystone’s on fire.”
He mumbled the words for the hundredth time, pushing them to the brink of a question even as the proof glared at him from the news feed on his smart pad. The images were surreal. The beautiful manor I’d been to so many times, enjoying brunch on the veranda and even Thanksgiving in the grand dining room…now a scorched ruin. The kitchen wing was completely gone too, though it looked like they’d saved some of the outer buildings and the pool house.
“Keystone.”
His voice ached now, nearly like a child seeking comfort. His fingers twined tighter between mine.
“Killian?”
He swung his head but didn’t say a word. His eyes were red and weary but no longer distant. He searched my face incessantly, seeking…what? Forgiveness? Comfort? He had both from me already, and I desperately tried to communicate that in my stare. My heart was breaking for him. He looked scared and lost, and no matter what I said to reassure him, I knew I wasn’t reaching him.
Maybe going for the innocuous was best. “How long do you think the trip back will take us?”
He shrugged his shoulders, still not saying a word.
Okay. Strike innocuous.
With a decisive sigh, I pulled the arm rest between us up and patted my lap. He just stared at me, still clearly confused. I tugged on his shoulder, guiding his head down into my lap. “Come here, Mr. Stone.”
Though the positioning was awkward, he unclicked his seatbelt and shifted his weight to the side in order to lay more fully against me. I was shocked but heartened by his compliance, though I knew if I suggested we go lay in the stateroom, he would have said no. I gladly took this opportunity for the gift it was, stroking my fingers through his thick, dark hair, letting my nails scratch his scalp. Nearly the second my fingers made contact, his eyes grew heavy as midnight then drifted shut. He loved this more than anything when he couldn’t relax. Now more than ever, it relaxed me, too.
After a few wordless minutes, his breathing evened. His neck relaxed and his head lolled, heavy against my hand. I knew he was sleeping when he began to twitch every now and then, probably having dreams of what we were re
turning to. We hadn’t gotten any clear answers about exactly what had happened but the pictures showed the worst of the damage around Keystone’s kitchen and staff quarters. Once again, I prayed that the staff Kil had so much affection for had all gotten out safely. Though I hadn’t heard him asking Britta about any of them, I knew some of the stress he carried was directly related to their welfare. Sometimes, he could be an obstinate ass—but he was always an ass who cared about the entire world.
The flight attendant came by, bearing a thick navy blue blanket for him. After I helped her cover Killian, she returned with a glass of Chardonnay, placing it within reach for me. I mouthed a silent thank you, thinking that sometimes it was damn nice to be surrounded by staff who knew one’s habits and likes. Unabashedly, I took a huge gulp. Ohhh, yes. Wine beneath one hand, my man beneath the other. For the moment—and a lot more after that—I had everything I needed.
I let my own head flop back, seizing the chance for some reflection. The trip hadn’t gone the way either of us had planned, a thought tempting me toward an exhausted laugh. Understatement of the year, anyone? Hell…that disaster of a marriage proposal. My mirth dissolved as I fought to banish that moment from memory, while accepting it’d be burned there for the rest of my life. And yes…I could see the scorch marks in the back of Killian’s gaze, too. I wasn’t sure how we were going to put the pieces back together after all of it—and that part scared me to death.
I tilted my head to gaze down at his face, a rare sight in its utter peace. As thoroughly as he aroused my body as a man, he captivated my heart with this glimpse into how he must have looked as a boy. Perfect. Beautiful. Angles that captivated me like the flow of a Rodin statue, enticing my fingers to explore every mesmerizing line…
My heart couldn’t beat without him.
As awful as things had been in Paris, it remained the physiological truth of my being. But we had some major renovations to make, and I wasn’t convinced we had the equipment in our toolbox to make it happen. We’d both been out of our comfort zones. Way out. I’d witnessed parts of him that weren’t comfortable to take in, adding significant tears to my European travel journal.