Killian glanced down the sunbathed corridor leading towards the kitchen.
“No.” He unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled the sleeves on his dress shirt. “Give me thirty minutes.”
Leaving the man to punch that into his phone, Killian made his way through the strobes of sunlight. His feet clipped on marble with an almost skip to each step.
The excitement he felt coursing through him was an unfamiliar one. He’d never been the cause of another person’s happiness. He’d never been able to give someone something that meant a damn. Telling Juliette she was free of Arlo was practically burning a hole through his chest.
She stood at the sink. The water ran as she scrubbed her bowl and spoon. Killian followed the lines of her back in the soft material of her dress. The light from the French doors shimmered through the silky strands falling around thin shoulders. One foot was arched up on the toes while the other remained flat. He knew the moment she was finished when the foot was settled down next to the other one and she snapped off the faucet. The bowl and spoon were settled inside the dishwasher. She dried her hands and turned.
“Jesus!” One hand jumped to her chest. “I didn’t hear you come back.”
“There’s no need for that,” he said instead, gesturing with a jerk of his chin towards the dishwasher. “I have someone that takes care of those duties every day.”
Still breathing hard enough to make her chest rise and fall rapidly, she moved to the stove and hooked the rag back through the oven handle bar.
“I would feel bad if I left it for someone else.” A smile curled the corners of her mouth as she turned to him. “You sound like her,” she said. “Molly,” she clarified when he raised a brow. “I mean, you already have a deep accent, but when you were talking with her, it was very thick.”
It was a fact his father used to tease him over mercilessly. Unlike his mother and Molly, his father hadn’t been raised in Dublin. His accent had been more refined, audible and understandable by most. Killian had been raised by the three and together, they had given him something in between. While he couldn’t hear it, he’d been told several times that his accent was more pronounced in his anger or when Molly was around.
For Juliette, he snorted. “I haven’t got an accent.”
She chuckled. “Of course not.” She started towards him. Her smile faded and she was eyeing him with those furrowed brows of concern. “Are you okay?”
His hands moved into his pockets. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
One shoulder lifted in an indecisive shrug. “You seemed angry when you left and I—”
“You can’t,” he cut her off with more sharpness then was probably necessary. “You can’t worry. You can’t ask. You can’t know. Those are the rules. You’re not my girlfriend or my wife. There is nothing between us but sex.”
It was cold. Molly would have hit him for less, but it needed to be said. She needed to understand her place. The delusion of women who believed there was more to be had when there wasn’t was a problem. He wanted no problems. Not where Juliette was concerned. She needed to know right from the beginning what he expected. She needed to be aware of just how limited and emotionless their arrangement would be.
But Juliette, if she was hurt or angry, revealed nothing outwardly beyond the tilt of her chin.
“I only worried because if something happens to you before my debt is paid, I’ll be stuck with Arlo forever.”
It was a legit response, whether it was the truth or not made little difference; he would let her keep her secrets as he would keep his. After all, he wasn’t there to trade diaries.
He drifted deeper into the room, moving as close to her as he dared without touching.
“You can stop worrying then,” he said. “Arlo won’t be bothering you anymore. He sure as hell won’t be putting his hands on you again.”
His news didn’t have the affect he’d expected. Instead, her eyes went enormous. All the blood spilled from her face, making the bruises grotesquely bright.
“Oh God…” She stumbled back, away from him, her hands flying to her mouth. “You killed him?”
It was insulting and amusing that that was the first place her mind always seemed to go where Arlo and Killen were concerned.
“And if I did?” He circled around her slowly, taking a sort of pleasure in her panic.
She rounded on him. “Then you gave up a bit of your soul for someone who didn’t deserve it. Yes, Arlo deserves to die. Yes, I imagined doing it myself a million times. But he has no right to taint any part of you with his … his evil.”
That made him pause. His head tilted as he observed the woman standing before him.
“My soul.”
The two words sounded foreign and strange leaving his lips. It reminded him of the time his mother had hired lumpy Mr. Delavan to teach him German. Every syllable had come out gruff and clumsy and ultimately ended with Mr. Delavan throwing his coffee mug at the wall and storming out.
Intrigued by the novelty of him with a soul, Killian moved to the French doors and peered out at the sheen of light glinting off the polished marble. The late afternoon sun hung low and tired in the cloudless sky. The hint of a breeze made the leaves shiver on their branches, but never made it past the glass to touch his skin.
“I’m not entirely certain I possess one of those,” he murmured more to himself than the woman watching him.
“Everyone has a soul,” Juliette said quietly. “Even Arlo, although, I’m sure his is black and shriveled to nothing.”
He glanced back over his shoulder at her. “How do you know mine isn’t?”
“I don’t know you well enough to answer that.”
What had he expected? Had he honestly expected her to tell him he was redeemable? That he could somehow be forgiven for his past crimes? Did he want to be? It had never occurred to him before. What he’d done, he knew he would do again given the chance. He made no apologies for taking those lives. Did that make him evil? Did that make his soul black and shriveled?
His mother used to tell him stories of brave knights who would seek justice for their kingdom, for their king and princess. They were deemed as heroes, as a thing of honesty and integrity.
Killian wasn’t a hero. He wasn’t a white knight in shiny armor riding a white horse. He didn’t save king and country. He also knew the difference between fantasy and reality; only in a fantasy did the hero stalk, torture and murder nine men and expect a parade. Killian expected nothing. He had no illusions. None. His world was black and white and splattered by crimson.
“Killian?” The quiet click of her shoes moving, closing the distance pulled him from his thoughts. “Did you kill him?”
Turning away from the glass, Killian watched her draw ever closer and wondered what she would say if he told her yes. Would she call him a monster? Would she throw the contract back into his face and scream for him to leave her alone?
“No,” he heard himself say before his brain could finish wondering. “He continues to live, unfortunately.”
He saw her shoulders sag with her exhale. A fine crinkle formed between her brows that emphasized the relief and worry in her eyes.
“Okay.” She licked her lips. “Good.” She ran a hand through her hair, exhaled again and started to turn away. But she paused and turned back to him. “What … what did you mean he won’t be bothering me again?”
“I mean that I’ve handled the matter,” he said evenly. “It’s been dealt with. You and your family will be left alone.”
Her breathing grew steadily louder. “It’s done? It’s over?”
He inclined his head. “Aye. You’re free, Juliette.”
There was a distinct tremor in her hands when they lifted and flattened to her chest. Wet eyes darted away from him to focus on something just over his shoulder. He knew she wasn’t seeing anything, but she stood that way, unmoving as the impact of his words finally sunk in.
She finally turned those glossy eyes back to him, glimmering with panic and fear.