forbidden, locked door has cracked open, revealing a sliver of light.
He was a boy, his family was killed in a fire, and all that was left for him was to avenge their deaths.
I say quietly, “You knew who did it.”
He sets the empty martini glass carefully on the bar. His throat works. He doesn’t look at me.
“You killed him. Or them.”
He’s stiff and unresponsive, his silence giving an answer without words.
“And that’s how it all started,” I whisper, knowing as I say it that I’m right. “The farm boy got a taste for vengeance, and he never looked back.”
He turns to me abruptly, bristling, his eyes ablaze. He says gruffly, “I look back every fucking day. Remembering where I came from and why I do what I do is the only thing that keeps me going.”
His normal voice is back. That rich, lilting Irish brogue, thick with emotion now. He’s himself again, all hard edges and sharp angles, a whirlwind of chaotic feelings contained by an iron will underneath a pretty, polished shell.
But I’ve peeked behind the curtain now. I’ve gotten a look at the backstage of his Broadway show.
Killian Black is a criminal not because he was born bad or because he’s good at it or because there’s nothing else he’d rather be.
He’s a criminal because the world broke his heart, and the only way he knew how to deal with the magnitude of his pain was through violence.
Through vengeance.
Through the spilling of blood.
Holding his gaze, I say, “I was wrong about something.”
He snaps, “What?”
“You’re not like my father. He loves hurting people. He gets off on it.”
Killian stares at me, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his jaw and his hands clenched. His eyes are dark, so dark they’re unfathomable.
I whisper, “I don’t think you like what you do at all.”
He falls so still he doesn’t appear to be breathing. His lips part, but he remains silent, his expression stunned.
We stay like that, locked in a breathless, intense bubble, until Killian exhales and the bubble bursts.
He grabs my arm and strides toward the back of the restaurant, steering me through the crowd.
“Where are we going?”
He doesn’t answer. He simply keeps walking, holding my arm firmly in his grasp.
We pass table after table until I realize we’re headed toward the kitchen. Killian throws open the swinging kitchen doors and guides me through aisles crowded with sous chefs cooking or plating food, all of whom give us only a cursory glance before turning back to their work.
He turns me left past a huge walk-in fridge, then right past a row of metal baker’s racks stacked with serving trays and water carafes, then yanks open an unmarked door.
He pulls me inside, shuts the door, and kisses me with so much raw passion it takes my breath away.
The kiss goes on and on. It’s greedy and possessive, like he’s staking a claim. When he finally breaks away, my knees are shaking and my heart is beating like mad.
We’re in a small supply closet. Shelves stretch from floor to ceiling on all sides. They’re stacked with dish towels, cleaning supplies, and miscellaneous other items I glimpse only quickly because Killian has pushed me up against the shelf of towels and is kissing me again.
Groaning, he reaches between my legs and squeezes.
I know what he needs. It’s the same thing I need. That release only the other can give, the whip-crack burn that arrives with the speed of lightning and hits with the force of a bomb.
I tear at his belt. He yanks at his zipper. His hard cock springs out into my hands. We keep kissing frantically as he shoves my skirt up my thighs. He can’t wait long enough to remove my panties, so he simply pulls them aside.
With fumbling hands, I guide him to my entrance. I lift a knee and brace my foot against a shelf, gasping in pleasure when he pushes inside me.
Grabbing my ass with both hands, he thrusts deep, grunting. I cling to his shoulders as he fucks me, fast and hard, his fingers digging into my bottom and his face turned to my neck.
A stack of towels falls from a top shelf. Spray cans of industrial window cleaner clatter to the floor. A big sack of flour topples over, splitting a seam when it hits the tile and sending a white pouf into the air. It settles over our shoes like a dusting of snow.
He leans down and bites my hard nipple right through my dress.