Page 159 of Slashed Bonds

I don’t care. That’s the finding under the finding.

“My jealousy radar’s going off the walls.”

We both turn our heads.

Killian’s in the doorway. Shoulder on the frame, one ankle crossed over the other, in black on black with his hair still wet from a shower he’s had and we haven’t. He’s carrying a bag. Paper, two handles, and the smell gets to me before the sight does.

Food. Hot. Eggs and something fried and bread. He’s been to the place on the river that opens at six.

“How did you know we were here?”

I ask it with annoyance, because I had plans for the next twenty minutes that didn’t involve breakfast.

He rolls his eyes.

And I can see it in his face. He knows exactly what he’s walked in on, and exactly what he’s interrupted, and exactly how I feel about it, and he’s enjoying all three.

Jackass.

He hasn’t slept. I can see it from the floor. There’s a tightness at the hinge of his jaw that only shows when he’s been up past the point where his meds stop working, and he’s been up since two, since he stood in our kitchen and told Cash we weren’t killing anyone tonight. Then he went with Cash to a shed on Omega land with four deadbolts on the door and moved a woman’s life into a truck without asking her.

That’s where the shower came from. He had dust on him. He’d have wanted it off before he came within ten feet of her.

And then he went to the river for eggs.

That’s Killian. The man will plan a dismantling with addresses and routes in a notebook and then drive forty minutes out of his way because somebody needs to eat. Both those things are the same thing in him, and I’ve never managed to explain that to anyone who hasn’t lived with it.

“Cassian told me you were training,” he says, pushing off the frame and crossing the mats, “and that Mori was going to try kickboxing. I put one and two together.”

A shrug. He stops beside us.

And his eyes go to her.

Taking her in. The whole of her, astride me, gloves up, soaked, flushed, and I watch his face do the thing it does when he’s reading a structure and finding it sound. Then he whistles. Low.

“I’m impressed you’re not naked with him seven inches in you.”

I look up at her.

The smirk that forms on her mouth is wicked. Slow. The one from the lobby, the one that put me on my knees.

She shrugs.

“Well. We could’ve been waiting for you, so I could enjoy two seven inches in me.” A beat. “But alas. You’re taking your sweet time standing there being jealous.”

My jaw drops.

For the first time in my life, as far as I’m aware, my mouth comes open and stays open, and I’d look like a man who’s lost what’s left of his mind if anyone were looking at me.

Nobody’s looking at me.

Because Killian’s face is the show.

He’s gone still the way he does, except it isn’t the controlled stillness, it’s the other kind, the kind of a man who’s been hit in the head and hasn’t fallen yet. Jaw open. Eyes on her. Staring at this woman like she’s said something in a language he didn’t know he spoke.

And it dawns on both of us at once. I can see it land on him the same second it lands on me.

We could share her.