Page 156 of Trailer Trash

My knees almost give out, and I clutch onto his bicep to hold myself up.

“Killian!” I gasp. “You’re here! You’re okay!”

“Why are the roses here?”

I scrunch my brow. “They need to be thrown away like everything else on this table.” I do a quick scan of the trailer. It’s fairly messy. “I don’t spend a lot of time here except to study and sleep.”

“Bullshit,” he dismisses harshly, causing me to flinch.

“Because!” I blurt unexpectedly. “Evan tried. I wanted roses from you.”

He gawks. For once, he’s stunned.

I’m sure he’s high. His cheeks are sharper and his eyes are too bright, but all I see is Killian. Alive. Standing in front of me. It is dark in here. His scars. They’re deeper, having widened in reckless form. Gosh, he’s just as handsome and beautifully damaged as I remember.

“You wanted roses,” he mumbles.

“Killy,” I murmur, reflexive and breathless. “What’s important is I have missed you. We need to talk.”

“Killy,” he echoes, then snatches the roses from the vase and walks toward my bedroom.

“Wha—What?”

“I hate this fucking trailer,” he calls over his shoulder.

Dead rose petals flutter onto the floor. They crunch under my feet as I follow him down the hall.

“What are you doing?” I say, frantic.

“How can I keep you safe if you take down my fucking cameras?” he asks, and lifts his chin toward the bed. “Or did you do it so you can cum for other men without me knowing?”

Cameras. Plural.

“Whoa.”

One word.

That’s all I say. I’m too busy gawking at him as I strain to process what this man just confessed.

The one in my bedroom belonged to him. If Killian installed it, then the man in the mask—

“Then I find out you’re seeing a therapist because you think…” His voice cuts short, and he snarls in disgust.

Flick.

White noise.

Killian holds a lighter. Its blue flame glows bright in the darkness. He lights an old rose, and my heart leaps into my chest. As if it’s nothing, he tosses it onto my bed.

Oh, my God!

I jump, picking it up and blowing on the burning petals. The flame almost snuffs out, then flares. Another rose is lit. This time, he holds it to a drape, igniting the old fabric.

“No!” I scream and rush to pat it out.

It burns my palms. The flame on the other rose crawls down the stem, meeting my hand. I drop it onto the floor. The carpet smolders. I grab a blanket, smothering its flame. The drapes burn brighter. I try to snuff them, but they crawl to the ceiling.

I turn. Killian is on the move, lighting each rose and setting parts of my home on fire. When he throws a lit rose into the tub, fire catches the curtain and climbs fast. In seconds, my bathroom is engulfed.