Page 33 of Godless Saints

Footsteps hit the stone behind me.

I knew that rhythm before I even turned.

Cillian.

My hand jerked away from Maggie. The sleeve caught. The inkwell tipped. One fragile second of glass wobbling on wood. Then ink spilled everywhere, across the projections, over my notes, down my white shirt. Perfectly visible.

“Fuck.” Out loud. In the east gallery. Like an idiot.

What is he even doing here?

How did he know I studied in this gallery? I hadn’t told Vivienne. I hadn’t told Sawyer. I came here for one hour of privacy where no one could watch me unravel.

And yet here he was.

Maybe he wanted sex. Maybe he was fucking with me. The terrifying part was how badly my body already believed he did. Fuck.

Silence slammed down around me.

Then Cillian Ashbourne laughed behind my back. I wanted to drive the inkwell straight into his mouth. I looked down at the mess, then at Maggie, then, unfortunately, at him.

He stood just inside the lamplight, shower-fresh, black shirt tucked in, collar open, sleeves rolled up over forearms still red from the ring. Damp curls at the nape of his neck. Knuckles freshly split. And that fucking half-smile.

We were alone.

Completely fucking alone.

His gaze dropped to the ink soaking my shirt, then to my fingers. Lower. Straight to the penguin keychain Maggie had dragged into view.

Interest flared in his eyes, dark and far too amused. He stepped closer and reached first. My hand snapped out. His fingers closed around the little charm faster than I could intervene. The sight of it sitting in his scarred hand twisted low in my gut.

“Give it back.”

His brows lifted in invitation. “Come take it, prince.”

“Don’t start.”

“I already did.” He turned the keychain over in his fingers, thumb brushing the worn red hat. “Didn’t peg you for the cute shit, Moon. How adorably domestic.”

I folded my arms to keep from using my hands. “Cillian.”

He lifted his eyes to mine, and the dimple appeared. “What? I’m just admiring your taste.”

I stepped into him. “Give it back. Now.”

“Make me.”

I grabbed his wrist.

He twisted hard, turning with my grip and dragging me with him. I followed, refusing to let go. Our arms locked, muscles straining. His chest collided with mine. I shoved forward.

He gave ground. The grin should have warned me. I pushed again, and he turned my momentum against me.

My hip struck the chair. Pain shot up my side. His hand closed around my waist, and he shoved me off balance. My back hit the rug with a heavy thud.

Cillian came down with me. I tried to roll, but his knee drove between my thighs and pinned me. His grip stayed locked around my wrist, the penguin keychain trapped between us. He hovered above me, breathing steady while mine came sharp and angry.

“You do love proving me right,” he said.