AllFreeNovel
Share Us
My heart seizes up.No, no, no.I want to tell him he doesn’t need to share any more with me. That I’m sorry I asked a question. But I lock my jaw in place and wait for him to continue.
“I was a small and scrawny kid. Couldn’t throw a punch to save my life—never really had a reason to, either. So I became their punching bag, their test dummy, the thing they’d practice all of their moves on. They worked out how hard they could punch me before I lost consciousness. How loud they could make me scream before the neighbors started asking questions. What tools they could use to make me piss myself or cry out in fear. Practicing. That’s how it started off, but when they were getting nowhere in Boston, I went from a test dummy to an outlet for all their frustrations. The pretense of ‘practicing’ went away, and I became the thing they’d beat up to make themselves feel better about themselves.”
I feel sick. Nausea churns my stomach, and I cling to Cillian even tighter. It explainsso much.He shifts underneath me, then gently taps the side of my temple.
“You should know, little miss therapist,” he says quietly. “The mind is a powerful tool. It can make you feel nothing, and it can take you anywhere. I learned to shut down against the pain and the fear and the anger and go somewhere else. ToThe Secret Garden.”
“The book your mom used to read to you,” I choke out.
“Yes.”
“Did your mom know? About the abuse?”
His jaw ticks. He tears his eyes from mine and looks out to the sunset. “She was a victim of my father in her own way. She couldn’t save me.”
“Is that why she…”
“Killed herself. Yes.” He clears his throat then adds, “I couldn’t save her either. That’s when I learned you can only help yourself.”
It makes sense now. Why he was so conflicted about releasing me from the Van der Boors. Why he got angry when I said he saved me.
“And what happened to your father?”
He straightens up a little, a cold smile stretching across his lips. “He helped the Italian’s kill the head of the Quinn family and two of his sons. The surviving son, Lorcan, buried him alive.” My jaw swings open. He puts two fingers under my chin and gently closes it. “He also made me watch. And guess what?”
I raise my eyebrows in response.
“I felt nothing.” He pulls his hand away and scrubs a knuckle along his cheekbone. “I have the old bastard himself to thank for that.”
Stupefied into silence, I lay on Cillian’s chest, listening to his strong, even heartbeat. Eventually, I say, “That’s why you’re a hitman. Because you feel nothing.”
“Wrong. When I’m on a job… I feel good,” he flexes his fist, his knuckle popping, “I feel free.”
I stare at the hard lines of his face. “Unexpressed emotions will never die. They bury themselves and will come forth later in uglier ways.”
He arches an eyebrow. “Sigmund Freud. You’ve been studying.”
I swallow the lump in my throat and say, “You enjoy killing people, that’s how your emotions have come forth.” Lowering my tone, I add, “You aren’t your father, Cillian.”
He drags his eyes to mine, challenging me with a white-hot stare. “No, I’m not. I’m worse.”
“You’re not,” I say angrily, thumping against his chest. “You’re cold and callous and devoid of emotion, but that’s not the only part of you. You’re also funny, protective. Kind—to me, at least,” I add with a smile.
He matches my smile, running a wet finger over my bottom lip. It’s wrinkled from where we’ve been in the bath for so long. “Okay, enough analyzing me. I’m going to analyze you now.”
I purse my lips. “Can’t wait,” I say drily.
He turns me around, so that I’m on his lap, his cock resting against my lower stomach. He sits up just enough to plant a few soft kisses along my collarbone, then looks up at me from under his lashes. “You don’t want to be a therapist because you want to help people.”
“No, I do—”
He interrupts me with a kiss. Then his lips settle by my ear and his hand dips below the surface, finding my sex. He parts my folds with a brush of his thumb. “You’re attracted to chaos. That includes the chaos in people’s minds.” Without warning, he slides a finger into me, making me suck in a lungful of hot, steamy air. “You see, my little angel, you don’t want to drag people out of the burning building. You want a front-row seat to watch what happens next. You’re addicted to the danger.”
I search his eyes. Looking past the swirling black pits and into the eye of the storm. That’s where his secrets lie. I know all of them now, and he’s right. I’m addicted to the danger.
I’m addicted to him.
Cillian
