KILLIAN'S POV
I can't get her out of my damn head.
No matter how many times I try to fight it, no matter how many nights I drown myself in whiskey or in the body of some nameless woman, it is always her that haunts me when I close my eyes. Layla. An omega. A servant. Someone who should be beneath me, someone I should be able to ignore. And yet the mate bond wraps its claws around my throat, choking me every second of the day.
I try to fight it the only way I know how. Through violence.
I spar with one of the warriors in the courtyard. My knuckles are already bloodied from the last fight, but I welcome the pain as the sword slips and my fist slams into his jaw. The warrior stumbles back, shaking his head.
"Again," I snarl, wiping the blood off my split knuckle against my thigh.
"Alpha, you're going to break your hand," another warrior mutters nearby as he watches.
"Then I'll fight with the other one," I snap, lunging forward again.
I don't stop until both men refuse to fight me anymore. Their faces are bruised. By the time we are done, their bodies are battered. My chest heaves as I breathe heavily. I have sweat dripping down my skin and still—still, the ache doesn't go away. Her scent isn't even here, but I swear I can taste it on the back of my tongue.
At night, I drink until I can't think straight. Women come and go from my chambers, faceless, nameless, pawing at me as I push them onto the bed. I use them, I lose myself in the rough, messy movements of my body against theirs, but when I close my eyes, always, always—it is her face. Her eyes. Her lips.
I tell myself I hate her. I have to hate her. Because what is the alternative? That I have fallen for someone so far beneath me it would destroy everything I've built?
My wolf growls inside me every time I shove that thought away. He doesn't care about rank. He doesn't care about logic. All he wants is her.
And I am losing the war against him.
It is late, well past midnight, when I storm the castle halls again. I can't sleep, can't drink any more without vomiting, can't fight anyone else because they've all gone to bed.
My skin burns with restless energy. My wolf paces inside me. He is hungry and not for food.
That's when I see her.
She slips through the shadows like she is hiding something. She hugs the wall as she tiptoes. There is something clutched tightly in her hand, like a leather book. My instincts spike instantly.
What the hell is she doing?
I move silently, following her. She doesn't notice me at first. Her eyes scan the hallway like she is afraid of being caught. She is heading toward the lower corridors, the ones that lead to the forbidden catacombs. My jaw clenches. What business does she have there?
Finally, she freezes. She must have sensed me, because she turns. Her eyes are wide with shock.
And that is when I step out of the shadows.
"Going somewhere?" I ask.
She stops. Her hands tighten around the bundle in her hand. "Killian."
I move closer, blocking the corridor so she can't escape.
"What are you hiding?" I demand.
"It's none of your concern," she says quickly, stepping to the side. I move with her, my arm barring the way.
"Everything about you has become my concern," I growl. I look at the bundle she is clutching. "What is that?"
Her hands tremble but she keeps looking at me. "Just… a book."
"Don't lie to me, Layla." My temper snaps. I grab her wrist and shove her back against the cold stone wall. The book presses between us as her breath hitches. Her eyes widen, but she doesn't flinch.
My voice drops into a snarl, close to her ear. "Why can't I stop thinking about you? What the hell did you do to me?"
Her chest rises and falls rapidly. But her eyes… her eyes don't look afraid. They look defiant.
"I didn't do anything," she whispers. "You don't hate me, Killian. Not really."
The words hit me hard because I know they are true. I could deny it all I want but I don't hate her. I crave her more than I can imagine. My grip falters and my composure cracks for a small second.
And then we collide.
My lips crash against hers. The kiss is fierce, angry, desperate. There is no gentleness in it. I don't know how to be gentle with her because there is too much desire inside me. It is a war, a clash of teeth and tongues, of dominance and hunger.
She gasps against my mouth, but then she fights back. Her fingers tangle in my hair, yanking me closer. Her lips bite mine so hard I taste blood. I growl into her mouth, pressing her harder into the wall. I grip her waist like I can mold her against me with one hand while the other tangles in her hair to keep her from escaping.
She doesn't want to escape.
She kisses me back like she wants to set me on fire, like she wants to drown in the same madness that is consuming me. Every growl from my chest, every snap of my teeth, she matches with equal fire.
My wolf howls inside me. He demands I claim her right here against the wall. The bond pulses between us. The connection is stronger than anything I've ever felt.
But beneath the hunger, there is something else creeping in. Fear.
Not of her. Not of the bond. Fear that I am losing control.