The Bend of the Arc (1/ 4)
SUMMARY: Emma Swan hates Killian Jones at first sight. He's everything she despises in a man: arrogant, provocative, and a known criminal associate of the city’s most notorious gangster. She’s determined to put him behind bars, until a shocking event forces them together and Emma discovers that there’s a lot more to Killian than meets the eye.
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HAPPY BIRTHDAY @stahlop! ~ I know it’s a little early your time, but I have zero chill. Lisa, it’s been so wonderful getting to know you this past year or so, especially watching you get back into writing! You said you’d like to see my take on the enemies-to-lovers trope, and so here it is—I hope you enjoy it. Have a FANTASTIC birthday 😘😘😘
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(note: Crime is soooo not my genre, but I did my best with it. If there’s anything I completely effed up it’s okay to tell me about it, but please be gentle 😘😘)
Rating: M (language and eventual smut) Words: 5.8k (of 30k total) Tags: Modern AU, enemies to lovers, bounty hunter!Emma, criminal!Killian, smut, bedsharing, stranded together
On AO3
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PART ONE:
She could smell the despair the moment she walked through the door. That wasn’t unexpected; grim places frequented by grimmer people were the bread and butter of her trade and this particular grim place—a grimy hole in the wall near the harbour—bled exactly the same hopelessness as the rest of them. It was, however, not where she’d expected to locate this particular mark, and she didn’t care for the unexpected. In her line of work, unexpected could get you killed.
He was here, though, right where her informant had said she would find him, and she spotted him the moment she walked through the door. He didn’t even look out of place, despite the expensive cut of his hair and his jacket, despite his goddamned Italian shoes. He should have stood out, been chased away, should never even have known a place like this existed, and yet here he was, slumped over the bar staring moodily into his drink the same as every other sad sack in the joint.
She didn’t like it. It was unexpected.
She slid onto the barstool next to him, taking care to allow her hair to drape across his arm. He didn’t move, not so much as a twitch. She exhaled a breathy sigh. No response.
The direct approach it would have to be, then.
“Hey.” She nudged him with her elbow. “What’s good here?”
“Lass.” His eyes never left his glass. “I’m afraid you’re barking up the wrong tree with me this evening. I’m not in the mood.”
“What mood?” She gave a light, tinkling laugh. “I just asked what’s good.”
“Try the rum.” He drained his glass and set it down firmly on the bar. “The Botucal. Only place in town that serves it. Everything else here is swill.”
He stood up and left, without so much as a glance in her direction.
I didn’t matter, though. She’d seen enough to know that it was him, and with her mark positively identified it was time to move in for the kill. She slipped off her stool and followed him out into the night, shivering in the chill breeze that blew in off the sea. She always forgot how much cooler it was near the water.
She looked around for the mark and spotted him a short distance away, walking in the direction of the marina. Probably headed for his boat, she thought. She hurried to catch him up, moving on the balls of her feet so her heels wouldn’t click on the pavement.
When she reached him he was just passing the harbourmaster’s office, a small building made of weatherbeaten wooden boards and with its door secured by a heavy iron chain looped through the handles, and she smiled to herself as she extracted her handcuffs from beneath her skirt. Perfect. In one swift, practiced move, she grabbed his arm and snapped a cuff around his wrist.
“Killian Jones,” she said. “I’m here to—”
He moved faster than she would have imagined him capable, using her hold on his arm to spin her around and slam her back against the door of the office, knocking the wind out of her.
He held her there with his body pressed firmly against hers and even in her dazed state she registered the warmth and sturdiness of it, the spicy smell of his skin. His breath ruffled the fine hairs on her temple as he leaned in close to murmur in her ear. “I know precisely who you are, darling, and what you’re here to do,” he said, his voice a low, rumbling purr. “And I’m afraid I can’t allow it. You should have stayed in the bar.”
“Then I wouldn’t have caught you.” Her own voice was breathy.
“You haven’t caught me now.”
Her head snapped up at the amusement in his tone and she got a good look at his face for the first time. Even in the faint glow of the harbour lights the sight was breathtaking. Photographs really didn’t do him justice.
“Yeah? Who’s the one in cuffs?” she retorted.
There was a tug on her wrist and an ominous click, and the smile on his face became a smirk. “I believe you are, love,” he replied.
“What the fuck?” She looked down to see her own damn handcuffs, now attached to her own wrist. He held her un-cuffed wrist firmly as he looped the cuffs through the heavy chain securing the door handles then clicked the second one into place on it, chaining her to the door.
“What the fuck?” she repeated, her voice rising to a shriek as she tugged on the chain. “How the hell did you—”
“Come now, you must have read my files. I dare say you know more about me than I do myself.” He held up a small leather case that she recognised as a set of lock picks and regarded her with a raised eyebrow. “Did it never occur to you that I might be able to get myself out of handcuffs? No?” He clucked his tongue. “That is a shame.”
She tugged at the chain again, “Let me go!”
“I fear that’s impossible, darling. As I told you before I can’t allow you to take me in. I have business to attend that won’t wait while I spend the night in a cell.”
“It’ll be a lot more than one night!”
“It won’t be any nights. Also a shame. I wouldn’t mind at all spending a night with you, particularly one in which bars and handcuffs feature prominently.” He leaned in close to her again, dragging his nose up her cheek as his hand curled around her hip, thumb stroking just above the apex of her thighs. She snarled in outrage and he chuckled. “Beautiful, fiery woman like you,” he growled into her ear. “I’ve no doubt you’d make it memorable.”
“I wouldn’t—” She was so furious she could barely speak. “Never—not in a million—not if you—the last man—”
He chuckled again and stepped back. “Aye, love, I get the picture. Not if I were the last man on Earth, et cetera et cetera. I could change your mind, of course—” he smirked at her furious snarl “—but alas I’ve no time.”
He shrugged off his jacket and moved to drape it around her shoulders and she recoiled with a hiss. “Get the fuck away from me!”
“Now, darling, you may be here for some time. It’s a chilly night and you are, if you’ll forgive me, not appropriately attired for the sea air. Don’t freeze to death out of spite. If nothing else it’d be a highly embarrassing way to die.”
She ground her teeth, but when he stepped forward again she allowed him to tuck the jacket around her shoulders. She hadn’t registered just how cold she was until engulfed in its warmth, in heat carried by his body and still bearing his spicy scent. His fingertips brushed the nape of her neck as he pulled her hair free of the jacket and she shivered, not from the cold this time.
“Such a shame,” he murmured, almost to himself.
“You’ll pay for this,” she spat.
“As much as I hate to keep contradicting you, darling, no I won’t.” He smoothed the jacket over her shoulders and gave them a little pat. “Now you just sit tight right here and I’ll send someone to collect you. Let’s hope they don’t take too long.”
He backed away with his eyes still on her, tilting his head to the side and biting down on his lower lip. Fury surged through her and she yanked at the chains again, letting out a guttural shriek when he simply laughed and turned away. She kept her eyes on him as he strolled along the waterfront like a man without a care in the world, until he turned onto one of the piers and disappeared from view.
~
“Emma?”
The voice, masculine and familiar, jolted her from her half-doze and she lifted her head, blinking in the harsh glare of a flashlight and trying to focus.
“Is that—Graham?”
“Fucking hell, Emma, it is you! I thought he was—here, let me get you out of those cuffs.”
Emma struggled up from the awkward crouching position she’d been in as Graham put his flashlight away and took out his keys. “Graham, what the hell are you doing here?”
“Rescuing you.”
He undid the cuffs and waited as she stood up straight and stretched her aching arms and shoulders.
“How did you know where I was?” she asked, reaching out her hand for her cuffs.
He held them out to her, but when she took them didn’t let go. “Emma,” he said solemnly.
“What?”
“You’re not gonna like it.”
“What?” She tugged on the cuffs and he released them. “What the fuck is going on, Graham? Tell me!”
He sighed. “I need you to stop chasing Killian Jones.”
“What?”
“Come on. We need to go to the station and then I’ll explain.”
~
“He’s working undercover!?”
“Yeah.” Graham’s face was solemn, with no hint of the smile he usually had for her. “He is. For over two years now.”
“Two years? Fuck.”
“Exactly. But it’s nearly over. We’re so close, Emma, to the biggest RICO case of the last fifty years. We can shut down Pan’s whole operation in one move, but all of it, everything, hinges on Jones. We need him.”
Emma’s lip curled. “And what does he get out of it? Immunity, I suppose.”
“Yes. His record will be completely expunged. Clean slate.”
“But he’s a criminal!”
Graham sighed and rubbed his temples. “They all are, Emma.”
“See, this is why I never wanted to be a cop,” she sneered, leaning back in her chair. They were sitting in an interrogation room in Graham’s precinct, surrounded by confidential files and cold coffee. “You ignore the crimes of one asshole in exchange for getting your hands on a bigger asshole. But that still leaves the first asshole loose on the streets, and with a clean slate this time. How is that justice?”
“Justice is never perfect,” said Graham shortly. “Nothing is. We do the best we can.”
“That’s not good enough!”
“It has to be, because it’s all we’ve got.” He leaned across the table, his eyes intense. “Emma, listen to me. Jones believes you actually did him a favour tonight. He’d been getting the sense that Pan no longer fully trusted him, but being actively pursued for a freaking eight-year-old bench warrant of all things seems to have brought him back in the boss’s good graces. That is the only, and I do mean only reason you are not in some serious fucking shit right now.”
“What, for doing my job?” Emma scoffed. “You can’t be serious.”
“Do I not seem fucking serious?” snapped Graham. “Did you not hear me say this is the biggest case in half a century? Do you not understand the goddamn consequences if it goes wrong, especially now?”
“I—”
“Let me be perfectly clear about this. You cannot bring Jones in. If you do, this precinct will never work with you again, and neither will any of the others once they hear about it.”
“But I—”
“And that’s not all. I’ve put you in serious danger by giving you this information. I’m sorry for that, but I knew you wouldn’t back off just because I asked you to. And frankly we are all in fucking danger. Jones’s cover is as deep as it gets and the position he’s in right now is deadly precarious. If he’s blown before we can close the case it won’t just be him who dies. Do you hear what I’m saying, Emma?”
She nodded, too frustrated for speech.
“I’m trusting you, trusting your discretion and hoping like fuck that this one time you can leave your damn principles at the door and be realistic. Forget about Killian Jones. Not for his sake, for your own.”
~
It was the biggest RICO case in fifty years, and it went off without a hitch. Every member of Pan’s criminal organisation was arrested, from the kids who ran the street-level scams right up to the boss himself. Moles that had been embedded in the police department for decades were rooted out and an entire network of sham businesses collapsed. Crime in the city came screeching to a halt as even Pan’s competitors scrambled for cover.
The evidence against them was solid, detailed and airtight, and one by one every single mob canary begged to sing. Fingers were pointing in every direction, many at each other but most of them straight at Pan, and the district attorney was confident that with a bit of manoeuvring she could see every last one of them behind bars for a very long time.
Every one but Killian Jones.
He was never mentioned by name in any of the reports or the news articles, simply referred to as ‘an undercover informant’. But Emma knew. He’d done one job and now he was free and clear, and the fact that he had spent ten years as Pan’s right hand didn’t even seem to faze the police.
“How do you know he won’t just step into the power vacuum left by Pan?” she demanded of Graham one afternoon, as he processed the paperwork for a shoplifter she’d brought in. “Someone’s going to.”
“It won’t be him.”
“But how can you know?”
“I trust him.”
Emma stared, unable to believe her ears. “I can’t believe I ever considered dating you,” she spat. “You’re not who I thought you were.”
“You considered dating me?” Graham repeated, gaping at her.
She shrugged. “Yeah, for like half a second, back when we first met. You were hinting pretty heavily and honestly? I don’t shit where I eat, otherwise I probably would have said yes. But that was before I found out you trust criminals.”
“Not criminals. Criminal, singular. Just this one.”
“But why?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“God damn it, Graham!”
Graham set his jaw stubbornly. “Look, Emma, I get that you feel betrayed and I’m sorry for that. But this is how the police work. It’s legal and it’s final. Killian’s record is clean now. Leave him alone.”
~
But she couldn’t. She did try, as much as she was able, but Emma Swan could never let anything go once her sense of outrage had been triggered and she couldn’t think about Killian Jones or anything related to him without outrage. She still had the jacket he’d left her in, hung in her closet right next to her own so that every time she donned the red leather she saw it there, mocking her, keeping her anger burning fierce and hot.
And so she watched him. Subtly, because she could be fucking subtle, using her own network of informants that the cops didn’t know about. She tracked his movements, all his comings and goings from his house to his offices, and she traced his business dealings, bank records, tax reports, everything and anything she could get her hands on.
It was all clean. He was never seen in any of Pan’s old haunts or associating with anyone remotely shady, his accounts showed a healthy income from legitimate sources. Businesses he had set up as part of his role in Pan’s organisation and then cleaned up once Pan was taken down.
And yet. There was too much income, Emma felt. It was too clean. Too much money, too many businesses, far too quickly. Leopards, as the cliche goes, do not change their spots, and Emma was certain that Killian Jones was as spotted as they came. She just wished she knew how he was hiding them.
~
The elegant marble foyer of the Gold mansion was the furthest imaginable thing from a grimy dockside dive bar but the smell of despair was here as well, just of a different kind. The despair of people who have more money than they could ever spend and are still unhappy, who have come to realise that however many cars or jewels or houses they buy the emptiness inside them remains.
At least the other smells were better. Emma inhaled deeply as she entered, breathing in the aromas of a dozen different perfumes and colognes, along with some mouthwatering canapés of which she fully intended to partake. She’d gone to a lot of trouble to wrangle this invitation, she might as well enjoy herself.
Snagging a glass of champagne from one passing tray and a mini crab soufflé topped with caviar from another, she sauntered into the room, deliberately drawing and ignoring the eyes upon her. The dress she wore was far subtler than her usual work attire, long and flowing and draped in a way that suggested far more than it revealed. Its deep crimson hue flattered her pale hair and skin and the faint shimmer in the fabric caught the light as she moved.
Emma popped the last bite of soufflé into her mouth and resisted the urge to lick her fingers. Instead she sipped her champagne and looked around for another tray. One passed by bearing what looked like tiny donuts and she almost dove to grab one. Biting into it, she found that it was savoury and filled with a feather-light truffled chicken mousse. She closed her eyes on a moan of delight, and when she opened them again Killian Jones was standing in front of her, watching her with an expression she found deeply objectionable.
“Well, darling, I do hope you’re not here for me this time,” he said.
Emma sneered. “I’m not.”
“Learnt our lesson, have we?” he replied with a smirk.
She ground her teeth. “I’ve simply got bigger fish to hook,” she said.
“Indeed. Considering that I am an entirely innocent man.”
She snorted.
“That infuriates you, doesn’t it,” he observed, smirk deepening. “That I walked free.”
Nearly a year’s worth of frustration and righteous fury bubbled up inside Emma, bursting forth before she could stop it. “It’s not right!” she exclaimed. “It’s not justice!”
“No, it’s just not perfect justice. Though one certainly could argue that a decade spent under the thumb of a madman is more than enough punishment for whatever crimes I committed.”
Something in his voice troubled her, a pained sincerity that niggled at her conscience. She ignored it. “Rationalise it all you like, if it helps you sleep at night,” she retorted.
“Oh, I have no trouble sleeping,” he said, stepping closer and leaning into her space, hips first. “Though occasionally I do forgo it voluntarily, in favour of more… enjoyable activities.”
“You’re filthy.”
“I certainly can be,” he purred. “If that’s what you want.”
“I want nothing from you.”
“Well love, we both know that’s not true.”
“Oh do we?”
“We do. You’re something of an open book, you see.”
She rolled her eyes. “I am the opposite of that.”
“You’d like to be. But for those who know how to look, your tells are obvious.”
“Bullshit.”
He shifted, standing straighter and observing her with blue eyes that went, between one blink and the next, from flirtatious to coolly assessing, sharply analytical. She felt a flare of alarm in her chest, and the worrying suspicion that she may have underestimated him.
“The relaxed posture,” he said. “That’s one. You’re a woman of action, rarely still. If you stop moving you start thinking, and you, Emma Swan, hate nothing more than being in your own head. You’re tense all the time unless you’re pretending not to be, as you are now. Playing the role of carefree society girl, perfectly at home in these glittering surroundings where you are in actual fact deeply uncomfortable.”
She attempted a laugh. “Maybe I’m just having a good time.”
“You’re holding that glass so tightly you’re in danger of snapping the stem, and you’re digging the heel of your shoe into the floor. It takes a lot of effort to maintain that outward calm, which is why you don’t normally bother. You hate artifice, bullshit as you would call it, and your plan tonight is to get in, get your mark and get out. After you’ve eaten your fill of the food, that is.” The corner of his mouth curled into a half-smile. “Do correct me if any of this is wrong.”
“It’s all wrong,” she snapped.
“Now, love, don’t you start to bullshit.”
Emma’s fingers clenched tighter on the champagne glass and she deliberately forced them to relax. “Why don’t you just leave me alone,” she hissed.
His eyes softened, and heated with an expression that made her belly clench. “Because you intrigue me,” he murmured.
“Well you disgust me.”
He laughed. “Liar.”
“How dare you—”
He brushed a lock of hair off her shoulder, his fingers close enough that she could feel the heat of them but not their touch, and when he spoke again his voice was rough. “You’ve a delightful pale pink flush all across your skin, your pupils are dilated, your breathing shallow. And your pulse—” His hand glided down her arm and wrapped around her wrist, fingertips pressing gently onto her pulse point. “It’s racing, love. I don’t require any special skills to pick up on these tells.” He caught her gaze, his own heated and intense. “Would it help if I confessed that the attraction is entirely mutual?”
“No!”
“Pity.”
She tried to pull her arm from his grip but he held fast, leaning closer still to murmur in her ear. “He’s over by the fountain.”
She wouldn’t look, thought Emma. She wouldn’t. She closed her eyes as Killian released her and the heat and intoxicating scent of him moved away. She didn’t want his help, didn’t need it. Resented it. But she couldn’t stop herself from looking and of course there he was. Her mark, standing in front of the fountain at the centre of the room.
“How the hell did you know—” she spun around but Killian was gone.
Emma took a deep breath and then another, to calm herself and focus her concentration on her task. She smoothed her hair and the front of her dress and tossed back the rest of her champagne, gave her boobs a little boost and headed for the mark, a soft smile on her face and a gentle swing in her hips.
She had crossed about half the distance between them when he tensed visibly and his shoulders shifted, like he was trying to pull them back and stand straight but was defeated by the power of his own sullen slouch. For a moment she thought he might have made her, but his eyes were fixed on something across the room, something—or someone—blocked from her view by the fountain. Emma slowed her pace, keeping her distance until he made whatever move he had planned. For several seconds he stared intently at whatever, whoever, held his attention and then he nodded, shoulders slumping even lower than they’d been before, and moved on surprisingly light and agile feet towards a small door behind the foyer’s grand staircase. With a quick glance around the room he slipped silently though it and a moment later Emma followed.
Behind the door was a long, shadowy hallway that fulfilled her every expectation of what a mansion corridor should look like. The carpet beneath her feet was so thick that her steps made no sound as she followed the mark, past paintings and statues and even an honest-to-goodness suit of armour. She felt her jaw drop as she took it all in, until the mark turned a corner and she had to speed up her pursuit so as not to lose him.
She made it around the corner in time to catch a glimpse of him disappearing through a door, and when she reached it she found that it hadn’t fully shut. She slipped her foot through the gap and eased it open until she could see into the room beyond.
It looked like a museum. Or at least what she imagined museums should look like; she hadn’t visited many. It was a vast room that felt curiously airless, with tall ceilings and no widows, panelled entirely in wood. The same wood that made up the many low tables scattered over more of the same thick rugs that lined the hallway. Upon each of these tables a statue stood. Women, mostly, and some men, all naked. Made of marble, Emma imagined, though she was hardly an expert. Weren’t statues generally made of marble? They were definitely some kind of stone, or she supposed possibly plaster. It was hard to tell the difference from so far away.
Tentatively she nudged the door and when it made no noise pushed it open further and slipped into the room, weaving through the statues in search of her mark. A voice spoke just ahead and to her right and she moved quickly over the silent carpets, stopping when she caught sight of a pair of polished shoes and the tip of a black cane, and ducking behind a statue, out of sight of the man who spoke.
“So,” he said, his voice cold and without inflection, and with a hint of an accent she couldn’t place. “Do you have it?”
“I—” the mark began.
“Do not disappoint me, Felix,” the cold voice interrupted. “You would not like for me to be disappointed.”
Emma crouched down and peeked around the leg of the statue that shielded her, just enough so she could see both men clearly. The mark, Felix, was in his early twenties, with a sullen face to match his posture and lank blond hair that fell into his eyes. He’d been arrested for loitering two months ago and missed his court date, but there was nothing else on his record worse than a few shoplifting charges and possession with intent. This meeting, this whole damn situation, seemed well above his pay grade and she should have known that, Emma berated herself. She should have smelled a rat from the start, but instead she’d let herself be distracted by canapés and by Killian goddamn Jones, and forgotten what she was supposed to be doing.
She could almost hear Felix’s terrified gulp. “I—I couldn’t get it,” he whined. “Jones said—”
“Do not speak to me of Killian Jones,” hissed the other man, a slight, elegantly dressed one with long hair and a thin face in which teeth and eyes were prominent. “I will deal with him when the time is right. For now—” He lifted his cane and Felix cringed.
“No, sir, please. I’ll get it I promise—”
“Your promises are worthless to me,” said the elegant man, with a reptilian smile that made Emma’s skin crawl. He was enjoying this, she realised, feeding off of Felix’s terror and craven grovelling as he slowly advanced. He twisted the head of his cane and with a faint swish and a mechanical clank a long, sharp blade appeared from the end of it. Felix stared at the blade, frozen in fear.
“They are, in fact,” the elegant man continued, closing the remaining distance between them, “as worthless as you are.” He bared his teeth and plunged the blade into Felix’s heart.
Emma gasped. She couldn’t help it. For all the hardships she’d suffered in her life—the uncaring foster families, the time on the streets, the teenage pregnancy—she had never witnessed a crime more serious than petty theft and drug dealing. Nothing like cold-blooded murder. She would have liked to think herself tough enough to handle the sight without flinching but she was overcome by the sheer horror of it. The blood that bloomed across Felix’s shirt and the way the life drained from his body. The cold, cold triumph of the man who killed him. It was the worst thing she’d ever seen, could ever imagine seeing, and though she clapped her hand across her mouth it was too late. The noise of her indrawn breath was loud in the room’s still air and the man looked sharply at her. He couldn’t see her behind the statue—she didn’t think he could—but he knew precisely where she was.
“Well, well,” he said. “It appears we have a loose end.”
Emma ran. She didn’t hesitate or stop to think, just leapt up from her crouch and sprinted, as fast as her high heels and the confusing layout of the statues would allow. She had no idea if the man had any backups—he seemed the sort who would, though she hadn’t seen or heard anyone but himself and Felix—but she knew that no matter what it was riskier to try to hide than just to run, to put as much distance between herself and the man as she could and try to get away.
She headed straight for where she thought the door was but soon found herself disoriented. There was no clear path through the statues and they all looked the same—white limbs and torsos atop identical tables, on a carpet with the same repeating pattern, in a room with no markings of any kind on the walls. She could hear the man behind her, his steady breathing as he pursued her across the thick carpet, not running, of course not, because doing so would tire him and that steady, deliberate pace was far more terrifying, damn him, and she tried to run faster, grabbing blindly at a small piece of statue as she passed. It was lighter than she’d expected—perhaps plaster then, not stone—and she flung it back the way she’d come, not looking at where it flew, not stopping to see what it hit when it crashed and shattered behind her.
She reached the wall but there was no door on it, just identical wooden panels repeating all along its length. One of those must be the door, Emma thought. There had to be a door, she’d come in through one. She began to feel along the wall looking for a knob or a button or a loose join, anything at all that might trigger it to open. Now that she was no longer running she felt her fear much more acutely, gripping her chest and clouding her mind and edging her dangerously close to panic.
“I don’t know who you are,” called the elegant man’s voice, from much closer behind her than she’d hoped. “But I’m very much taken with your lovely hair and that glorious red dress. Very… memorable, both of them. Very distinct.”
Emma’s search for the door grew frantic. She tried to keep calm and focused but all she could think was that she was alone in this room with a murderer. An absolutely remorseless killer was mere feet behind her and there was no door. There was no fucking door and that meant no escape. She was trapped here in this airless, noiseless place and she was going to die.
A sob rose in her throat, almost drowning the soft click to her left. The panel next to her swung open and she could just make out the silhouette of a man among the shadows of the hallway beyond. Was this the backup, then, she wondered? A henchman come to block her escape, force her back into the clutches of the elegant man? The appearance of this new threat snapped her back into herself, gave her something to do, and she seized on that with desperate relief. Holding herself loose but alert she bent her knees, settled her weight over the balls of her feet and prepared to defend herself as best she could. It wasn’t likely she could stop them killing her, but she could damned well make it difficult, and now that the door was open she had at least a slim chance of escape.
The shadows shifted as the man in the doorway reached out with a speed and deftness of movement she’d seen only once before, and quicker than she could react he grabbed her and yanked her against him, clapping his hand over her mouth and pinning her arms to her sides, pulling her back through the door and letting it fall shut behind them. When it had latched with another soft click, the man swung Emma to one side and gave the door a sharp kick with the heel of his shoe, jamming the delicate mechanism that controlled it.
Emma seized the advantage of his momentary imbalance to try to struggle free, wriggling in his loosened grasp and aiming a kick at his instep, but again he was too quick for her. He shifted his weight to avoid her swinging foot and adjusted his hold, tucking her tightly against his side and dragging her with him as he headed away from the door, moving rapidly despite her furious squirming, along the hallway and down a darkened stairwell and through a side door of the mansion then out into the night.
“I have a car waiting,” he growled in her ear, picking up their pace now they were out of the house. “It’s idling at the end of this driveway. If you don’t get in it, right now, you will die. Don’t make me tie you up, Swan. As much as I would enjoy that in other circumstances.”
Emma could see the car he meant, the only one in the long driveway that was running. When they reached it she dug her heels hard into the loose gravel beneath them, throwing Killian Jones—because of course it was fucking him—off balance just enough that his grip loosened and she was able to jam her elbow into his ribs, wriggling away when he huffed in pain.
“Let go of me!” she shrieked.
“Keep your voice down,” he snarled, grabbing her arm and pulling her back again. He scowled down at her, his eyes angry and frustrated and scared. It was the fear that caught Emma’s attention, made her pause. “I should bloody well let him kill you,” Killian muttered. “But instead I am going to save your life, whether you like it or not. Now get in the damned car, woman.”
Emma yanked her arm from his grasp and this time he let her go. They stood glaring at each other, breathing hard, gripped by a very similar anger and, more worryingly, the exact same fear.
“Why should I trust you?” she demanded.
“You have no earthly reason to,” he replied. “But that man you saw in the gallery, that is Robert Gold, and however vile you think me I assure you he is a hundred times worse. The devil or the deep blue sea, take your pick, love.”
Emma stared at him, searching for the lie, for the deceit she knew had to be there. But there was none. For the first time in their acquaintance he was being completely serious, and completely honest. Damn it.
She got in the car.
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Millions of thanks to @thisonesatellite and @ohmightydevviepuu for holding my hand in this unfamiliar genre. Also, tagging everyone who showed an interest in the snippet of this I posted a few weeks ago. If you don’t want to be tagged in further updates, PLEASE let me know 😘 @kmomof4 @mariakov81 @katie-dub @spartanguard @darkcolinodonorgasm @courtorderedcake @squidvisious @cluttermind @teamhook
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