So sorry for the delay with this! I unexpectedly got very very busy during December and had to focus my writing time on my secret santa gifts. But now I'm back! Expect updates more frequently from here out; the next chapter is already partially written.
Also, this chapter is entirely a flashback and hopefully will answer some of the questions I've gotten. I promise it isn't what it seems and there's a good reason for everything that happens.
A tickling sensation is the first thing that brings her to consciousness. Groaning, she blinks her eyes open only to find a pair of painfully blue ones staring back at her. There was a smile curling on his lips, and his finger hovered over her nose, the thing that had woken her revealing itself.
"Good morning sunshine," he spoke quietly, voice wrapping around the words and smoothing over her.
Sunshine streamed through the curtains above the bed, indicating the sun was well on its journey for the day. She stretched and yawned, lifting her arms up above her head.
"What time is it?" She finally asked, settling again next to Killian.
The smile spread across his lips and he ducked his head, his lashes fluttering as he scratched at his neck.
"Way too late. Nearly nine, I think."
"Ugh, that's not late enough." She huffs, thinking about when she'd finally gotten in last night. Three am and the guy was finally in jail, and she'd been dead on her feet when she'd finally dragged herself home.
Killian had been lying in bed, a book propped open on his chest, his head fallen off to the side as quiet snores drifted out of the room.
To be honest, it had been pretty damn adorable.
To be honest, he was adorable. And ever since they'd done this, become a them instead a you and me, she'd been increasingly unable to find a reason why she'd ever held herself back from him.
He was kind and sweet and honestly did seem to care about her. It still scared her sometimes, the way he looked at her, the way it seemed like everything that had led them to this situation was a distant memory, a convenient set of circumstances that only meant to lead to this.
He was still looking at her, that soft look on his face. His eyes didn't search hers, trying to uncover her secrets; they waited patiently.
"Just thinking about us," she replys to his unasked question.
"What about us, love?" He quirks an eyebrow at her, but she doesn't miss the small undercurrent of tension in his voice.
He still doubted her, and she, unfortunately, had given him plenty of reasons to. Their first kiss still followed her around, the way they had pulled apart, how she'd ran, swearing it was a one-time thing over and over again. Or the first time he'd confessed how he'd felt. Or a million other little things she'd done in the past few months to try to push him away before she let herself get hurt.
And yet, here he was. Not hurting her.
"You're adorable. And…I like you."
It was weak, and he knew it, but he had the decency to merely chuckle at her, his hand tangling itself in her hair as he pulled her closer.
"I like you too," he murmurs, his lips barely brushing hers before he completed the circuit and pressed them together.
It was electric, as it always was. Gone was the playful hint of his voice, the soft look in his eyes. But she loved it. He kissed her like he'd been starved of her, mouth opening with a gasp and a gentle flick of his tongue against hers. His teeth scraped her bottom lip, and she moaned, very suddenly aware of his bare shoulders and the warmth of his body as he pressed closer to her.
As if he could sense her thoughts, and he probably could, he wrapped one arm around her waist and drug her even closer to him, tangling their legs together in a mess of blankets and pajamas. His other hand still lingered in her hair, thumb caressing her cheek with every brush of his tongue against hers.
Tangled up like this, it wasn't hard to admit that one of the reasons they worked together so well was because of this, the tension that would snap and then pull them together into each other time and time again. And he felt it too, she knew, because he began to roll, settling himself on top of her and between her legs.
His stubble scraped across her cheek as he nosed down her jaw, pressing hot open-mouthed kisses along the skin there. He found that spot with ease, the one that made her writhe and moan, and attacked it relentlessly. His hand slipped up her side, shoving aside her simple t-shirt with ease.
She twisted under him, hips bucking against his unconsciously as he nipped at her pulse point and palmed a breast, squeezing and thumbing at a nipple. A whimper slipped past her lips when he switched tactics, both hands gripping the waistband of her pants as he reared back, just enough to yank them down past her knees and shuffle forward past them.
The cool air hit her skin hard, but it was soon replaced with his body, warmth sinking down on her as he pressed kisses against her bare belly. One hand anchored her hip still, the other slipping between her legs until he found her folds, already wet and slippery.
It made him smug, and she could feel the grin he pressed into her thigh, but she growled and shoved her hands into his hair, urging him forward.
He acquiesced quickly, breathing hot on her skin a moment before his tongue pressed where his fingers had been, dragging it along her entrance and up to her clit. She rolled her hips into his face and he chuckled, the vibrations setting her alight under him.
A finger circled under his tongue, a teasing motion that had her panting and begging before he slipped it inside of her, immediately crooking the digit and rubbing it in time with his mouth.
He's got skill, and it should probably bother her that he already knows how to play her like a fiddle, but she's too busy saying his name like a chant to care. His beard burns her thigh and she doesn't care, relishes in the irregular breaths he pants over her skin.
He murmurs her name and a curse as he slips another finger inside of her, stretching and pressing and his mouth is ferocious on her. Heat curls up her spine and twists into her chest, locking itself in as she takes a deep breath and lets go.
Her fingers clench tight against his head and her voice gets hoarse from words that would embarrass her mother (if she had one) when she comes.
He's grinning when she looks at him, lazy blinks bringing him into focus. It's belied by the hot press of him against her bare leg, and when he kisses her again she can taste herself and feel him pressing against her.
She rolls her hips and clutches at his sides, and they both gasp when the head of his cock catches inside of her.
One shallow thrust and they're together, bodies arcing into each other.
He gasps her name, quiet like a prayer, and she lets him, doesn't try to explain it away in her head as he ruts desperately against her and she meets his hips with her own, and it's a short messy affair that she doesn't mind because she thinks she's starting to care about him.
After, when his body is still warm on top of hers, she twists her fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck and he murmurs that he loves her.
And it doesn't bother her.
She falls asleep pressed deep in his arms, and dreams of nothing.
Much later, after Killian has left and the house is quiet, she crawls out of bed. There's a note on the nightstand telling her he'll see her tonight, that he's got grading to do at work, which is just fine with her. She's been meaning to clean out the other spare room and go through some of the stuff in the attic and bring it down for him to look at, and since her latest skip was safely behind bars now, she had the time.
Even though it's been ten months, she's still getting used to this house. Three bedrooms, living room and kitchen and beautiful bathrooms with tile everywhere and an ancient claw-foot tub, more room than she's ever had in her life.
At first it was weird, trying to fill all the space up with things to make it hers. Killian had told her he really didn't care what she did with what had been there when they moved in; he hadn't even ever met this distant great-aunt of his, and when he'd found the house was his, he hadn't exactly known what to do with it either. Still, some of it had just felt right to keep around, so she had.
There's little touches, things that make her think of what it would have been like to grow up in a house like this, with a mother and father and siblings and grandparents and a whole lively family living in it.
So while she doesn't exactly love the little lace doily in the hall, she keeps it.
It's weird, going through other people's stuff, but this woman had been dead for years and years, so she tries not to feel too bad about it as she climbs the stairs to the attic.
Light streams in from the window across the way, illuminating way too many cobwebs for Emma's tastes, but still, as she surveys the room, she finds she likes it. The quick peek she'd had so long ago didn't really do it justice. It was beautiful and bright and would make a perfect add-on bedroom one day, if she was so inclined.
The little orphan inside of her still dreamed of a life like this, a family making room especially for her, clearing out an attic only to paint it pink and purple and add a bed just for her.
Shaking away the thoughts, she ascends the final step to stand on the plain boards.
There really isn't a lot in here, a few boxes in one corner, covered in dust, and some others on the opposite side. Since it really doesn't matter where she starts, she just heads in that direction. These boxes are newer, less dust than the others, and she wonders idly how long they've been here.
One stands out, though, and she reaches for it curiously. Only a thin film of dust clings to it, and there's a swipe mark where someone recently cleared away more dirt and dust. It's not large, just big enough to pull onto your lap, so she does, carefully lifting the cardboard flaps.
Inside, all she finds is a pile of letters, blank envelopes that bear no stamps or addresses.
Now extremely curious, she picks up one, turning it over to find the flap open, a peek of simple white paper inside.
Part of her knows she shouldn't; it's someone else's business, but, she rationalizes, whoever it is must be long gone If it's stuck up here with old things. So she slides her fingers inside and pulls out the paper, unfolding it carefully.
The name at the top catches her eye, and she instantly knows she should stop, but she's already reading the rest of it, and the words tumble across the page in rapid succession until all she feels is a dull shock reverberating through her.
Dearest Killian;
I cannot wait to see you again. My heart aches to think of how long we must be separated before you can come home to me. I know distance and our commitments keep us apart, but I miss you. I know soon we will both be free and then we can be together. Your last reply spoke of how anxious you are to leave things behind you and join me, and I'm happy to tell you, I already have just the place picked out for us. By the water, of course; I know how it soothes you, and of course you shall miss the mistress who keeps you from me. Don't worry; I'm not jealous. Not yet, at least. I know soon your commitments with her will be done.
Until then I am forever yours.
Milah
It doesn't register with her, not properly, until her fingers are pulling another letter out, eyes skipping across the page at more declarations of love, more talk of running away together. All of them the same, signed by a Milah, no last name.
It doesn't seem real. Not when he'd held her in his arms just hours ago and told her how much he loved her.
But it is plain as day, the way this woman writes to her husband, the way she speaks so affectionately of the bond they share. If it wasn't making Emma so damned sick she might actually find it sweet. Devastation seeps into her, her own mind betraying her as she re-reads the letters on the page through bleary-eyes.
And if she hadn't let herself fall for him in the first place, she wouldn't be here, tears stinging in her eyes as she quickly throws the empty envelopes and half-folded letters back in the box, uncaring of the mess as she shoves it back where it had been. She finds I impossible shove what she's learned away as well, though, the way this woman she didn't even know was so affectionate with Killian, the way she spoke of Emma as some distraction to be gotten rid of.
The pain burns through her chest, a deep ache that tears at her insides. This other woman knows what it feels like to touch his skin, to feel his lips on hers.
She was trusting him, maybe even starting to...care about him, to allow herself to feel around him. And now this.
Proof that she's only ever been a meal ticket to him, a way for him to get his place at the school and in this country and then on with the rest of his life.
It settles bitterly in her stomach, and she wants to rage, to yell and scream at him and demand answers, but she just can't find it. They were never supposed to be more than a business arrangement, never supposed to need to be more. She got too carried away with whatever game he's been playing, and lost herself, her protection, in the process.
Mostly she's just angry at herself, and it hurts. To know she was wrong(again). That she let herself be pulled into a fantasy world where one man for once had eyes for only her.
She sits there on the cold floor for a long time, everything slowly turning numb until there's only one thing left for her to do.
Slowly she pulls herself up and heads back downstairs, thoughts racing. Already in her mind she's playing out answers to the questions they will surely have, we just grew apart and maybe we got married too soon and I don't know if we ever really knew each other.
She reaches the landing on their floor and pulls out her phone, a quick search through her contacts bringing her the name she's looking for. Being a bail bondswoman has its perks, and one of those is knowing a damn good lawyer who can pull all the paperwork together under the radar.
Two months left, but it doesn't hurt to be prepared.
That's what she tells herself as the line rings and then through the small click as the other person picks up.