“Jamie,” Rio said, a warning in his voice.
I looked at Robbie. At the scar ringing his neck, recalling the day he arrived. Then back to Killian, who stared at me as if he knew my decision.
“Fine,” I bit out, snapping the lighter closed like a final word. “But if anything happens to anyone else while we’re being patient, Suit, it’s on you.” I instantly regretted moving so close. Killian was solid and close enough to touch if I wanted. He didn’t flinch. Just stared, as though he wanted to be challenged.
“I know.”
“But when my team is done, when you want toburn the whole thing down, I can show you exactly where to light the match.”
Show me where to light the match? I wanted to deck him. Or kiss him. No—definitely deck him. But the more he spoke, the more my fury dimmed enough to see the brutal clarity in his logic. And hell, that made it worse. Killian’s voice was all smooth control. But underneath, I caught a glimpse of something darker—danger in a tailored suit, a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. What the fuck was he really playing at?
“What about the money Robbie hid?” Rio asked.
Killian leaned forward slightly. Not enough to be obvious, but I caught it—the shift in posture, the focus in his gaze. He was wearing a mask, and something about that look irritated the hell out of me. But it also lit something low in my gut. I couldn’t tell if I wanted to punch that smug expression or pull him closer to see if anything under his armor could burn.
“Already taken out,” he said. “And transferred out to charities.”
“How much didyoukeep?” I asked,
Killian’s eyes flicked from one of us to the next. “Enough to cover my team,” he finally offered.
“Profiting off other people’s misery.”
Killian met my stare, his silver eyes unflinching,although I swear there was something there—a trace of temper, maybe. “You’ve made up your mind about me already, haven’t you, Pretty?”
The way he called me that made it feel like both a slur and a caress—each syllable edged with something sharp, intimate, dangerous. I couldn’t decide which unsettled me more.
“It’s blood money,” I replied, keeping my voice steady despite the heat crawling up my neck.
Killian’s smile widened, all teeth and no warmth. “Blood money that’s building schools and hospitals instead of sitting in offshore accounts. But please, my pretty pyromaniac murderer, tell me more about the view from your moral high ground.”
I leaned forward to match Killian’s posture. Two could play at being clever. “Must be nice, counselor, to sleep at night knowing your bank account grows every time someone’s life falls apart.”
Killian didn’t flinch. If anything, he seemed amused by my anger, which only stoked it further. He loosened his tie—a calculated move, I was sure. Everything about him seemed calculated. I flicked my lighter, let the small flame sear my finger enough to ground me, waiting for him to answer.
“You know what I find fascinating?” he asked, voice low. “How quick people are to judge what theydon’t understand.” He reached over and caught my wrist, his thumb pressing my pulse point. I fought the urge to jerk away. “The flame suits you.”
I yanked my hand back. “Don’t touch me.”
Killian leaned back again, studying me. “Your file doesn’t do you justice, Pretty.”
My blood turned to ice. “You have a file on me?” How much did he know? Apart from the obvious, of course, that was all a matter of record. But the sealed Juvie stuff? The hacking?
“I have files on everyone in this room,” Killian said, his eyes locked on mine. “Yours was…fascinatingreading.”
“If you’ve got a file,” I replied, my tone flat, “and you still call me a pyromaniac, then you didn’t read it properly.”
Killian’s jaw twitched, but he didn’t interrupt. So I kept going.
“According to my release notes from the asylum, and I quote: Subject Jamie Maddox sets fires to regain control, to silence intrusive thoughts, and sometimes out of desperation or righteous vengeance.” I paused. “They concluded that I lean closer to arsonist than pyromaniac, but with deeply emotional and compulsive undertones due to insanely heavy childhood abuse. If you’re going tothrow labels around, counselor, try using the right ones.”
“You weren’t in a fucking asylum,” Killian corrected, his voice suddenly sharp. “It was a forensic psychiatric facility.”
“Asylum, facility, whatever,” I smiled. “Are you going to add that correction to my notes?”
“I’m not adding shit to your?—"
“Enough!” Rio shouted. “We’re getting off track. The job?—”
