Killian’s room was dim except for the faint golden light spilling from the lamp on his nightstand. Shadows stretched across the walls, long and sharp, like the echoes of the fight that still clung to his skin. His knuckles were bruised, his lip split, a purpling mark beginning along his jaw. The Heathens had walked away bloodied but standing. He’d walked away victorious—but not unscathed.

You lay curled against him on the wide mattress, tucked into his side as if you were the one holding him together. The sheets smelled of his cologne—dark, crisp, with the faintest trace of smoke—and every rise and fall of his chest pressed you closer into his warmth.

Killian’s arm wrapped around you, possessive even in exhaustion, his thumb tracing idle circles over your hip. His other hand, bandaged from the fight, rested on your thigh, his touch slow, deliberate, as if he needed the reassurance of your body against his.

“Your brother swings like a fool,” he muttered, voice low and rough. The words should have sounded mocking, but there was no humor in them tonight. Only weariness, and something darker simmering beneath it.

You tilted your head slightly, brushing your lips against the curve of his shoulder, careful of the bruises mottling his skin. “You shouldn’t have gone so hard.”

He chuckled, though the sound came out like a growl, vibrating under your cheek. “Couldn’t help myself. He touched what’s mine.” His jaw clenched, and for a heartbeat the air felt heavier. “I’ll bleed every night if it means he learns not to.”

You didn’t argue. You simply pressed closer, your hand sliding across his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart against your palm.

Killian’s breath hitched, subtle but sharp. His head tilted down until his lips brushed your hair, lingering there. His voice dropped lower, the rough edges giving way to something heavier. “You lying here… soft, warm, breathing against me like this…” He let the sentence hang, unfinished, but his hand squeezed your thigh in silent meaning.

Heat curled low in your stomach at the rasp of his tone. Killian shifted, rolling slightly so your bodies aligned, his frame blanketing yours without crushing. His gaze found you in the dim light, pupils blown wide, hunger glittering in the stormy blue.

“You’re the only thing that makes the ache fade,” he whispered, his mouth hovering just above yours. “Every bruise, every cut—it’s nothing. Not when I can have this.”

When his lips finally met yours, the kiss wasn’t gentle. It was claiming, rough with need but softened at the edges by the weight of his exhaustion. His body was battered, but his desire burned raw, consuming.

His hand slid higher on your thigh, his bandaged knuckles grazing sensitive skin, and the hunger in his kiss deepened. Despite the pain written into his body, he held you as if he could never get close enough, as if having you in his bed, in his arms, was the only victory that mattered.