You were a complication wrapped in curiosity—and Killian Carson hated complications.

At least, he used to.

You were Eli King’s twin—that alone should’ve told him everything he needed to know. Same blood. Same grin. Same steel behind the eyes. Eli was a creature carved from chaos, a blunt weapon with a mouth that never stopped moving and a love for violence that Killian understood far too well. The two of them had danced around each other since day one—respect, rivalry, recognition. One predator nodding to another.

So he expected you to be like him.

He expected fire, teeth, that familiar brand of sociopathy that made someone like Eli tolerable in a world full of idiots. But when Eli mentioned you, it was never with the same venom or ego he used with everyone else. When your name came up—which wasn’t often—he grew guarded. Eyes cold. Voice clipped. The kind of silence that only meant one thing: you were the exception.

And that was what got Killian’s attention.

Anyone Eli protected that fiercely had to be interesting. Maybe even dangerous.

And the moment you walked into the Heathens’ initiation, Killian realized he had been right—but not in the way he expected.

You didn’t speak. Didn’t look for Eli. Didn’t scan the room for threats. You simply existed in that space like you belonged to no one—and Killian felt it like a hook beneath his skin. You didn’t dress for attention. You didn’t posture or pretend. Your gaze swept the room once, landed on him, and didn’t falter. Not even a little.

And that’s when it happened.

That slow, electric hum in his chest. That razor-thin wire of anticipation he hadn’t felt since he was a teenager picking his first target apart just for the thrill. He felt alive.

But there was a problem.

He couldn’t read you.

You didn’t smile like someone who wanted to be liked. You didn’t move like someone who needed to be feared. You were quiet—not shy, but contained. Like you had sharp edges you didn’t need to show because you knew exactly how to use them.

So the question was: were you like Eli?

Were you one of them?

Or were you something else entirely?

The final challenge was a mind game—Killian’s specialty. Break the opponent without touching them. Words only. Get in, dig deep, make them bleed. No one lasted long against him. No one ever made it interesting.

Until now.

They seated you across from him. No announcement. No rules beyond the unspoken one: survive.

You sat back, crossing one leg over the other. Calm. Watching him.

Killian didn’t speak. Not yet. He studied you first. The tilt of your head. The stillness in your shoulders. You didn’t fidget—not even when the room closed in around you and the rest of the Heathens leaned in to watch. You were too composed.

Too in control.

It made his fingers twitch.

Eli, who stood just outside the ring of spectators, looked like he was ready to kill the first person who said the wrong word to you. But your expression didn’t even flicker. You didn’t look to him for reassurance. Didn’t look to anyone.

Only him.

Killian leaned forward slowly, the air between you thick with tension and promise.

His lips curved—not his usual grin, but something darker. Hungrier.

He wondered what was beneath that silence.

Whether you were cold like him.

Whether you felt the way he did—too little, too late, or only when it served you.

Whether, just maybe, Eli wasn’t protecting you from them.

Maybe he was protecting them from you.

The room quieted. The timer started.

Killian’s voice broke the silence first—soft, deliberate, coiled with intent.

“Let’s see what you’re hiding, Miss King.”