The mansion was thrumming with life, the kind of chaos only the Heathens could command. Music pounded through hidden speakers and bodies moved in time, drunk on decadence and recklessness. Laughter rang loud, glasses clinked with expensive liquor, and the scent of smoke and perfume swirled together into something heady and dangerous.

Nikolai, larger than life, was the center of one cluster near the bar, his booming laugh echoing as he lifted a bottle of vodka straight to his lips. He spun an amused stranger in a mock dance, then shoved her toward the crowd, grinning all the while. “This, is what freedom looks like! Drink, dance, fight—it’s all the same when you’ve got nothing to lose!” His words made the group roar with approval, but the edge in them reminded everyone exactly why he was called The Punisher.

Jeremy was on the opposite side of the room, his sharp gaze scanning over every face with cold calculation. He didn’t mingle, didn’t waste words—he stood like the strategist he was, cigarette smoke curling lazily upward as if even the chaos bent itself around his control. Every so often, his gaze flicked toward you and Killian, a silent assessment that felt more like judgment.

Gareth lingered near the poker table, cards in one hand, glass in the other, smirking at everyone’s antics. His tongue was as sharp as his eyes, mocking and brutal in turns.

And Killian? Killian hadn’t let go of you once. His hand was at your waist, guiding you effortlessly through the press of people, his body a shield from the drunken crowd. His stare was ruthless, daring anyone to look too long at you, to try to touch. It wasn’t just protection—it was possession, written in every sharp line of his jaw and the grip of his fingers. You caught his gaze, tilting your head just slightly, and he understood immediately. That was the thing about Killian—he didn’t need words to know you.

Within minutes, he was leading you away from the chaos, up the sweeping staircase that most guests wouldn’t dare wander. The music dulled as you climbed higher, laughter fading into the background until only the echo of your footsteps filled the hall. When the door shut behind you, the difference was stark. The bass of the music was just a faint thrum through the walls, replaced by the low hum of silence. His room was dark, grounded in shadows, smelling faintly of leather, smoke, and him.

You sank onto the edge of his bed, letting out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. Killian stayed standing, watching you with that feral intensity he wore like a second skin. “You hate it out there,” he said finally, voice low, gravel rough.

“Not hate,” you corrected gently, leaning back on your palms. “It’s too much sometimes.”

His lips curved, but it wasn’t a smile—it was sharper, more dangerous. He crossed the room in two strides, sinking down beside you. His arm came around your shoulders instantly, pulling you into him.

You rolled your eyes lightly, but melted into his hold anyway, your head against his chest. His heart thundered beneath your cheek, steady and strong. The world outside could be reckless and wild, but here, in this quiet room, he was just Killian—obsessed, possessive, but softer in the way he held you.

“You know,” you murmured, tracing patterns against the back of his hand, “not everything has to be a battlefield.”

Killian’s fingers slid under your chin, tilting your face up to his. His gaze pinned you in place, dark and merciless, but there was something else there too—something no one else would ever see. “With you, it isn’t. But if anyone tries to take you from me…” His jaw clenched. “I’ll turn the world into one.”

You reached up, brushing your lips against his in something slow, tame compared to the violence of the party downstairs. His grip softened, his forehead pressing to yours like he was anchoring himself. For a long, quiet moment, there was no chaos, no Heathens, no danger—just you and the boy who would burn the world down if it ever tried to pull you apart.