It's pitch-black in here except for the faint sliver of light spilling through the crack in the cupboard door. The old wood creaks beneath my weight as I press my back against it, clutching my knees to my chest. My breathing is shallow, barely there, because gods forbid the sound of my existence gives me away. The scent of dust, stale wood, and my own nerves is choking me.
My heart is a war drum. Loud, frantic, and utterly convinced I'm about to die. Or worse.
"What are you doing here?" Killion's voice cuts through the silence, calm, indifferent. The kind of voice that doesn't just keep secrets—it smothers them.
I peek through the crack, the sliver of light spilling across his face as he lights a cigar. The shadows carve his features into something sharper, crueler. Smoke coils around him, wrapping his jaw and mouth like a crown of sin.
He leans back against the sofa, feigning nonchalance as if this is just another conversation in another room.
