All Chapters of The Killer's Kitten: Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

She tried to answer. Her mouth wouldn't work. She felt herself being lifted—his arms, his chest, the familiar smell of soap and coffee. Then nothing.He carried her back upstairs. Called 911 with a voice that didn't sound like his own. Sat on the floor next to the sofa where she'd slept the night before, her hand in both of his, and waited.The paramedics came. The ambulance. The hospital corridor where he stood with his back against the wall and his arms crossed and his jaw clenched so tight it ached. The doctor—exhaustion, low blood sugar, dehydration. No permanent damage. But if she'd kept going like this—He was allowed into her room an hour later. She was asleep—real sleep, the kind her body had been begging for. Her arm was hooked to an IV. Her face was pale against the hospital pillow.He pulled a chair to her bedside. Sat down. Took her hand. He didn't speak. He didn't pray. He just sat there, holding her fingers, wat

She stayed.Not because they'd resolved anything—the question was still there—but because she was too tired to leave and he was too stubborn to let her. The first few days were quiet. She slept. A lot. He kept the apartment dark and the coffee hot. Every few hours he checked on her. Then he'd go back to the living room and wait.Sometimes, just before dawn, she heard the front door open and close. She never mentioned it. He never explained. It was part of the deal she hadn't signed yet.On the third morning she found a brown paper bag on the nightstand—croissant, still warm, and black coffee. He was in the living room, reading."You know you don't have to do this," she said from the doorway."You weren't eating. Now you're eating. I'm not going to apologize for basic logistics."She leaned against the doorframe. "You're a very weird man."He turned a page. "I'm aware."On the fifth evening, he reached for his jacket."Work?" she asked."Work."He didn't elaborate. She didn't ask where

It happened on a Tuesday.She didn't know it was a Tuesday until later, when she tried to remember the exact moment the question stopped needing an answer. Tuesday. Rain against the windows. His arm stretched along the back of the sofa, her shoulder pressed into his side. A documentary about deep-sea creatures neither of them was watching.His hand moved. Not the careful, tentative touch he'd been practicing—the one that hovered before landing, that asked permission with every millimeter. This time, his hand just landed. On her shoulder. Fingers curling over the curve of it. Palm flat against her skin through the thin fabric of her shirt.She didn't move.Not because she didn't notice. Because she did. Because she felt the difference—the way his fingers didn't pause to check if she'd pull away. They just stayed.She waited. A beat. Two. Then she put her hand over his."Stay," she said. "Don't check. Just stay."His jaw tig

The jazz bar hadn't changed.Same dim lights. Same worn leather booths. Same Miles Davis track drifting through the smoke like a half-forgotten memory. Vincent had come to retrieve a few personal items from the back room—loose ends from a life he was closing the door on. Gaby had asked to come. She said she wanted to see where it started.Now she sat alone in a corner booth, her finger tracing the rim of a wine glass, while Vincent disappeared through a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY."I've been trying to figure out who you are since the moment you walked in."Gaby looked up. The woman standing beside the booth hadn't asked—she'd stated it. Dark hair pulled back. Eyes that had seen things and filed them away. Beautiful in a way that didn't ask for attention."I'm Emily.""Gaby."Emily slid into the opposite seat without waiting. "He used to sit in that corner. Three in the morning. Alone."Gaby's fingers stilled on her

She'd taken the sofa last night without discussing it—just grabbed a blanket from the armchair and curled up before he could offer her the bed. He hadn't argued. He'd just stood in the doorway for a moment, then turned off the light. Now she stared at the ceiling, listening to the city hum beyond the windows, replaying Emily's words.She should have felt reassured. Emily had handed her the confirmation she hadn't known she needed—not in words, but in the way she'd looked at Gaby across the booth, as if she were measuring herself against something she'd already lost. But all she could feel was the gap—the space between what she knew about him and what she didn't. The history he'd never offered. The stories she'd never asked to hear.Morning light crept through the blinds. She heard him get up, heard the familiar sounds of the coffee maker, the refrigerator door. When she walked into the kitchen he was leaning against the counter, a cup of black coffee in his hand. She sat down at th