Deadly Oath

2. Kian

2

KIAN

T he woman standing framed in the doorway is stunning. And entirely out of place.

It’s my first time laying eyes on Sabrina Miller, and it was worth the wait. But five seconds is all it takes to see that she doesn’t belong here.

She stands there uncomfortably, like she feels not at home in her own skin—or, more likely, the clothes she’s wearing. Jeans that are too big, a plain, navy-blue shirt with long sleeves that she keeps plucking at. Definitely not her choice, not when the rest of her is so perfectly polished. She has a body to die for, the kind of body that’s never been poisoned by a box of Kraft mac-and-cheese or a drive-through burger. Her hair looks expensive, as does her poreless, perfectly smooth skin. She looks expensive.

She should, considering what she’s cost me.

“What do you want?” Her voice is all wrong, too, clipped, cold, and cultured, with the hint of a city-born-and-bred Chicagoan accent. Nothing like the Kentucky drawl that I’ve been inundated with since coming here a few weeks ago. I meant to come and see her sooner, but there was a surprising amount of paperwork and responsibility that came with taking over a small-town police station. Especially when the former sheriff was an aging man who could barely use a flip phone, let alone a computer.

Standing there in the doorway, flaking paint and a rusty hinge framing her, a loose step under my foot, she looks like a mirage. Like she can’t possibly be real. But she is.

“Well, ma’am, is that any way to greet a man who came all the way over here to check on you?” I smile at her, shoving my hands in my pockets, striving to look relaxed. “Kian Brady. I’m the sheriff here, if you weren’t aware. And since you’re new in town, living here alone, I figured I’d come and make sure there wasn’t anything you needed. I know the man who you’re renting this place from, and he’s a bit of a scummy landlord. Doesn’t do much for maintenance, and overcharges on the rent. Wanted to make sure you were getting by alright.”

By now, anyone else here would have relaxed, too. Given me a big smile, invited me in for a beer or a cup of coffee, or offered a fresh-baked cookie. But Sabrina is still looking at me suspiciously, her gorgeous blue eyes going from wide to narrowed.

“The sheriff is a man named Wayne Smith,” Sabrina says, her voice chillier than before. “I met him the day after I moved here. He showed up a lot like this, actually. On my doorstep, letting me know that if I needed anything, all I had to do was call.” She purses her lips, a clear expression on her face that says she doesn’t believe anything I’m saying now.

I don’t let it rattle me. She’s cold, sure, and suspicious, but I can work with that. “I know Wayne,” I assure her, my voice easy. “I replaced him when he retired a few weeks ago. Some health issues, I think. Normal stuff, for a guy that age. They decided to bring in someone younger. Bit more spring in my step, for chasing down the bad guys.” I smile at her, letting it reach the corners of my eyes.

“And have you gone and checked on all the residents like this, Sheriff Brady?” She raises one perfectly groomed eyebrow. Too well-groomed, for anyone living here. If I wasn’t already aware that she was a new arrival, I’d know just from that. “Or just me?”

“Oh, I’ve been making the rounds. Marie, a few houses down, makes a mean pumpkin peanut butter cookie. If you haven’t had the chance to try one yet, you should.”

Something about the mention of Marie’s name seems to relax her the smallest fraction. I see her shift, the tension in her face loosening just a bit. She smiles, but it still seems a bit forced.

“I’m sorry, Sheriff Brady,” she says easily, although her voice is still cool. “I’m being terribly rude. Do you want to come in? I’m afraid I can’t offer cookies, but I’ve got cold coffee.”

“I can’t say I’m a fan of cold coffee, but I’ll accept the hospitality, anyway.” My smile doesn’t falter as Sabrina steps back, giving me space to step into the house. “Although even in a place like this, you should be cautious of inviting strangers in. A woman living alone, and all of that.”

“You’ve noted that I live alone once already.” Some of that stiffness returns to her tone as she strides towards the back of the house, where I glimpse a table and kitchen appliances through an open doorway. The walls of the kitchen are a pale yellow, the table and chairs a worn wood, scratches of use indented into it. A flowered valance hangs over the sink, framing the large window. “And you’re the sheriff, right? That’s what you said? So I shouldn’t be worried about letting you into my house.”

She glances back, that eyebrow arched again, and I chuckle. “Well, I suppose you’ve got me there, ma’am.”

“Sabrina. I’ve never been called ma’am before, and I think it makes me feel uncomfortable.” She steps into the kitchen, yanking open the fridge with a bit more force than strictly necessary. “And I’m sorry, but I haven’t quite mastered the coffee pot yet. So cold is the best I can do.” She pulls out a jug of cold pumpkin-flavored coffee, and I resist the urge to wrinkle my nose. What I want is an opportunity to talk to Sabrina Miller a bit longer, and if drinking overly sugary, cold coffee is the way to do it, I’m willing to suffer.

“Then call me Kian.” I sit down at the table, watching her as she moves around the kitchen, her shoulders and posture tense. “If we’re going by first names.”

She ignores the offer, pouring a generous amount of the coffee into a black mug and setting it down on the table in front of me, before reaching for a half-full mug that she must have abandoned when I knocked on the door. “So. Is there anything else I can do for you?” She leans back against the counter with her cup as she says it, instead of sitting down at the table with me. There’s clear distrust still in her eyes.

“I’m just curious, is all. I’d like to get to know everyone I’m responsible for keeping safe here. One of the benefits of small-town living, isn’t it? You can get to know everyone you live near.”

Sabrina snorts, then catches herself. “I’m still getting used to it,” she says quickly. “I haven’t been here long. But I suppose you knew that already. How did you know that already?” She pauses, and when I don’t reply instantly, she answers her own question. “The neighbors, of course. Marie.” She lets out a small sigh. “Another thing I’m not entirely used to. Everyone else knowing my business.”

“It can be an acquired taste.”

That eyebrow arches again. I feel an odd, itching urge to close the distance between us, reach up, and smooth my thumb over the curve of it. Close on the heels of that thought is the image of pressing my palm to her cheek, my thumb on that small dip in the center of her chin, pulling that full, frowning mouth into mine.

She wouldn’t be frowning any longer by the time I finished kissing her. Her mouth would be soft, swollen, and slack. Warm from mine. Her eyes luminous and wide instead of narrowed and suspicious.

My cock twitches at the thought, a pulse of arousal prickling over my skin as I feel it swell, pushing at the front of my zipper. I’m pretty sure the dark brown slacks aren’t going to do all that good of a job of hiding my burgeoning erection, and I will it to calm down.

That’s not what I’m here for. Not right now.

I clear my throat, shifting in my seat in a way that I hope isn’t overly obvious. “What convinced you to move here? Since you seem so uncomfortable.”

“Like you said, I’m sure it’s an acquired taste.” Sabrina takes a sip of her coffee. “I just haven’t acquired it yet. I was starting to feel overwhelmed where I lived. I needed some peace and quiet. So I came here.” She shrugs, but there’s a stiffness to it that I notice. A practiced way that she speaks, as if she’s reciting something she’s memorized. “But it’s been more of an adjustment than I expected. I’ll get there, I’m sure.”

“Well, if you need someone to show you around, I’d be happy to help.” I set down the mug of coffee, unable to manage another sip, and lean one elbow on the table. “I could take you out for dinner one night. Give you a little taste of what the town has to offer.”

That eyebrow somehow arches even higher. “Are you asking me out on a date , Sheriff Brady? And aren’t you new here, too? I should be asking someone else to give me a taste of the town, don’t you think?”

An abrupt, hot jolt of anger ripples through me at the thought of any other man taking the coldly gorgeous woman in front of me out anywhere , let alone on an actual date. Irritation at her refusal to call me by my name follows it, adding to the prickling running across my skin like ants.

“I am new here,” I agree, keeping that anger out of my tone with some effort. “And what if I am asking you out on a date?” I smirk at her, and I see her eyes narrow.

“Then I’d have to say no,” she says, her voice returning to that chilly calm. “I don’t think I’m really in a place to go out with anyone right now. But thank you, Sheriff Brady. I’m sure you were just looking out for me, by asking.”

There’s no room for argument in the way she says it, so I drop it for now, standing up smoothly as I carry my mug to the sink. I pass by her as I do, and I get a whiff of her scent—sweet vanilla sugar with a hint of spice to it. My cock twitches again, that tingling arousal prickling up my spine, and I force myself to keep walking past her. I have the urge to turn and pin her against the counter, put my hand on those perfectly curved hips, and show her exactly how little she’s actually managed to put me off. How aroused I am by her, despite her coolness towards me .

But I ignore it. I was once a man of great self-control, and even if I’ve felt that control fraying as of late, I’m not that far gone yet.

Even when it comes to her.

“Thanks for the coffee,” I tell her smoothly, picking up my sheriff’s hat from the table and plopping it back atop my head. “Let me know if you need anything, Sabrina.”

“I will. But I have a friend coming by soon, so?—”

“Don’t worry, I’m getting out of your hair.” I smile at her. “I won’t keep you any longer.”

I stride back towards the front door, taking note of the house as I go. It’s all simply furnished in a way that implies it came this way. I doubt Sabrina has had any hand in the decorating. The living room is wood-paneled, with a soft floral-print couch and what looks like a handmade quilt over the back, a slightly out-of-date television hanging on one wall. There are no personal touches that I can see that fit the person I met today—it seems like Sabrina is just existing here, without trying to make it her own. I imagine if I went into her bedroom, it would be much the same.

That prickle of desire runs over my skin again at the thought of her bedroom, but I push it away, opening the door. It squeaks on the hinges, and I glance back at Sabrina once before stepping out. She’s half-visible through the kitchen doorway, still leaning back against the counter, clutching her mug as if it’s a shield. I see a part of her face, thin-lipped and slightly pale, and I file that image away to consider later before I slip outside.

Outside, it’s a chilly November day, and I tug on my jacket against the cold, heading out to where my truck is parked. Another concession to this place’s small-town sensibilities. There’s a police cruiser I could drive, but I like that even less than the truck I purchased shortly after moving here. I think, with brief yearning, of the car I left behind—and then unlock the door, hopping up into the warm, mint-scented interior.

I have every intention of coming back to check on Sabrina later on tonight.