Love Me Again: Chapter Three - The Shadow of the Obsidian

Trapped within the sleek, black walls of The Obsidian, Charlie is forced to face the ghost of her past. Killian Saint isn’t the boy she once knew—he’s a man who has traded his heart for a reputation. As the clothes come off and the truth comes out, Charlie must decide if she’s brave enough to handle the "Lady Killer" in the dark.

Chapter Three

The Shadow of the Obsidian 

Charlie

The silence in the penthouse is heavier than the rain outside. It presses against my eardrums, punctuated only by the distant, rhythmic thud-thud-thud of the storm hitting the floor-to-ceiling glass.

I’m standing in the center of the foyer of his penthouse, and I’ve never felt smaller. The floors are a polished black marble that reflects the city lights like a dark lake. But none of the luxury matters because the only thing I can see, the only thing I can feel, is Killian.

He’s discarded his leather jacket, tossing it onto a chair without taking his eyes off mine. He looks lethal in the dim light as his fingers go to his wrists, unbuttoning his cuffs. The gold links hit the floor with a tiny, sharp ping that sounds like a gunshot in the quiet room.

"A car's not coming, Charlie."

His voice is a low, dangerous rumble that vibrates right through the soles of my feet. I clutch my evening bag against my chest, my knuckles white.

"But—"

"But what?" he interrupts, stopping just inches from me. He’s so much taller than he was when I was eighteen, and he uses every inch of that height to loom over me. "Right now, the only thing that matters is that you're in my house, you're soaking wet, and you're looking at me like you want to scream."

He reaches out, his fingers tangling in a damp lock of my hair, tugging just enough to force me to look up at him.

"I'm going to give you two choices," he murmurs, his voice dropping into that dangerous, honeyed growl. "You can walk into that bedroom, take a hot shower, and put on one of my shirts. Or, you can stay right here and let me peel that dress off you myself. Because I've spent three years trying to remember what’s under that silk, and I’m about ten seconds away from losing my patience."

My mouth opens, a small, shocked O, but the air in my lungs has turned to lead. His thumb grazes my bottom lip, pulling it down just enough to see the white of my teeth.

"Which is it, Charlie?" he asks, his silver eyes dark with a hunger that makes my blood run hot. "Do you want to be a good girl and go to the shower? Or do you want to find out why they really call me the Lady Killer?"

"The shower," I whisper, the words barely finding their way out.

"Good girl." He doesn't sound proud; he sounds disappointed. He lets his hand drop, but his gaze remains fixed on mine. "Down the hall. First door on the right. There are towels in the cabinet and a stack of my shirts in the drawer. Don't take all night, Charlie. I don't like to be kept waiting."

I don't look back. I practically flee down the hallway, my heels clicking a frantic rhythm on the marble. I find the guest room—a space that is larger than my entire living room—and lock the door behind me with a trembling hand.

I lean against the wood, my eyes closed, trying to draw a full breath. The air in here is cool and smells like him. Everything in this building smells like him. It’s suffocating.

I peel the damp silk dress off my body, letting it fall in a sodden heap on the floor. My skin is covered in goosebumps, shivering from the cold and the adrenaline. I step into the bathroom, a sanctuary of gray stone and chrome, and turn the shower on as hot as it will go.

As the steam fills the room, I catch sight of myself in the mirror. My hair is a disaster, my makeup is smudged, and my eyes look... haunted. Or maybe they just look hungry.

I step under the spray, the heat nearly scalding, but I welcome the sting. I scrub my skin until it’s pink, trying to wash away the feeling of his eyes on me, but it’s useless. The way he looked at me in the foyer... it wasn't just desire. It was a claim.

When I finally step out, the mirror is completely fogged over. I wrap myself in a plush white towel and walk back into the bedroom, my heart starting to race again. I find the drawer he mentioned and pull it open.

It’s filled with black T-shirts. Nothing else. Just row after row of soft, expensive cotton that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. I pick one up, the fabric feeling like a second skin against my palm. I pull it over my head, the hem falling all the way to mid-thigh, and the scent of him hits me like a physical blow. It’s sandalwood and something darker, something purely Killian.

I catch my reflection in the full-length mirror. I look small in his clothes. Fragile. Like a girl playing dress-up in her father’s closet—except the thoughts I’m having aren't innocent at all.

I take a deep breath, trying to steady my hands, and walk back out into the hallway.

The living room is dimly lit now, the only light coming from the glowing skyline of Manhattan and a few amber lamps. Killian is standing by the window, a glass of dark liquid in his hand. He’s discarded his shirt, his back a canvas of black ink and corded muscle.

The tattoos tell a story I haven't read. A serpent coiling around his spine, lyrics I don't recognize scrawled across his shoulder blades, and a small, faded star right at the base of his neck—the one I used to kiss when we were hiding in the shadows of a stadium.

I stand there, frozen, watching the way his muscles ripple as he takes a sip of his drink. He doesn't turn around, but I know he knows I’m there.

"You took your time," he says, his voice a low vibration in the quiet.

"I... I had to warm up."

He turns then, and the breath leaves my body. The sight of him shirtless is enough to make my knees weak. He looks like a god carved from obsidian and silver. His gaze drops to the shirt I’m wearing, his eyes darkening as he sees the way the fabric clings to my damp curves.

"It looks better on you than it does on me," he murmurs, setting his glass down on the glass table. He starts walking toward me, his movements fluid and dangerous.

"Killian, I should go. The rain is slowing down, I can—"

"The rain isn't the problem, Charlie." He stops right in front of me, so close that I have to tilt my head back to look at him. He reaches out, his fingers catching the hem of the shirt, tugging it just enough to make me stumble forward. "The problem is that you think you can walk into my life, dive into my car, and then just... leave. Like the last three years didn't happen. Like you didn't leave a hole in my chest that no amount of scotch or stadium tours could fill."

"You were the one who changed, Killian! You became the 'Lady Killer.' You became someone I didn't recognize."

"I became what the world wanted me to be!" he roars, his voice echoing off the high ceilings. He grabs my upper arms, his grip firm but not painful. "I became the monster they paid to see because you weren't there to keep me human. You were eighteen, Charlie. You were too young to know how to handle the dark, so you ran. And I let you."

He leans in, his forehead resting against mine, his breath hot on my lips. "But you're twenty-four now. You're a woman. And I’m tired of being the only one who remembers how good we were."

"Killian..."

"Don't," he growls, his hand sliding up to cup the back of my head, his fingers tangling in my damp hair. "Don't say my name like that unless you're going to follow it with a 'yes.' Because I'm thirty-five years old, and I don't have the patience for games anymore. I want you, Charlie. I want to hear that little sound you make. I want to see you break for me."

He leans down, his lips brushing mine in a whisper of a kiss that makes my entire body shudder.

"Tell me to stop," he whispers against my mouth. "Tell me you don't want this as much as I do, and I'll call you that car. I'll even pay the driver to take you wherever you want to go. But you have to say it. You have to look me in the eye and tell me you don't love me anymore."

I look at him, my heart breaking and mending all at once. The silver in his eyes is bright now, full of a desperate, raw honesty that the "Lady Killer" would never show the world.

I could say it. I could lie and save myself.

But as his thumb brushes my bottom lip, and the scent of him wraps around me like a shroud, I realize I’ve never been good at lying to Killian Saint.

"I can't," I breathe.

"Can't what, sweetheart?"

"I can't tell you I don't love you."

Killian lets out a sound that’s half-growl, half-sob, and then his mouth crashes onto mine.

Come back tomorrow for another chapter

Trope Talk: The "His Shirt" Moment

The Trope: The Boyfriend Shirt / Vulnerability in the Dark.

The Thought: Is there anything more classic (and effective) than the FMC wearing the MMC's oversized T-shirt? It’s such a powerful visual of his "claim" on her. In this chapter, the boundary moves from physical space to emotional honesty. Killian is stripping away her defenses just as much as she’s stripping off that damp dress. The tension here isn't just about the spice; it's about the fact that they are both still utterly wrecked by each other.

The Question: Does seeing the FMC in the MMC’s clothes make you swoon, or do you prefer it when he’s the one wearing something of hers?

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

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Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

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First Edition: March 2026

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