Love Me Again: Chapter Two - Caged with the King:

 If fame is a drug, then tonight I’m suffering from a lethal overdose. Between the flashing bulbs of the vultures outside and the cold bite of steel against my wrist, the line between "icon" and "inmate" has officially blurred. I should be at an after-party, buried in a blur of expensive gin and forgettable faces. Instead, I’m being chauffeured through the rain in a mobile cage, shackled to the roof of my own car like a trophy Marcus doesn't want to lose.If fame is a drug, then tonight I’m suffering from a lethal overdose. Between the flashing bulbs of the vultures outside and the cold bite of steel against my wrist, the line between "icon" and "inmate" has officially blurred. I should be at an after-party, buried in a blur of expensive gin and forgettable faces. Instead, I’m being chauffeured through the rain in a mobile cage, shackled to the roof of my own car like a trophy Marcus doesn't want to lose.

Chapter 2

Caged with the King:

Killian

If there is a God, He’s a sadistic bastard with a wicked sense of humor.

I’m currently shackled to the ceiling of a Cadillac Escalade like a common criminal because my manager, Marcus, decided that my "creative outlet" at the gala—specifically, putting my fist through a paparazzo’s lens—required an enforced cooling-off period. My left wrist is pulsing with a dull ache where the metal bites into the skin, and my head is thumping in time with the windshield wipers.

I was prepared for a long, brooding ride back to my empty penthouse. I was prepared to drink a bottle of something expensive until I forgot why I was angry.

I was not prepared for the door to fly open and for Charlotte "Charlie" Evans to dive into my lap.

Watching her scramble into the car was like seeing a ghost manifest in high-definition. For three years, she’s been a flickering image in the back of my mind—the one who walked away before I could ruin her, the girl who tasted like innocence and looked at me like I was something worth saving.

Now, she’s sitting inches away, shivering in a piece of silk that should be illegal. She’s older. Twenty-four, I believe she said. The roundness of her face has sharpened into elegant lines, and the way that dress clings to her damp skin makes my teeth ache with the sudden, violent urge to bite.

"Twenty minutes," I repeat to her, though the words feel like they’re being dragged out of me.

She’s staring at me with those wide blue eyes, the ones that used to be full of light but now hold a guarded, shimmering heat. She looks terrified and pissed off, yes, but there’s something else beneath it. The same pull that used to make her follow me into dark corners when she was eighteen. The same magnetic force that used to make her breath hitch whenever I got too close.

The SUV rolls into the underground garage of The Obsidian, the fluorescent lights strobing across her face. My driver, Miller, brings the beast to a smooth stop in the private bay. He’s a professional—he doesn't look back, doesn't ask questions. He just kills the engine.

"We’re here, Boss," Miller says, his voice flat as he kills the engine. The silence of the underground garage is immediate, broken only by the ticking of the cooling manifold and the muffled, distant roar of the city above. "Locksmith is standing by. I’ll bring him over to the door."

I let out a harsh, jagged breath, my left arm starting to go numb from being hiked up toward the ceiling for the last twenty minutes. My shoulder is screaming, a dull, throbbing reminder of just how much of a mess tonight has been. "Tell him to hurry the hell up. I’m done with this cage."

Beside me, Charlie is a vibrating wire of tension. I can feel the heat radiating off her damp skin, the scent of rain and some floral perfume I remember from three years ago filling the cramped space of the SUV.

I reach out with my free hand, my fingers closing over the leather strap of her bag to pull it toward me, my body shifting to block any chance she has of sliding past.

"I can get my own bag," she snaps, her voice trembling but her chin held high as she reaches for the door handle on her side. "And I can walk to the nearest exit. I am not going up there with you, Killian. This has gone far enough. I’m cold, I’m tired, and I have absolutely no interest in being part of whatever twisted rockstar psychodrama you’re currently starring in."

"The door is locked, Charlie," I growl, not even looking at her. I’m too busy staring at the red mark the cuff is leaving on my wrist. "And unless you want to crawl over me—which, by all means, be my guest—you aren't going anywhere until I’m out of these. Sit back. Don't make me tell you twice."

She lets out a sound of pure frustration, a huff that would be cute if I weren't so goddamn agitated. A moment later, the rear door clicks open, letting in the cool, subterranean air of the garage. A wiry man in a gray jumpsuit scurries forward, his eyes wide as he takes in the sight of the world’s biggest rockstar cuffed to the grab handle of a Cadillac like a common criminal. He doesn't say a word; he just fumbles with a heavy ring of keys and a pick set, his hands shaking just enough to make me want to growl at him.

The metal clinks and protests, the sound echoing off the concrete pillars of the garage, and then—finally—the weight drops. My arm falls to my side, the blood rushing back into my hand with a stinging, electric burn. I flex my fingers, the relief so sharp it almost makes me dizzy.

"Finally," I snap, rubbing the reddened skin of my wrist before shouldering past the man. "Now move out of my way. I’ve had enough of this garage to last a lifetime."

The locksmith scurries back, nearly tripping over his own toolbox as I slide out of the SUV and finally stand at my full height.

"Let’s get moving," I snap. Rolling my shoulders, the leather of my jacket creaks, and I take a deep breath of the garage air. It’s better than the car. Slightly.

I turn back to the SUV, offering a mock-polite hand to Charlie. She stares at my hand—and then at my face. Her eyes are a storm of blue and silver, and for a second, I think she might actually spit on me. Instead, she ignores my hand entirely, climbing out on her own and smoothing down that dangerous and still damp silk dress. She looks like a queen who accidentally wandered into a back-alley brawl, and I’ve never wanted to ruin someone more in my life.

"This way," I say, nodding toward the private elevator that leads directly into the heart of The Obsidian.

"I'm not—"

"Charlie," I cut her off, my voice sharp enough to draw blood. "Look around. You want to walk out that gate and have a hundred cameras catch 'The Lady Killer's' long-lost muse looking like she just crawled out of his bed? Because that’s the story they’ll write. They’ve been looking for a reason to tear you apart since the day I met you six years ago. You walk out now, and you’re fair game. You come upstairs, and you’re safe. Your choice."

Her face pales, the realization hitting her like a physical blow. She knows I’m right. The media has spent three years trying to figure out who broke my heart, and while they never got her name, they’d recognize the way she looks at me in a heartbeat.

She marches toward the elevator, her heels clicking an angry, defiant rhythm on the concrete. I follow close behind, watching the way the silk of her dress swishes against her thighs. I’m thirty-five years old. I’ve had my pick of the most beautiful women in the world. Models, actresses, heiresses—they’ve all been in my bed, and none of them ever made my blood roar like this. None of them ever made me feel like I was young again, desperate and starving for one look from a girl who loved books more than she loved me.

We step into the elevator, and the doors hiss shut with a sound that feels incredibly final. The mirrors reflect us back—the dark, tattered rockstar and the elegant, shivering librarian.

"You've grown up," I say, the words slipping out before I can stop them. The silence of the elevator is too much, too intimate. I’m standing behind her and I can see her reflection watching me in the mirrored walls, her pupils blown wide.

"Yeah, I noticed," she says, her voice dry as a desert. "Funny how time doesn't actually stop just because you aren't around to watch it pass."

I let out a low, dark chuckle that vibrates in my chest. I move closer, until the heat of my body is radiating against her back, until I can smell the rain dampening her hair. I can see the fine hair on the back of her neck stand up. I don't touch her, but I cage her in, leaning forward and planting my hands on the brass railing on either side of her slim shoulders.

"Ooh, someone grew some teeth," I murmur, leaning down until my breath stirs the stray hairs at her temple. "Tell me, Charlie... do they bite? Or do you only use them when you’re safely tucked behind a locked door?"

She gasps, her hands flying up to the brass railing of the elevator to steady herself. I can feel her shivering, a fine tremor that starts in her shoulders and works its way down.

"Killian," she warns, her voice breathy, full of that familiar terror-mixed-with-desire that I’ve spent a thousand nights dreaming about.

"And now," I growl, my teeth grazing her earlobe, sending a jolt through her that I feel in my own bones, "you’re twenty-four. You’re a woman. And I’m a man who doesn't have to be careful anymore."

I lean down so my lips are right against the sensitive skin behind her ear. I can smell her now—the real her, beneath the rain and the perfume. 

"You have no idea," I continue, my voice dropping an octave as I crowd her further against the railing. "Three years is a long time to think about all the things I’ve dreamt about doing to you since the night you left. The things I couldn't even put into songs because they were too dark, too loud, too much for anyone but you to hear."

I can feel the hitch in her breathing, a jagged rhythm that matches the hammering of my own heart. The elevator is rising, forty floors of sheer, unadulterated tension.

"And now?" she asks, her voice a fragile thing.

"And now," I growl, my teeth grazing her earlobe, sending a jolt through her that I feel in my own bones, " And I’m a man who doesn't want to be careful anymore. I’ve spent a decade being what the world wanted. Tonight, I just want to be the man who takes what he wants, what’s mine."

The elevator dings—a bright, artificial sound that shatters the moment. The doors slide open to my foyer. 

Charlie stands frozen, her chest heaving, her eyes darting toward the open door as if she’s measuring the distance to the nearest exit.

"Don't even think about it," I warn her, my voice low and dangerous. "You aren't going anywhere until I say so."

The silence of the penthouse is immediate and suffocating. It’s just us. The rain is still lashing against the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city lights below looking like a blurred galaxy.

Charlie turns to face me, clutching her bag to her chest like a shield. "Okay. I’m here. You’ve had your fun. Now call me a car, Killian. I’m serious."

I walk toward her, slow and deliberate. I strip off my leather jacket and toss it onto a chair, my eyes never leaving hers. I start unbuttoning my cuffs, the gold links clinking on the marble floor.

"A car's not coming, Charlie."

"But—"

"But what?" I interrupt, stopping just inches from her. I’m a head taller than her, and I use every bit of it to loom. "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."

I reach out, my fingers tangling in a damp lock of her hair, tugging just enough to make her look up.

"I'm going to give you two choices," I say, my 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."

Charlie’s mouth opens, a small, shocked 'O', but no sound comes out.

"Which is it, Charlie?" I lean in, my thumb grazing her bottom lip, pulling it down just enough to see the white of her teeth. "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?"

Come back tomorrow for another chapter

Trope Talk: The Experienced Claim 

The Trope: Age Gap / The Golden Cage. 

The Thought: This chapter moves the boundary from a cramped car to a sprawling penthouse, but the air actually gets tighter. Killian isn't pretending to be a "nice guy" anymore—at thirty-five, he’s embracing the "Lady Killer" reputation and using every bit of his experience to rattle Charlie’s "good girl" exterior. He’s already "claiming" her presence before the cuffs are even off. It’s the ultimate power play: he gives her a choice, but we all know there’s only one way this ends. 

The Question: When it comes to an age-gap romance, do you like the MMC to be a protective mentor type, or a "corrupting influence" like Killian Saint?

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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