by Fox, Nicole
I glance at his profile. There’s a light layer of stubble coating his jaw now. It makes him look a little more distinguished, a little more serious.
That is, until he turns to me and smiles.
Then the seriousness dissolves behind mischief and charm and I have to drop my gaze to keep from blushing.
“You’ve missed this view, too, huh?” he asks suggestively as he points at his own face.
“Ass,” I mutter, moving towards the kitchen island.
Laughing, Cillian follows me there and starts rifling around in the gargantuan stainless steel fridge. I could climb in there and curl up with room to spare.
“Hallelujah!” he crows, pulling out a heaping dish covered over with foil. “Fiona’s famous Irish stew. I used to dream about this shit when I was in California.”
He removes the foil and portions a couple of ladles into two blue bowls from a cupboard under the island. Once it’s warmed in the microwave for a couple of minutes, he hands me a bowl.
The smell wafting up to greet me is so damn good that I want to dive in right away. I burn my tongue on the first bite, but even that pain isn’t enough to dull the flavor.
“Wow,” I breathe. “You weren’t kidding.” The taste of juicy mutton seeps into my taste buds and I sigh with relief.
“Good, right?”
“Amazing,” I agree. “My compliments to the chef.”
“Good ol’ Fiona. She’s been with the family for decades.”
“I take it your mother didn’t cook much?”
Cillian laughs as though the idea of his mother cooking is the funniest joke he’s heard all day.
“My mother is a mafia wife,” he explains. “She doesn’t cook. She plans and plots and strategizes. She keeps the peace, but prepares for war.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Is that what a mafia wife does?”
“That and so much more,” Cillian says, shoveling a huge spoon of stew into his mouth. “It’s no easy job. You have to juggle a hundred different roles and a thousand different egos. Few women have managed as successfully as Ma.”
“Why do you think that is?”
Cillian shrugs. “Simple. She and Da… they’re a team. While his colleagues spent their nights with mistresses and whores, Da was home with her.”
“A real life love story.”
“You could say that,” Cillian says. “They’ve had their struggles over the years. But they met young. Grew up together.”
“Really?”
“I think they were teenagers when they met.”
I look up at him, and neither of us have to speak to understand what the other one is thinking.
We were teenagers, too…
I can feel his eyes on me, but I don’t want to see the expression on his face. I don’t want to deal with the accusation. With that sense of betrayal I’ve felt from day one of my marriage.
“So, you married him right after I left Dublin?” he asks softly.
I can barely speak. “Yes.”
“Because you were trying to protect your father.”
“I know you don’t understand—”
“I understand that you were doing what you thought you had to,” he says, cutting me off. “And maybe you were right to do so at the time.”
“But you don’t believe that?”
“What I believe doesn’t matter.”
“Stop being so mature,” I snap at him.
He laughs. “You’re right. Very out of character for me. Felt weird.”
I let a smile break through, but my cheek muscles feel strangely tight. Or maybe I’m just tired.
Now that I think about it, actually, I’m bone-deep exhausted.
Cillian must notice it, too, because just then, he says, “There’s a room upstairs for you. Someone will show you to it.”
I take a deep breath. “You’re really going to keep me here, Cillian?”
“I’m trying to protect you,” he says gently.
I shake my head. “Cillian… Tristan is not a man you want to cross. I tried, and look where it landed me.”
“I remember—in a fucking cell, Saoirse,” he snarls, his tone darkening. “And you want me to just hand you back to that psychopath?”
“He won’t hurt me,” I lie smoothly.
“How do you know?”
“Because he’s… Well, he thinks of me as his. I’m his property. He wants to control me, yes. But he won’t hurt me.”
“So you’re saying he’s never hurt you in the past?”
“No.”
“Look at me and say that to my face.”
I shake my head, refusing. “Why do you have to make this so hard?”
“I’m trying to make it simple for you,” he retorts. “If someone is hurting you, stay the fuck away from them.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Jesus!” he roars, standing up so fast he almost upends the bowl in front of him. “What has he done to you?”
I make the mistake of looking him in the eye. When I do, I feel my stomach drop.
He’s looking at me like he barely recognizes me.
It’s a fucking gut punch.
“I’ve changed, Cillian,” I say, owning my own weaknesses. “I’m not the girl you met thirteen years ago.”
“That’s a lie,” he says fiercely. “The girl I met thirteen years ago is still there. She’s just been stifled and oppressed and silenced. She’s trapped. And part of that is on him. But part of it is in your head, Saoirse.”
“In my head?” I repeat, trying not to let his words get to me. “I—”
I stop short, feeling a strange new coldness spreading through my body. It’s the kind that accompanies an unwelcome realization.
The kind you want to run from.
The kind that denial has cloaked you from for years.
I stare at him, trying to refute him.
But there’s no way I can do that.
He’s right.
All these years, I thought the abuse was just physical. But Tristan has been casting his net over me for so long that I haven’t even realized that it was happening.
I feel tied to him.
I feel the need to go back or face even worse consequences if I don’t.
“Saoirse.”
His fingers intwine with mine, so soft and gentle that I just want to dissolve into him and let out all the pent-up sobs that have been years in the making.
I could. It’d be so easy.
Let him care.
Let him protect.
Let him rescue me.
Instead, I jerk away from him. “I don’t want to talk anymore.”
His eyes are regretful but unrepentant. Somehow, the distinction makes sense in my head.
“Okay,” he sighs. “Rory will show you the way.”
I walk out of the kitchen and find Rory standing a few feet away. He’s waiting by the glass panels that line the entire wing of the house.
The view of the lake is spectacular from every angle. But its beauty is lost on me right now. My head is spinning too fast.
“Cillian said you’d show me to a room.”
“Yes,” Rory says with a courteous nod. “Follow me.”
He leads me up the staircase, towards the second story. Most homes would have rows of family pictures lined up along the staircase wall.
But in the O’Sullivan home, there are only exotic tribal masks from cultures around the world.
They’re all beautiful. Clearly expensive. But there’s a certain cold detachment about the collection. It says a lot about the person who put them there.
This is a house where people wear masks all the time. Where no one says what they truly feel.
Except for Cillian.
He’s never worn a mask. He’s shown me his true self since the day we met.
So why can’t I do the same for him?
The staircase ends at a broad landing, but I’m barely paying attention anymore. I just want to be in a quiet, dark space.
Somewhere without his overwhelming presence suffocating me.
“Here you go,” Rory says, pushing open a door on the left for me.
“Thank you.” I slip inside.
The door clicks shut behind me and I look around at the room. Like the rest of the house, it’s spacious, luxurious, and pleasantly warm. The bed is the focal point, a massive naked four-poster that sits adjacent to huge bay windows.
I go to the windows and look out. I can see the gardens sloping down the hill into a flat patch of grass that leads to the lake’s edge.
Even when I can’t see Cillian, I feel his presence.
And it’s not just this house, either. It’s the mere knowledge that he’s back in Dublin. Back in my world.
It’s funny, really. I’ve spent years upon years dreaming of the man. But in those dreams, he never came back. That was never really part of the fantasy. Mainly because I knew it wasn’t possible for us to have a future given everything I’ve been through.
My fantasies consisted mostly of rewritten pasts.
I dreamed of a world in which I’d left with Cillian when he held out his hand and asked me to go.
If not that, then one in which Tristan never existed and Cillian had always stayed in Dublin.
Or if not that, then one in which I got on that flight to Los Angeles a couple days ago and Tristan never caught me. Never dragged me home. Never forced me back into the cage he’d built for me the day we’d exchanged rings.
All those alternatives felt easier to process, easier to absorb.
But this?
This feels almost… cruel.
Cillian is back. And yet I still feel trapped. More than I ever have before.
Because what I want is right in front of me.
And I know I can’t have it.
Tristan is right. He was right all along. I was just too stubborn, too proud, too defiant to see it.
I am his.
And there’s no escaping him.
37
Cillian
Kian’s Room
“You brought her back here?” Kian balks.
“Where else would I have taken her?”
Kian’s on forced bedrest for the next few weeks while Dr. Doyle monitors his progress. He looks better, but I can tell his leg is killing him. Every time he moves too abruptly, his face turns purple for a few seconds.
If he hadn’t taken the quasi-literal bullet for me, so to speak, I might have had to laugh.
“Jesus, Cillian,” Kian grimaces.
“Are you about to give me a lecture, little brother?”
Kian sighs like he’s considering it, and then shrugs. “I suppose we’re in enough shit already. This can’t do any more damage.”
“That’s the spirit!” I say. “Always knew you were an optimist.”
Kian laughs, but it’s followed by a wince. “Fuck, this hurts,” he sighs.
“You big baby.”
He gives me a glare. “I knew I’d regret taking the hit for you.”
“Still can’t believe you did that.”
“You’d have done it for me.”
“You’re right. Glad I didn’t, though. Looks like it sucks.”
I plop into a seat and rest my feet up on Kian’s bed. He gives me an annoyed glance, but I just return it with a grin.
“So?” he remarks.
“So what?”
“What was it like seeing her again?”
I can understand his curiosity, but something holds me back.
What was it like? Thirteen years of imagining the moment didn’t do it justice.
I don’t say that, though. Wouldn’t even know where to begin with explaining how it felt.
“It was fucking weird,” I say in the end. “I found her in a goddamn holding cell.”
“Oof. Tristan Rearden is going to be an issue,” Kian says. “They’re piling up.”
“I can take that motherfucker.”
“Don’t underestimate him,” Kian warns. “He may be a Kinahan thug, but he’s a thug with connections.”
“I’ve got connections, too. Connection One and Connection Two, right here.” I waggle my fists in the air one at a time and flex.
But Kian doesn’t bite on the joke. Truthfully, I’m not feeling it, either.
He’s right. We have problems that need solutions.
“Any new leads?” he inquires.
I grit my teeth. He doesn’t have to explain what he’s talking about.
Ma and Da are who-the-fuck-knows-where with some very bad people. The clock is ticking. And we have jack shit to go off of.
“I’ll find them both,” I promise him. “Don’t worry, brother. I’ve got this.”
“Do you?” Kian asks. “How?”
“I’m still figuring that part out.”
“Jesus. You don’t have a plan, do you?”
“I like to wing it.”
Kian closes his eyes for a moment. “Da’s gonna kill me if he survives.”
“Ma will probably kill you first,” I point out. “But don’t worry—I’ll try and protect you.”
“You’ll try, huh?”
“Of course. So long as it doesn’t mess with my plans for the day.”
“Asshole.”
I laugh, and Kian joins in after a second.
But when we relapse into silence, the enormity of our current position settles over both of us.
“I’m gonna have to talk to the men,” I realize.
“I’ve briefed them already,” Kian replies. “But I think it’s important that they hear from you. You’re the don now, Cillian. But it’s not just about being handed the reins.”
The unspoken sentiment is clear: I have to earn this shit. Nothing in life comes free. Not leadership nor love.
The men need to know I’m capable of this.
“You know I’ve got your back, right?” Kian says.
I chuckle. “Yeah, you’re going to be a real help all holed up here in your room.”
Kian wrinkles his brow. “Y’know, you used to be nicer when I was ten.”
“It was easy. You worshipped me back then.”
“What makes you think I stopped?” he asks. Kind of softly. Kind of sadly.
A lump rises in my throat, but I push it down and nod. “I’m sorry I left the way I did, Kian.”
“You don’t have to—”
I raise a hand to cut him off. “I wish I could have said goodbye to you. I wish I could have explained.”
“I know,” Kian sighs. “I was pissed. Some days, I still am. But other days, I get it. You were a kid yourself and you were kicked out of the family. Da left you on your own when he should have fought for you.”
It means a lot to hear him say those words. I know that’s what he would have done in Da’s position.
But then, I shouldn’t be surprised.
Kian was always loyal to a fault. He didn’t speak to Da for weeks after he forced Sean to kill his dog.
Of course, Da didn’t exactly notice, but the gesture was not lost on me. It wasn’t lost on Sean, either.
“Have you heard from Sean at all?” I ask suddenly.
Kian sighs. “I tried for a long time to track him down. But—”
“He doesn’t want to be found.”
“That’s what I think, too,” Kian agrees with a nod. “I’m still trying not to take it personally.”
“Da knows his shit when it comes to the clan,” I say. “But he fucked up royally with the family.”
“Sometimes, I think he knows it, too.”
“You think?”
“It’s in the eyes,” Kian says simply.
I can’t help but smile at that one.
But Kian’s busy rubbing his own eyes sleepily. The habit reminds me of the boy he was at ten.
Out of nowhere, I feel a stab of disappointment for all those years I’d lost. I wasn’t there to give him his first beer, to pick him up after his first date. To teach him how to be a man.
I wasn’t the
re at all.
“You’re tired,” I say, getting to my feet. “Time to get some rest.”
“Fuck, I haven’t felt this drugged out in a long time. Not since I broke my arm a couple years ago.”
“You broke your arm?”
“The left one. Got the scar to prove it.”
“What happened?”
“Usual shit. Kinahan thugs thought they could ambush me in a club. They wanted to beat the hell out of me. They broke my arm, but I was the only one who walked away from that little encounter.”
Once again, I have to remind myself that Kian has lived a full life while I’d been living mine in Los Angeles.
“We’ll need to swap stories sometime.”
Kian grins sleepily at me. “I’m looking forward to it, brother.”
* * *
I slip out of his room and head to Da’s office. I’ve purposefully stayed away from it—mainly because Da’s presence is still so fucking oppressive.
It’s like he’s in the damn walls.
Watching me.
Judging me.
Questioning every fucking decision I make.
I sit behind his desk, push hard against the backrest, and prop my feet up on the shiny sleek surface. If Da saw me now, he’d probably have a fucking conniption.
My first thought is, Fuck him. I can do what I want.
But then I grit my teeth and put my feet back down.
Because sometimes, you just have to be a fucking grown-up.
Even if it kills you.
The overhead lights are dimmed almost to blackness and the curtains are heavy and thick over the windows. I walk over and hurl them open to let in the moonlight, then I crank the dimmer dial up.
Da liked his office space to be dark and cut off from the rest of the house.
Not me. I want the light coming in.
I dial in Artem’s number and switch to speaker. The dial tone reverberates around the room as the portrait of my grizzled grandfather stares at me from across the room.
Old bastard looks angry. Disappointed in me already.
“Yeah,” I murmur to his painted face, “I’m not what you expected. But maybe that’s a good thing. Someone to let the light in.”
“Hello?”
“Artem,” I croon. “Miss me yet?”
“Yet?” he replies, and I can sense the smile in his tone. “You disappeared on me for a whole fucking year, and it still took eleven and a half months for me to remember you weren’t there.”
