Jaded Soul: A Standalone Irish Mafia Romance

by Fox, Nicole

  I give her cheek a kiss and raise my head.

  Her blue eyes swim with hope. “Cillian,” she says again. It’s enough to make me fucking hard all over again. “There’s nothing for us in Ireland anymore. Nothing but danger and pain. Let’s just leave. Get out of here like we planned. We can disappear.”

  I stare at her, feeling strangled by her words.

  They bring me as much joy as they do pain.

  “Saoirse…”

  I’m still inside her, but I’m deflating now under the weight of her words.

  She’s looking right at me. And there’s nowhere to hide.

  “Don’t you want to?” she asks.

  No—she begs.

  She says it like someone who’s spent thirteen years dreaming of the chance to ask that question without ever believing she’d get to do it.

  She never imagined it playing out like this, though.

  Neither did I.

  I shake my head. “I’m sorry. Things are complicated.”

  That’s all I manage to get out before she pushes me off her. She’s gentle, but I can sense her hurt.

  “Saoirse—”

  “It’s okay,” she interrupts, gathering up her dress and holding it in front of her like a shield. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  I reach for my boxers and put them back on.

  By the time I do, she’s gone.

  50

  Saoirse

  “Idiot,” I tell myself over and over again. “Idiot, idiot, idiot.”

  I don’t know what compelled me to say what I’d said to him.

  Apparently, your first orgasm in thirteen years can pull down your walls faster than anything else. That’s the only explanation I can think of.

  I’m sitting on the edge of my bed, trying to figure out how I’m going to face him now.

  Then the door opens. I don’t have to glance around to know it’s him.

  “Saoirse.”

  I’m about to whip around and tell him I don’t want to talk. That I was being delusional and naïve. That I’d gone temporarily insane.

  But before I can say anything else, he does.

  “I’m going to take a walk through the woods,” he says casually. “Care to join me?”

  I turn and raise my eyebrows. That was not high on my list for guesses as to what he was going to say.

  “You… you’re going for a walk in the woods?”

  He gives me a lopsided smile that feels like a gut punch in my vulnerable state. My body is still recovering from his absence.

  Ironically, despite how close we are right now, I’ve never felt the distance more.

  “Your hearing is in excellent form,” he teases. “It’s beautiful out there. And there’s something I want to show you.”

  A part of me wants—no, needs—to turn him down.

  Warning bells are dinging in my head, telling me that the more time I spend with him, the harder it will be to say goodbye.

  Another part of me—the bigger, louder, more desperate part—is telling me to ignore the warning and just be with him as much as I can.

  Enjoy it while this lasts.

  I’ll have to live off these memories for the next few decades.

  That thought is depressing, so I shudder and set it aside. And as I do, I find myself standing up and nodding.

  “Sure,” I reply, thankful at least that he hasn’t brought up the awkward moment from before. “Just let me change. I’ll meet you outside in a minute.”

  “You got it,” he says with another lingering smile.

  Then he shuts the door behind him, leaving me in the echoing silence.

  I sit back down on the bed and promptly start to cry.

  I don’t even attempt to hold back the tears. It’s the cathartic release I need to get me through the next few hours with him.

  I was a fool to think that, thirteen years later, he’d have the same feelings for me that he did back when he was eighteen.

  The desperate romantic in me reasoned that I still feel the same way I did then. So maybe it wasn’t too illogical to assume he did, too.

  But now, I realize how ridiculous the narrative is.

  I’ve lost myself to fantasies and allowed them to dominate reality.

  And the reality is that Cillian’s a different man now. I’m a different woman.

  We’ve both got baggage. We’ve both held onto a shared memory for over a decade.

  But things are different now.

  And I’ve just got to accept that.

  “Saoirse?” Cillian’s voice is muffled on the other side of the thick door that separates us. “Everything okay?”

  He sounds so calm.

  No, that’s the wrong word.

  Unaffected.

  That’s the right one.

  I bite down on my bottom lip and will myself into a state of composure before I reply, “Sorry! I’ll be right out.”

  I’m proud of the fact that my voice doesn’t shake when I speaks.

  I get up and exchange the dress for a pair of high-rise jeans and a light, long-sleeved white sweater. I keep my hair loose. I tell myself it’s because I like it that way.

  But the real reason is because I know Cillian likes it that way.

  I check my reflection in the mirror before I leave the room. The puffiness in my eyes lingers slightly, but hopefully, it’s subtle enough that he won’t notice.

  I splash some cold water onto my face for good measure and head out of the room.

  Cillian is standing there waiting for me. He’s changed clothes, too. He’s wearing dark boots, dark jeans, and a henley shirt in a muted, earthy brown that brings out the sunshine brightness of his blond hair.

  He looks like he’s stepped out of a portrait himself.

  “So what do you wanna show me?” I ask, to distract from the fact that he’s got his intense eyes right on me.

  “You’ll see,” he says evasively as he leads me down the broad corridor.

  Given that we never actually made it past the first room, much less an entire tour of the castle, I look around with awed eyes.

  As castles go, it’s relatively small. It’s also surprisingly homey.

  That being said, it still reeks of luxury and wealth.

  The furniture has the authentic patina of stuff older than the country it’s in. Lovely little details carved into the woodwork in the armchair feet. Intricate stitchwork softened throughout the centuries.

  The walls are made of ancient, massive blocks of rough-hewn stone. They’ve shifted colors over the years. Some bleached by the sun, others stained by the shadows.

  It’s a far cry from the O’Sullivan Manor. That place was a galaxy of glass and marble, of smoothly undulating curves and crisp details.

  Here, even the light has a different kind of quality to it. It’s older. Gentler. Subtler.

  We walk for a long time, but I’m not really aware of how long it takes us to get from the third story to the ground floor. I’m too busy gazing at everything I can find.

  When we get to the studded double doors, I almost crash into Cillian because I’m looking up at a panel of stained glass up in the wall above me.

  “You okay?”

  “Sorry,” I mumble self-consciously, stepping back to put as much distance between us as possible. “This place is amazing.”

  He smiles. “It’s got a little something to it. Feels like only yesterday I was here with the whole family.”

  “Does it?” I ask curiously.

  His smile grows deeper, sadder, more reflective. “Maybe not.”

  I gnaw anxiously at my lip. “Is there a drawbridge?” I ask. “With crocodiles waiting to eat your enemies?”

  Cillian laughs. “Sorry to disappoint you,” he says, shaking his head. “We just have a normal bridge. But there is a portcullis. C’mere, I’ll show you.”

  I follow him out of the castle and across the grounds, gravel crunching underfoot. We walk under partially cloudy skies until we reach an antique F
ord automobile idling in the front courtyard.

  There’s an older man standing beside the vehicle. He’s got car oil staining the front of his khaki pants and a ready smile waiting for us.

  “Master Cillian!” he says with flare. “Everything is ready.”

  “Thanks, Eiric,” Cillian says, clasping his hand and then clasping him on the back. “This is Saoirse.”

  I notice that he doesn’t offer a relationship explanation. Just my name. Like the whole story is embedded there.

  “Pleasure to meet you, young madam,” Eiric replies, bowing his head low.

  “Please—call me Saoirse.”

  “Not in my nature, madam,” he replies instantly. “But if you don’t like ‘madam,’ I can call you ‘mistress’?”

  I try hard not to cringe. “How about ‘Miss’?”

  Eiric doesn’t seem overly excited about it, but he agrees nonetheless.

  Then he hands the keys to Cillian and opens the passenger side door for me. I give him a smile and slip inside. I’m immediately engulfed by the smell of soft leather and a dewy, floral scent I can’t quite name.

  “We have a small garage here,” Cillian tells me, “where all the vintage cars are kept.”

  “By ‘small,’ do you mean ten cars instead of fifty?” I tease.

  He chuckles. “Something like that.”

  “Of course,” I say, shaking my head. “Why am I not surprised?”

  We drive towards the massive portcullis and I crane my neck down so that I can watch the jagged metal gate crank up to allow us to drive through.

  The bridge linking the high ground of the castle to the surrounding countryside is lumpy with old, moss-covered stones. But it’s a smooth transition nonetheless as we glide out onto the open road.

  It forks at the end. The left road points to the highway. The right one winds towards the mountains. Cillian takes the right one.

  “You gonna tell me what we’re going to see now?” I ask hopefully.

  “Nope.”

  “Cillian…” I say with quickly diminishing patience.

  He just smiles secretively. “Trust me. It’s gonna be worth it.”

  “Can I have a clue?”

  “No.”

  Sighing, I let it drop and observe all the natural beauty that we pass. Ireland is such a gorgeous place. I haven’t always—or ever, really—taken the time to appreciate that.

  Except for one night on a rooftop.

  We putter along for a while. Finally, when the path narrows down to a walking trail that the car can’t get through, Cillian pulls to the side and turns the engine off.

  “We’re walking from here,” he tells me.

  We get out of the car and head up the trail. The area is filled with thick trees. Some I have the names for—holly, yew, Scots pine, hawthorn. Others aren’t as familiar.

  As we slip between their girthy trunks, the smell of red soil and pine needles fills my nostrils.

  The air feels different up here. Brighter, cleaner. Life-preserving.

  The trail narrows in places and others are choked with boulders. But Cillian always helps me through the rougher patches.

  Bit by bit, we delve deeper. Half the time, the next step is far from obvious. It looks like untouched forest in every direction.

  But Cillian seems to know where we’re going. He never falters, never hesitates.

  Doesn’t say a word, either, which is starting to drive me crazy.

  I just try to breathe and appreciate the nature around us.

  And trust him.

  I’m trying very, very hard to trust him.

  “Ah, here we are,” Cillian says after I-don’t-even-know-how-long, reaching back for my hand.

  His fingers close around mine and I have to suppress a shiver.

  Does he even notice the effect his touch has on me?

  If he doesn’t, he doesn’t show it. His just pulls me up onto a flat, grassy knoll with a line of sight over to the uppermost edge of the mountain range in the distance.

  “Oh, wow,” I breathe, momentarily forgetting the tingles snaking up my arm.

  Cillian smiles and walks me closer to the edge. I expect a deep drop when I look down, but the slope is actually quite gentle. Right up to the lip of the cliff.

  To my surprise, Cillian crouches down low and then gets on his stomach to lie flat against the soft grass.

  “Care to explain, or should I just do as the Romans do?”

  “Pop down and pipe down.”

  Rolling my eyes, I mimic his position and wait expectantly, belly-down on the grass with my chin hanging over the edge of the cliff.

  A couple of minutes go by, but nothing out of the ordinary happens. Just forest in every direction. Mostly quiet. Mostly still.

  But Cillian keeps staring out at the woody range ahead as though he’s waiting for someone to appear.

  “Cillian…”

  “Just be patient.”

  I rein in a sigh and try to do just that.

  Except that Cillian’s scent is even more intoxicating than the fresh air and the trees. And he’s lying so close to me that it’s hard not to notice the decisive square of his jaw. Or the way his hair curls at the back. Or the straight, proud line of his nose.

  And noticing those things only makes me remember that, not two hours ago, our naked bodies were wrapped together, ingraining the memory right into my skin.

  The recollection alone sends a flush of heat through me. His lips on mine… His hands seizing my hips… Him pushing deeper and deeper into me, coaxing moans out of my—

  “There!” Cillian says urgently, snapping me out of my reverie.

  I turn my neck—just in time to see the most beautiful creature I’ve ever laid eyes on.

  It’s a stag.

  An incredibly massive, albino stag with antlers as wide as my arms can reach. He strides majestically out of the forest towards the grassy outcrop at the edge of the slope.

  “Oh my God,” I breathe, completely captivated.

  His fur is pure, rippling white and it seems to absorb the sunlight rather than reflect it, until I’m not sure if the thing is real or just a figment of my imagination. He snorts softly, doing his rounds through the woods without any sense of urgency.

  He either doesn’t notice us or doesn’t care. He lingers for a moment in the center of the clearing to nuzzle on some grass.

  And then, when he raises his huge head to glance in our direction, it feels like he’s staring straight at me.

  His eyes are as human as mine.

  Full of life. Full of wonder.

  After grazing for a little while, the stag moves right through the meadow until he reaches the other side.

  Then, as serenely as he entered…

  He leaves.

  51

  Saoirse

  I let out a low breath. The first I’ve taken since the animal appeared.

  Then I roll over and lay on my back in the grass, face aimed toward the sky.

  Cillian does the same. His hand lays right next to mine, but I resist the urge to take it.

  “That was amazing,” I murmur without looking at him. “Thanks for showing me.”

  “Of course.”

  His head turns to me. I feel his eyes graze along the side of my face. But I can’t bring myself to look at him.

  The vulnerability from earlier has resurfaced. With the hike and the stag behind us, there’s nothing to distract from the fact that we’re completely alone now.

  Still clutching onto secrets we’re too scared to share.

  “He was born the same year I was,” Cillian tells me. “The stag, I mean. It caused quite a stir. The first albino deer in generations. The locals named him Hail. A little on the nose, but I suppose it has a certain majesty about it.”

  “Hail,” I mouth. “I like it.”

  “The locals here like to believe that Hail is special. A protector of sorts that takes care of these parts.”

  “Why do they think that?”
/>   “Well, the normal lifespan of a deer is around sixteen to twenty years,” he explains. “And Hail…”

  “Has lived over thirty,” I finish with awe.

  Cillian smiles. “People need something to believe in,” he says. “It’s more likely that the stag we just saw isn’t Hail at all. Just his son. Or maybe a different stag that some local jackass spray-painted white.”

  “That would be the logical explanation,” I agree. “But logical explanations aren’t the most romantic.”

  “No,” Cillian agrees. “So the locals call him Hail. I do, too.”

  I let my head loll to the side to look at him. Our eyes meet up and I feel that strange connection between us bend and flex, as though it’s not sure how to configure itself in this space.

  “Hail it is, then,” I whisper.

  There’s something about the way we’re lying. About the angle our necks are turned towards one another.

  It makes Cillian look younger. A lot more like the man I met all those years ago.

  I feel tears prick at my eyes and I know I need to stop looking at him. Right now.

  I pull myself up into a sitting position, but my name falls from his lips almost immediately.

  “Saoirse, wait.”

  I don’t look at him as I get to my feet.

  “Please.”

  I stop short. Damn him.

  But I still don’t turn around. I’m not in control right now and I don’t want him to see just how vulnerable I am. How vulnerable I’ve always been to him.

  He seems to sense this, because he doesn’t force me to look at him. He just stands there, a few feet behind me. Waiting.

  “I can’t leave Ireland, Saoirse,” he says. “Not again.”

  My heart is beating hard against my chest, but I need to hear his explanation. And he deserves my attention.

  “All this time, I’ve been lying to myself,” Cillian explains. “Telling myself that I was happy to be away from all this. Away from my family, my business, my home.”

  I don’t say a word. I hardly dare to breathe too loud.

  “But if that were true, I wouldn’t have found the exact same life in another country. I left Dublin because I was forced to. Not because I wanted to. It took coming back here to make me realize it.”