CHAPTER SEVEN
LUNA
I WAKE TO the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and something else—eggs, maybe bacon. For a moment, I forget where I am. The room is too big, too luxurious for my modest apartment, and then it hits me. I’m still here, in his house, wrapped in his world. A world that I know I don’t belong to.
The night before, after we finished the Chinese food, he led me to a room that took my breath away. The bed alone looked like it belonged in a palace, draped in soft, white linens with gold accents. The furnishings were rich and so far removed from anything I’d ever experienced.
“You’ll stay here,” he said, his tone firm but not unkind. “The staff won’t be in tomorrow. I figured you’d want some space.”
That was a relief. The idea of being scrutinized by housekeepers or cooks who might wonder why someone like me was staying in a house like this made my stomach churn. Especially with Sara. I’m sure she has been telling everyone that I left with Cian. The look on her face had told me she had thought I was in trouble; at that moment, so had I.
“Thank you,” I murmur, though gratitude felt inadequate for everything I was processing.
“Some clothes will arrive for you tomorrow,” he added almost casually.
I straightened at that, frowning. “I don’t need that. I can just go back home and grab some things.”
The shift in his demeanor was instant. The warmth in his expression gave way to something darker, colder.
“No,” he said sharply. “It’s best you don’t.”
His tone brooked no argument, and I wasn’t brave enough to push further. But the command lingered with me, unsettling.
Later, as I lay in the enormous bed, trying to calm my thoughts, I saw the missed call on my phone. Becca. A pang of guilt hit me. She must be worried. Tomorrow, I promised myself. Tomorrow, I’ll call her back and try to explain…something. Though what, I still wasn’t sure.
Sliding out of the plush bed, I stretch, the silk of the borrowed pajama set cool against my skin. It feels indulgent, wearing something so expensive that isn’t even mine. I pad toward the door and down the hall, the soft sounds of a distant radio murmuring through the house.
The kitchen is bathed in golden morning light, and he’s there, standing at the stove. His broad shoulders are relaxed, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows. The sight is disarming—domestic, almost. He glances back at me, a slight smirk playing on his lips.
“Morning,” he says, his voice low and warm.
“Morning,” I reply, feeling awkward and unsure. It’s not like we’re just two regular people sharing breakfast.
He gestures to the counter. “Sit. Coffee?”
I nod, sinking onto one of the barstools. The counter is cold under my fingertips, a stark contrast to the warmth he exudes even from across the room. He moves with a casual confidence, pouring me a cup and sliding it in front of me.
“Thanks,” I say, wrapping my hands around the mug. The first sip is heaven, rich and strong, and I let it settle me.
“You slept okay?” he asks, his tone conversational, but there’s an edge of genuine concern there.
I hesitate before answering. “Yeah. Better than I thought I would.”
He nods, turning some bacon. The act is so ordinary it’s almost jarring. This is the same man who, just days ago, shot someone in the face without flinching. The memory tightens my chest. The news hasn’t let me forget it—flashes of the scene replaying every time I catch a headline.
But here, in this moment, he doesn’t seem like that man. He seems like someone else entirely. Someone who, against all logic, makes me feel safe. It’s confusing, infuriating even, how those two versions of him can coexist.
“What’s going on in that head of yours?” His voice pulls me from my thoughts. He’s watching me now, leaning casually against the counter, the bacon forgotten for the moment.
I shrug, trying to play it off. “Just… wondering how you make your coffee taste this good.”
He chuckles, a deep, genuine sound that makes my stomach flutter. “Trade secret. You’ll have to stick around if you want to figure it out.”
It’s a joke, but the words hang in the air, heavy with implication. Stick around. Like this is something that could last. The thought terrifies me as much as it tempts me.
I take another sip, avoiding his gaze. “What’s the plan for today?” I ask, steering the conversation somewhere safer.
He raises an eyebrow. “Planning to run?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“No, but you thought it,” he says, his tone unreadable. “And you wouldn’t be wrong to. It’d be smart, even. Safer.”
I flinch, the honesty in his words cutting deeper than I expected. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” I admit softly, setting the mug down.
“You don’t have to,” he says simply. “Not right now.”
It’s an answer that offers no clarity, but maybe that’s the point. Maybe there isn’t any clarity to be found in this…whatever this is. My mind spins, torn between the undeniable pull I feel toward him and the cold, hard reality of what he is. What he does.
“I saw the news again last night,” I say suddenly, the words slipping out before I can stop them. “They showed the scene. The blood.”
He stiffens, his expression hardening just enough to remind me of whom I’m talking to.
“And?” he prompts, his voice steady but guarded.
“And I don’t know how to reconcile that with…this.” I gesture vaguely around the kitchen.
His eyes meet mine, unflinching. “You think I’m a monster?”
The question is like a punch to the gut. Do I? My mind flashes to the sound of the gunshot, the way he’d looked afterward—calm, composed, like it was just another day. But then I see him here, offering me coffee, making bacon, watching me with a softness that feels so at odds with everything I know about him.
“I don’t know what to think,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper.
For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. Then he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I won’t apologize for what I’ve done,” he says. “It’s who I am. But that doesn’t mean it’s all I am.”
His words hang in the air, heavy and unshakable. I want to believe him. I want to believe that there’s more to him than the violence and the darkness. But wanting doesn’t make it true.
Still, as I sit there, watching him flip the bacon onto a plate and set it in front of me with a small smile, I can’t deny the way my heart skips a beat. And that, more than anything, terrifies me.
I’m midway through my coffee, savoring the last bite of crispy bacon, when Cian leaves briefly. He arrives back into the kitchen.“Your new clothes have arrived. They’re up in your room.”
“I…” My voice falters. “Cian, I can’t keep accepting all of this. It’s too much.”
His mouth tilts into a faint smirk. “You’ll get over it,” he says, dismissing my concern with a wave of his hand. “Go shower, get dressed. I have something I want to show you.”
“What is it?” I ask, my curiosity piqued, but he shakes his head.
“Just do as I say. You’ll like it.”
I want to argue, but I don’t. Instead, I drain the last of my coffee and finish the bacon, savoring the care someone else has put into making sure I’m fed. Being taken care of like this is something I could get used to, even if it’s all temporary.
When I reach my room, my steps falter at the sight of the bed. Stacks of clothes—more than I could have imagined—are laid out neatly. Sweaters in soft fabrics, trousers that look tailored, and even shoes lined up against the wall. My face burns when my gaze lands on a small black lingerie set nestled among the rest. The delicate lace feels like a mocking whisper of indulgence as I pick it up. My throat tightens.
This is too much.
Still, my fingers trail over the cream sweater and black trousers, and I know they’re exactly my size. It’s surreal, the precision of it all. With a shake of my head, I grab the clothes and head for the shower.
The water races across my skin, a little too hot. It’s a grounding heat, a small punishment for letting myself be swept into this strange, pampered life. As I towel off and glance around the bathroom, another wave of surprise washes over me. A new toothbrush, a hairbrush, creams, and even perfumes are arranged neatly on the counter.
My fingers hesitate over a glass bottle of perfume. I’m tempted to spritz it just to know what kind of scent Cian picked out. Instead, I stare at myself in the mirror, my damp hair clinging to my neck, the cream sweater now snug against my skin.
This isn’t me. This polished woman with expensive clothes and perfectly curated toiletries can’t be me.
“I can’t do this,” I whisper, the words bouncing back at me.
But the mirror doesn’t argue. My reflection stares back, almost daring me. Why not? Don’t I deserve a break? After everything—after Mark?
A part of me reasons I can pretend, just for a little while. Pretend this is my life, that I’m someone worthy of all of this—just for now.
I pick up my phone and hesitate. Texting Becca feels like a coward’s move, but I’m not brave enough to call. I type quickly, crafting an excuse that’s barely a lie.
Staying over at Cian’s for a bit. Lots of work to do. Nice to get away from Mark.
I hover over the send button. She’ll have questions. The news hasn’t mentioned Mark’s name, at least not yet. But I can’t think about that right now. My finger presses send before I can second-guess it further.
When I go downstairs, the first thing I notice is Cian’s suit. He looks effortlessly handsome, the crisp cut of the fabric framing his broad shoulders perfectly. He’s snacking on peanuts from a bowl, his movements slow and deliberate, as though he has all the time in the world.
He glances up when he hears my steps. “Ready?”
For a moment, I just stand there, unsure how to respond. Everything feels so surreal—his calm, the luxury surrounding me, the tension simmering in the air between us.
I nod, even though I’m not sure I am. “Yeah. I’m ready.”