Chapter 015 Lyra
I stare up at him, searching the sharp angles of his face, desperately wanting his words to be true.
I’ve done the late-night doom-scrolling. I’ve read the few articles that exist about Cillian Eve’s personal life, and honestly? They were sad. Heartbreakingly sad. I can’t wrap my brain around what it would be like to grow up in the system, to not have a loud, messy, overbearing family breathing down your neck at all times. My parents adore my brothers and me. Sure, the boys drive me up the wall half the time, but I love them to pieces.
Cillian didn’t have that.
The articles called him a "ruthless architect of industry." They said he was fair but cold. He spent his whole life building an empire, probably because when you grow up with nothing, you make damn sure you never go without again.
I’m starting to see that love and family are foreign concepts to him. He’s getting a crash course, poor guy. It doesn't help that he lost his brother before he ever got the chance to be close to him. All that trauma is jumbled up inside a man who treats emotions like inefficiencies in a spreadsheet.
"I want to stay," I tell him, my voice barely above a whisper. "But you have to give me more. I need to know this is what you truly want and that we can work through it together."
I need to know where I stand. Am I a convenience? A glorified incubator? Or am I Lyra?
Cillian’s jaw tightens. "I want to give you everything; I just might need some guidance."
My heart stutters. In the short time I’ve known Cillian, him admitting he needs guidance from anyone—let alone his chaotic nanny—is huge. Massive.
"But I know when I'm near you, a warmth surrounds you," he says, his gaze intense, pinning me to the spot. "And it scares the shit out of me how badly I want it. And then it scares me how easily you could take it away. There’s nothing I could do about it, and the loss of control is what makes me want to hold on to you tighter."
Well.
I’m not entirely sure there isn’t anything he could do about it. Cillian is a very determined man. I have a feeling if he wanted to keep me, he’d find a way to lock the doors and swallow the key.
"I don't want to be a scary place for you," I say softly.
"Then we'll get married."
He says it like he’s ordering lunch. Like it’s the logical conclusion to a math problem. Problem: Fear of abandonment. Solution: Binding legal contract.
"That way I know you can't leave me," he adds.
A bark of laughter escapes me before I can stop it. It bubbles up, turning into a full-on giggle when I see Cillian scowl. He does not find this funny. Which, of course, makes it infinitely funnier.
"People get d—"
"Do not say the D-word in our home," he cuts in, his voice dropping an octave. "I have never failed at anything, and I will not fail in our marriage."
The laughter dies in my throat. He’s serious. Intense.
"You’re intense," I whisper, reaching up. My hand cups his cheek, the stubble rough against my palm. To my surprise, he leans into the touch, his eyes fluttering shut for a fraction of a second.
"Does that bother you?" he asks, opening his eyes. They’re dark, swirling with something I can’t quite name.
"Only if I’m an employee and nothing more."
It’s the question that’s been eating at me. I’ve been struggling, my emotions getting tangled in knots because I don’t know where the line is. Cillian touches me with this possessive hunger that turns my brain to mush, but I need to be sure that’s not all I am to him. Everything he does turns me on. I’ve loved every second of it. I hadn’t realized I craved this kind of intensity, which probably explains why no guy in college ever held my attention for longer than a week.
Cillian had my full attention from the moment he looked at me like I was a problem he wanted to solve. It seems my body is light-years ahead of my heart and brain.
"You've never been an employee." He shakes his head, looking at me like I’ve just suggested the sky is green. "I don't touch my employees."
"Right." I nod. "I assumed there were HR rules about these things."
"Lyra." His hand tightens on my waist. "I don't touch anyone. Not the way I touch you. Ever."
The air leaves my lungs.
He can’t be saying what I think he’s saying.
Has he never... with anyone? The thought sends a weird thrill through me. I kind of love the idea that I awoke something inside of him, too. It would explain so much—the intensity, the lack of finesse, the raw hunger.
I’m about to ask him—because I have zero filter and I need to know—but I don't get the chance.
Niles appears out of nowhere, rushing toward us with a look of sheer panic on his usually stoic face. For a moment, I’d forgotten there’s a gala happening around us. We’re standing at the bottom of the stairs, in our own little bubble, while the string quartet plays somewhere in the distance.
"We have a problem," Niles pants, his eyes bouncing from Cillian to me and back again. "There’s a man at the door demanding we hand over Ms. Galloway."
"A man?" I ask.
White-hot jealousy flashes across Cillian’s face. His expression hardens instantly. There goes that intensity again. My body isn’t hating it—God help me—but now is really not the time for a testosterone flare-up.
"Demanding?" The word rumbles from deep inside his chest. "No one makes demands over Lyra."
"Except you," I say, because I physically cannot help myself.
"Well, there are actually three of them," Niles corrects, wincing slightly.
"Oh," I say, the number three hitting me like a bucket of ice water. "Crap."
"I'm not sure security can hold them—"
Niles is cut off by a loud commotion near the front entrance. The heavy oak doors bang open, and a wall of noise pushes its way into the elegant foyer.
That's when I see them. My three brothers.
And when it comes to the Galloway boys, it’s never just a visit. It’s a scene.
"Oh, this is not good," I mutter. We’re not in Cheerful anymore. In Cheerful, everyone finds their antics amusing, or at least tolerable. Here? In this pristine mansion?
"I'll remove them myself," Cillian says, his voice lethal. He takes a step forward.
I grab the front of his tuxedo shirt with both hands to stop him. "Wait!"
My brothers spot me. They freeze, taking in the scene. I’m not dressed as a babysitter. I’m in a rose gold gown that clings to every curve, standing intimately close to a man in a tuxedo. They might not know fashion, but anyone with eyes knows this dress costs more than their trucks combined.
This is escalating way too quickly.
"What the hell is going on?" Nick, the oldest, barrels forward.
Guests are stepping out of the way, clutching their champagne flutes, making a clear path for the three of them. My other two brothers follow behind, and to my horror, I look down at the pristine marble floor.
They are tracking mud. And snow. Great clods of it.
Niles is going to have an aneurysm. I will never live this down.
"No, no, no," I hiss.
Cillian is ready to square off with all three of them. His shoulders are braced, his hands curled into fists. Again, my body heats up at the wrong time. I'm seeing now that everything Cillian does works for me, especially knowing he wants to make me his wife. It really does change everything.
Cillian tries to move me behind him, shielding me, but I keep a tight hold on his shirt.
"They’re my brothers!" I say loudly.
Cillian pauses, looking down at me, then back at the intruders. He finally stops trying to use himself as a human shield.
"You three, stop it right now!" I point a shaking finger at my brothers, locking eyes with Nick. He’s the ringleader. If I can get him to heel, the other two will follow.
"Where did you get that dress?" John asks, looking bewildered.
"What does that matter? Why are you here?" I demand.
"Because you’re a liar-face," Nick throws back at me.
I groan. "We are adults, Nick. Use your words."
"Sister or not, you won’t speak to her that way in her own home," Cillian says. His voice is low, deadly, and echoes slightly in the high-ceilinged foyer.
Holy snowballs.
As sweet as that is—and it is very sweet—it’s not helping. It’s like throwing gasoline on a bonfire built by idiots.
"What the fuck he say?" Sam clips. He’s the youngest. The most annoying. And, fine, maybe my favorite, though I’d die before admitting it.
"It's New Year's Eve! Don't you have other things to do?" I ask, exasperated.
Cillian’s hand slides around my waist, moving to rest possessively on my stomach. He presses his front to my back, a solid wall of heat. It’s a silent, territorial action, letting them know exactly who I belong to.
"You mean other than checking on my baby sister and whoever this loser is she’s dating?" Nick sneers, gesturing at Cillian.
A bark of laughter leaves me. I quickly slap a hand over my mouth.
No one else finds this funny. But come on. A loser? Cillian Eve? I bet Cillian could buy the entire town of Cheerful and turn it into a parking lot if he wanted to.
"Did you hit your head on the ice one too many times?" I ask Nick, lowering my hand. I glance over my shoulder at Cillian, wincing. "I’m sorry. I’d say this isn’t typical, but they're always like this. And I can't claim it won't happen again, because it absolutely will."
"What does that mean?" Sam mutters to himself, kicking a piece of mud off his boot.
"If you three will calm down," I say, trying to salvage the evening, "I’ll introduce you to my boyfriend."
"Fiance," Cillian corrects.
The word hangs in the air.
"You're engaged!" all three of my brothers shout at the exact same time.
If we didn't have a crowd before, we surely do now. The string quartet has stopped playing. People are staring.
"Does Dad know?" Sam asks, his eyes wide. "He asked Dad, right?"
I feel Cillian stiffen against my back.
"I’m not asking anyone if I can marry her," Cillian says. The tone is final. Absolute. "It would be pointless to ask a question that I already know the answer to. We’re getting married."
He says it with a certainty that leaves no room for argument.
Or so he thinks. He clearly hasn't met my father.