42. Eamon
Eamon
The penthouse is quiet when we step inside. Aoife moves like nothing’s changed. She kicks off her boots, stretches her arms over her head, and walks toward the kitchen like she didn’t just put a bullet in a man’s skull.
But I know better.
I watch her closely, waiting for the cracks to show. The hesitation. The reality of what she did finally catching up to her.
She catches me staring and lifts a brow. “What?”
“Are you alright?”
She rolls her eyes. “That’s the third time you’ve asked me that.”
Leaning against the island, I cross my arms. “Because you just killed a man.”
“He was sloppy and got caught.” She shrugs. “He got what he deserved.”
“That’s not the point.”
She turns to face me. “Did you fall apart after your first time?”
I don’t answer right away. Instead, I reach for the bottle of whiskey on the counter, twisting off the cap with deliberate ease.
The amber liquid swirls as I pour, filling both glasses nearly to the brim and slide one across the island to her.
Lifting mine, I take a long pull before setting it back down.
She takes a slow sip. Her gaze never leaves me as she patiently waits for my answer.
“It was my birthday.”
She blinks. “What?”
“My first kill,” I clarify. “It was my birthday present.”
Her expression hardens. “How old were you?”
“Thirteen.” I smile, but there’s no humor in it.
The glass nearly slips from her fingers as the weight of my words sinks in. “Jesus, Eamon.”
“My father said it was time for me to become a man,” I continue. “I barely understood what that meant. But, I was his son, heir to the O’Sullivan Syndicate, and in our world, you don’t question things like that.”
I don’t know why I’m telling her something so personal. Other than the men who were there that night, I’ve never told this story to anyone.
“My mother was furious when she found out,” I say, my voice rougher now. “She didn’t want this life for me. She wasn’t born into this life and didn’t understand it.”
Aoife’s brows draw together. “Then how did she end up with your father?”
I let out a breath, glancing toward the window. “Mom was a university student in London when they met. My father was there for business. She didn’t know who he was, only that he was charming.”
Aoife exhales a quiet huff of breath before lifting her glass to her lips. “Sounds familiar.”
I glance at her, my brow furrowing. “What?”
Her sparkling green eyes meet mine from over the rim of her glass. “Sounds familiar. You charmed me before I knew who you were.”
A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. “The difference is, you knew better.”
She rolls her eyes but doesn’t argue. “Didn’t stop me, though.”
No, it didn’t. And God help me, even if she’d tried to walk away, I never would’ve let her.
“She always said she should’ve known better, but by the time she realized, it was too late. She loved him.”
Aoife watches me carefully. “And he loved her?”
“In his own way.” I nod. “But it wasn’t enough to change him. And she learned to live with that.”
She sighs, setting her glass down.
After clearing my throat, I push forward. “After I did it, after I pulled the trigger, I threw up.”
“You were a child,” she whispers, the words barely audible.
I nod slowly, letting the weight of the memory press down on me. “In my father’s eyes, I wasn’t. Not anymore.”
She shakes her head, disbelief tightening her features. “That’s?—”
“Part of life,” I say quietly. “Part of being the heir to the Syndicate.”
Her eyes soften, sympathy creeping into her expression, but I don’t want it. Sympathy doesn’t change what happened. It doesn’t undo who I became that day.
“My father wasn’t impressed,” I continue. “Said it was part of the process.”
“I don’t care what your father said.” Her voice is soft but fierce. “You were a child, Eamon. He had no right to put that sort of burden on your shoulders.”
Her words land harder than I expect. A direct hit.
Aoife’s sitting here after putting a bullet in a man’s head because I put her in that position.
Because I tested her. I wanted to see if she’d break.
And yet, she’s the one fighting for me. For the part of me that should’ve been protected, the part I buried so deep I stopped believing it even existed.
I don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve her.
But fuck if I don’t want to keep her anyway.
“Then, as if that wasn’t enough, he took me to his mistress. He told me that was part of becoming a man, too.”
Aoife stiffens. “That same night?”
I nod once.
She hesitates for a second before asking, “Do you have a mistress?”
It’s not an accusation. Just curiosity. But the question still twists something in my gut.
I straighten, my answer leaving no room for debate. “No.”
She studies me, looking for any sign of a lie.
“I would never cheat on you, Aoife.” My voice is firm, confident. “That’s not who I am.”
She nods slowly, accepting my answer.
I take a step closer, watching her carefully. “Are you really okay?”
She meets my gaze. “I am.”
I reach for her, my fingers grazing her arm. “Listen to me. If you ever feel like you’re slipping, like the memory of tonight is too much, I need you to tell me.”
She swallows. “I won’t.”
“You might. And if you do, I’ll be right here.” I tighten my grip slightly. “I know what happens after you take a life. I’ve taken a lot of them. If you need to talk, if you need to—” I pause, forcing myself to breathe. “Just know that you don’t have to do this alone.”
She looks at me for a long time, something unspoken passing between us.
I almost say it. The words rise in my throat, heavy and unspoken— I love you .
She means more to me than I ever intended, more than I know how to handle. It burns in my chest, fierce and terrifying.
But the words never come.
Instead, I reach for her, fingers brushing her cheek before I gently tilt her chin up. My lips find hers, not out of hunger, but need—desperate, aching, real.
She melts into me, her body molding against mine, her hands sliding up my chest before curling into the fabric of my shirt. I kiss her slow, deep, drinking in the taste of whiskey on her tongue.
Sliding my fingers into her hair, I tilt her head back further, claiming her, making sure she feels it. That this isn’t just about need. It’s about her. About the way she fought for me without even realizing it. About the way she’s become a part of me.
I walk her back toward the bedroom, never breaking the kiss, only pulling away long enough to strip her out of her clothes. Her breath comes faster, her eyes filled with desire as I tug her top over her head.
“I need you, Eamon,” she breathes.
“Shh, mo chroí ,” I murmur, brushing my lips along her jaw, down the column of her neck. “I’ve got you.”
She trembles beneath my touch, her bare skin warm against my palms as I push the leather pants past her hips, letting them pool at her feet. She steps out of them, standing before me in nothing but lace, her body a fucking masterpiece.
My control frays, snapping thread by thread.
Dragging my knuckles down the curve of her waist, I lower myself to my knees, pressing a slow kiss to her stomach before hooking my fingers under the waistband of her knickers. She watches me, her breath catching as I pull them down, exposing her completely.
She’s wet, already so fucking wet for me, and I groan as I grip her thighs, guiding her back onto the bed. She parts her legs without hesitation, her trust in me absolute, and fuck if that doesn’t wreck me.
“You’re so perfect,” I murmur against her skin, trailing kisses up her stomach as my hands explore her curves, gliding over her ribs and then rising to cup her breasts. My thumbs brush over her nipples, drawing a soft gasp from her as she arches into my touch.
Positioning myself at her entrance, I push in slowly, inch by inch, savoring the tight, wet heat that wraps around me.
Pressing my forehead to hers, I hold still, savoring the moment. The way she feels wrapped around me, the way her body takes me like she was made for this—for me.
“You okay?” I rasp.
Her lips part, her breath shaky. “I need you to move, Eamon.”
I do, fucking her slow and deep. My hips roll in a rhythm that has her whimpering, gasping, and clinging to me like I’m the only thing keeping her tethered to reality.
Each thrust is deliberate, a silent vow, a claim, a fucking prayer.
Because this is more than just sex.
This is me telling her that I see her, that she’s not alone. That she’s mine.
She clings to me, eyes locked on mine like I’m the only thing anchoring her to the earth. I start to move slowly at first. Her legs wrap around me, drawing me in deeper, her body meeting mine with a desperate rhythm.
Every thrust pulls another sound from her lips—needy, breathless, broken. And I drink in every one.
Her nails dig into my back, marking me. Her hips rise, seeking more friction, more pressure. I give it to her, adjusting the angle, grinding against her with each roll of my hips.
She tilts her head back, her moans growing louder, her body tightening around me. “Don’t stop. I’m so close.”
“I know, mo chroí ,” I whisper, kissing the corner of her mouth, her jaw, her throat. “Let go for me.”
She shatters beneath me, a soft cry breaking free.
I keep moving through it, chasing my own release, hips snapping harder now, more erratic, until the pleasure crests and crashes through me.
I bury myself deep one last time, groaning her name as I come, every nerve on fire, every thought obliterated except her.
When it’s over, I don’t move. I stay pressed to her, our bodies slick and tangled together. My hand finds hers between us, fingers lacing tight.
I should tell her. I should say the words that have been clawing their way up my throat. But instead, I hold her tighter, pressing my lips to her hair. And I let her fall asleep in my arms, knowing she’s mine.