Chapter 20 Siobhan
SIOBHAN
The too-large flip-flops slap against the marble floor, an absurd soundtrack to what feels like the most important walk of my life. Behind me, I hear Liam curse under his breath, then his footsteps quicken as he catches up.
“You can’t just—” he starts, but I cut him off with a look.
“Yes, I can.” My voice is steady, cold. “I’ve spent my entire adult life being careful. Being smart. Playing by everyone else’s rules. Look where it got me. A sniper in my fucking window and my father in a coma.”
He doesn’t argue. What can he say? Absolutely fucking nothing.
We reach the elevator, and I jab the button with more force than necessary. My father is dying. Chris tried to have me killed. Liam O’Neill, my sworn enemy, is the only solid thing in a world that’s tilting sideways, and I don’t know if that makes him my salvation or my biggest mistake.
The elevator doors slide open, and we step inside. The descent feels endless, each floor a countdown to something I can’t take back. When we reach the garage, I head straight for the Aston Martin, but he catches my arm, pulling me to a stop with a bruising grip.
“Stop,” he says in a voice that I’ve heard before. It’s the one he used with Chris. He expects me to obey, to fall in line, to be the little woman.
“No,” I grit out, yanking at my arm.
He tightens his grip and spins me, pushing me back against the Aston Martin with enough force to rock it. “I said, stop.”
“And I said, no.”
His gaze bores into mine, and I see the cold, hard killer. The executioner. The O’Neill heir. “Stop, before I make you stop.”
“How do you plan on doing that?” I spit out, still struggling to get free of his grip.
He smiles. It’s sinister. It makes my gut clench.
He moves in closer until there is no space between us. I tilt my head back to glare at him as he cages me. He shoves the gun in the back of his pants and then places his hand on my waist. Slowly, he inches his fingers past the waistband of the leggings and brushes them over my pussy.
I gasp when he slides them down my slit, teasing my clit gently before thrusting at least three fingers inside me.
“Are you going to stop now?”
“No,” I pant, and he buries his fingers deeper, making me moan.
“You’re going to stop now,” he corrects me, his voice a low growl. “Because you’re going to listen to what I have to say.”
“Make me,” I snarl. “If you think you can.”
It’s a dare. One I should never issue to a man like him. But this isn’t fear twisting low in my belly. It’s something much, much worse.
My hips roll against his hand, seeking more friction, more of the pleasure he’s wielding like a weapon.
“The gallery is a twenty-minute drive from here,” he says, his fingers moving in a slow, torturous rhythm. “Chris will have people watching it. He’ll expect you to either run there or run to the hospital. Either way, you’re walking into a trap.”
“So what?” I manage to gasp out. “We just sit here and do nothing?”
“No.” He puts pressure on my clit, and I cry out despite myself. “We go in smart. We go in prepared. We don’t rush into a kill box because you’re too stubborn to think straight.”
The bastard is right, and I hate him for it.
I hate that he can reduce me to this, panting and desperate against his car while my world burns down around us.
I hate that I need him. That I want him.
That I’m letting him finger-fuck me in a parking garage when my father is dying, and someone just tried to put a bullet between my eyes.
“If you want to be in charge, Siobhan,” he continues, increasing the pressure on my clit, “then act like it.”
“Fuck you,” I croak.
That smile turns colder, and he removes his fingers from my pussy to pinch my clit roughly. He twists it, teasing it until I’m so wet, I’ve drenched his fingers.
He swiftly removes his hand from between my legs, his grip tightening on my arm again as he pulls me over to the hood of the car.
He turns me and bends me over it, his hand on my back, my cheek pressed against the metal still warm from the drive over.
With a deliberate movement, he pulls my leggings down, just enough to expose my ass.
Then, he spanks me.
The sharp crack of his palm against my skin sends a shockwave through my body. I gasp, more from surprise than pain, my fingers scrabbling for purchase on the smooth hood of the car.
“That’s for being reckless,” he growls, his hand connecting again, harder this time.
The sting radiates outward, mixing with the throbbing ache between my legs. My pride screams at me to fight, to tell him to go to hell, but my body has other ideas. Heat pools low in my belly, a dark, shameful arousal that makes me hate myself almost as much as I hate him right now.
“And that’s for walking out that door without checking the hallway first.”
Another slap.
I bite down on my lip to keep from making a sound, refusing to give him the satisfaction. But my hips betray me, arching slightly, seeking more despite the humiliation burning through me.
“You want to be a queen?” His hand smooths over the heated skin, the gentleness somehow more devastating than the strikes. “Queens don’t act on impulse. They don’t let emotion cloud judgment. They think. They plan. They survive.”
“I am surviving,” I grit out, my cheek still pressed against the metal. “I’ve been surviving my whole fucking life.”
“No.” His fingers dig into my hip, holding me in place. “You’ve been running. There’s a difference.”
The truth cuts deeper than any slap could.
“Are you falling in line, Siobhan?” he murmurs.
“Go to hell,” I grit out, still not prepared to be the meek mouse he is trying to subdue.
He chuckles. It’s dark, and it terrifies me.
I hear him undo his zipper and then feel the blunt head of his cock pressing against my pussy.
“How about now?” he asks and buries himself balls deep in one thrust.
I stifle my whimper, but it’s not pain. It’s something far more dangerous.
It’s surrender wrapped in defiance, pleasure laced with fury.
He impales me with brutality, the invasion of him splitting me open in ways I’ve never felt.
My body is caught in the vise between unyielding metal that brands my hipbones and his hard body as he fucks me into submission without remorse.
“How about now?” he repeats, one hand still gripping my hip while the other flattens beside my head. “Are you going to listen?”
I should tell him no. Should fight this, fight him, fight the way my body is already clenching around him, desperate for more. But all that comes out is a broken moan as he pulls back slowly, torturously, before slamming into me again.
“I asked you a question.” I feel the barely contained violence in every line of his body. He’s not just fucking me, he’s claiming me, marking me, breaking me down piece by piece until there’s nothing left but him.
“No,” I growl.
“Bad girl,” he murmurs and withdraws completely before he savagely slams back into me, making me cry out.
The elevator door dings open, and an elderly couple walks past, their eyes on us.
“Evening,” Liam says wickedly as I gasp and hide my face in shame.
They scurry along, mouths agape, muttering their utter displeasure at seeing us acting this way in a public setting.
“Liam,” I moan. “Stop. They’re watching.”
He pauses. Just for a heartbeat. “You sure about that, sweetheart? You want me to pull out and walk away?”
I should be sure, but I’m the exact opposite.
“No,” I whisper. “Don’t you dare.”
He drives deeper, his hips punishing, relentless.
“Look at you,” he murmurs. “So worried about what strangers think while you’re dripping down my cock.”
I hate that he’s right. I hate that despite the humiliation, despite everything, my body is coiling tighter, chasing release like it’s the only thing that matters.
“Are you going to listen now?” His voice is rough, strained. He’s close too, I can feel it in the tension of his muscles, the slight loss of rhythm.
I want to say no again. Want to fight him until we’re both bleeding. But the truth is, he’s right. Charging into the gallery or the hospital won’t save my father. Won’t save me. It’ll just give Chris exactly what he wants—my corpse and a clear path to everything.
“Yes,” I whisper, the word tasting like defeat.
“Good girl.” His hand slides from my hip to my throat, not squeezing, just holding. A reminder of who’s in control right now. “Now, we do this my way. Smart. Strategic. We go to the gallery, but we go prepared, loaded. We don’t walk into a trap.”
“Okay,” I stammer, and he squeezes his hand tighter around my throat.
“This isn’t your world, Siobhan,” he says softly. “You don’t know how it works. You need to listen to me.”
He starts fucking me again, slower this time.
“Do you want to come?” he purrs.
“Yes,” I pant. “Yes!”
“Absolutely not,” he says, pulling out suddenly, leaving me empty and aching. I gasp, pushing myself up from the hood, spinning to face him. He’s already tucking himself back into his jeans, his expression cold and controlled once more.
“What the hell?”
“You don’t get to come until you prove you can follow orders.” His eyes are steel. “Get in the car.”
Rage floods through me, hot and immediate. My body is screaming for release, and he’s just... stopping? Like this is some kind of lesson?
“You asshole,” I hiss, yanking my leggings back up with shaking hands.
“Probably.” He opens the passenger door, waiting. “But I’m the arsehole keeping you alive. Now get in.”
I want to refuse. Want to tell him to go to hell and walk away. But where would I go? Back to my compromised apartment? To the hospital where Chris is waiting? To the gallery that’s probably crawling with his men?
I climb into the car, slamming the door harder than necessary.
Liam slides behind the wheel and starts the engine with a smooth rumble. “We need more weapons and a plan.” He slaps the Glock on my lap. “Do you even know how to fire this thing?”
I pick it up with a shaking hand and point it at him. “My mother took me to the range twice a week. I can kill you with one shot between the eyes. Want to test me?”
He snorts and pushes the barrel to the side. “I’ll take your word for it, sweetheart.”
I reposition and point the gun at him again. “Don’t call me sweetheart,” I spit out. “Take your hand, and make me come before I splatter your brains all over this fucking fancy car.”
His eyes widen at my threat, but I see the shot of desire in those cold eyes. His jaw tightens, and for a moment I think he might actually call my bluff. Then his hand slides from the wheel to between my thighs, fingers finding my clit with brutal efficiency even through the fabric of my leggings.
“Safety’s on,” he murmurs. “You’d have to flick it off first.”
I glance down at the gun, and sure enough, he’s right. Fuck. I flip it with my thumb, the click loud in the confined space.
“Better?” I ask.
“Much.” His fingers circle my clit, slow and deliberate, like he has all the time in the world. Like there isn’t a loaded weapon against his head. “Now put the safety back on before you accidentally redecorate my interior.”
“Make me come first.”
A dark laugh rumbles from his chest. “You’re not in a position to make demands, sweetheart.”
I press the gun to his head. “Neither are you.”