Chapter 4 #2
I bite back a laugh as Raf’s eyes shift in my direction, locking on me across the room with an intensity that gives me the unnerving feeling that he knows what we said.
Then my pulse kicks into a sprint as he approaches.
God, I wish my body didn’t respond to him like it does.
But as he prowls closer, I can’t seem to take my eyes off him.
He moves differently than he used to—no swagger, no reckless, boyish confidence. He’s sharper now, controlled, haunted around the edges.
Trauma changes people.
So does war.
And he’s seen both firsthand.
“Callum, Lindsey.” He acknowledges my parents as he arrives beside me. Then his hand ghosts down the inside of my lace-clad arm to capture my fingers, my skin tingling in his wake. “Come, Wife. It’s time.”
My heart hammers at the smell of amber, bergamot, and cedarwood that fills my nose as we line up for the first dance, and I brace myself for another storm.
“Relax,” Raf murmurs as he takes my waist, pulling me into a perfect frame, and starts to sweep me around the room. “I’m not going to devour you on the dance floor.”
“You have before. What’s stopping you?” I taunt in little more than a whisper, wanting to get under his skin as a vivid memory floods my mind—the memory of me swaying on Portentia’s dance floor, moving to the rhythm of a song, of Raf coming up behind me, his arms encircling my waist, his hands possessive on my hips as he pulled me to him, his lips finding the tender spot behind my ear as we moved together…
Of his kisses that turned into sinful nips as they traveled lower, raising goosebumps on my skin—
I bite back a groan at the unwanted recollection, then swallow a snarl as Raf’s mouth curves, dark amusement flickering in his eyes.
“You used to like that,” he rasps, his deep voice throaty and laced with wicked promise.
I step on his foot deliberately.
He winces but keeps smiling. “Still fierce, I see, focosa.”
I suspect Raf just insulted me in Italian, but I refuse to rise to the bait. Instead, I lift my chin, squaring my shoulders as I say, “Still arrogant, I see.”
He spins me effortlessly, ignoring the barb, and my heartbeat stumbles because my body is reacting without my permission again—remembering how it used to feel to be wrapped in him, moved by him, undone by him.
The music swells, and his hand slides to my lower back, the thin lace doing little to form a barrier between us.
His breath brushes my ear. “You look beautiful, Aisling.”
Honeyed words to soften me up—likely so I won’t try to stab him in his sleep on our wedding night—and I scoff. “I look expensive.”
“That too.”
The moment could be soft, real. But I pull away because softness is dangerous.
It breeds hope.
And hope ruins people.
So, as soon as the last lingering notes of our song fade and people join us on the dance floor, I quickly extricate myself from his arms and replace him with Riley so I have an excuse not to dance with my husband again.
The night blurs into laughter, speeches, toasts, and too many eyes watching us, judging, speculating about our rushed union.
Around ten o’clock, Riley falls asleep in my mother’s lap, petals stuck in her hair.
My father stays close, his arm draped protectively across the back of my mom’s chair as he watches the party unfold.
Siobhan dances with one of Raf’s men, scandalously close.
My brothers sit stiffly, sharing a table with our former enemies, smiling like a wolf pack baring its teeth.
And I drink champagne I can’t taste and wait for the inevitable—the moment I have to leave with my new husband.
The man I haven’t touched in five years.
My stomach twists as Raf appears beside me once more, sleeves now rolled, tie undone, shirt showing a sliver of collarbone.
He looks like sin and the promise of heartbreak, and I turn my eyes on him coldly, building my walls higher for good measure.
“Ready?” he asks.
“Not remotely.”
He huffs a laugh. Not mocking, just honest. “I don’t want to fight tonight,” he says quietly.
“Then don’t talk to me.”
His eyes darken. “Forgetting your promises already, focosa?”
I don’t answer.
But thankfully, I’m spared from him pressing the matter as guests start to pour into the courtyard, forming a tunnel as they prepare for our grand send-off.
Raf offers his arm, and I rise to take it.
Because I’m loyal to my family.
Not him.
Never him.
Music swells, cameras flash, and someone shouts, “Kiss! Kiss again!”
Turning to me with an expression that says, You’ve got to give the audience what they want, Raf scoops me into his arms once more, dipping me dramatically and making me gasp as I feel weightless for a moment.
Then his lips are on mine as I cling to the lapels of his suit jacket, trying to ignore the insistent hammering of my heart.
Then he’s setting me back on my feet as I suck in desperate lungfuls of air, feeling for all the world like I’ve just broken the water’s surface after coming dangerously close to drowning.
The sparklers ignite all at once—blinding, crackling, illuminating faces full of expectation.
We step beneath them, newly bound, publicly claimed, privately unraveling.
The sparks rain around us, gold and dangerous.
Raf leans in, his voice a low promise against my ear. “Remember, focosa, we’re supposed to be falling in love.”
My heart lurches painfully.
It’s a reminder to play the game, to fake this marriage convincingly—because this was my idea, the only way I could convince Rafael Chiaroscuro to marry me.
But as we step into the waiting car, sparklers exploding behind us, leaving the Murray estate for the Chiaroscuro one, I press a hand to my churning stomach and face a truth I’ve been running from since the moment our lips touched at the altar.
I am terrified of what I’ve done—of the position I’ve put myself in.
I’m not ready to share a life with him, a home, a bedroom…
Not because I hate Raf.
But because, despite all my determination not to, I might still love him.
And that would ruin everything.