Chapter 5
RAFAEL
The car ride from the Murray house to the Chiaroscuro estate is silent, but not a peaceful kind. It’s loaded, leaving a thick, metallic taste in my mouth, like I’ve been sucking on pennies.
Aisling sits beside me in the back seat, veil gone, hair falling in soft red waves over one shoulder, still wearing her wedding dress because she never had a chance to change.
My driver keeps glancing at us through the mirror, because we look like a couple mid-fight.
We’re not fighting.
We’re just two people who used to burn each other down, now shackled together with rings and applause and a thousand watchful eyes.
She smells of whiskey-sweet perfume and expensive flowers and heat.
My new wife.
Christ.
I married her tonight.
We stood in front of God, a priest, and two families with enough blood on their hands to fill a cathedral, and said, “I do.”
And I did it with a smile.
I felt like I was burning in that church, a sinner wearing a suit tailored to look respectable.
But I half expected to light on fire from the sacrilege of our nuptials.
Then again, I’ve always been good at pretending I’m something I’m not.
A gentleman.
A leader.
A man who isn’t rotting from the inside.
Perhaps I’ve fooled the Murrays’ God as well.
The closer we get to the estate, the more the silence fills with rot.
Night air turns colder, and the headlights sweep across the gates as we approach home.
The Chiaroscuro house looms beyond it—scarred, monstrous, and half-reborn under scaffolding and floodlights that accentuate the broken walls and gaping holes of the west wing.
I brace for Aisling’s reaction.
The Murray home is still immaculate—pristine white walls, velvet drapery, polished floors that don’t echo with ghosts.
Our house… isn’t.
It used to be.
Once upon a time, before our enemies came in like locusts and stripped us of everything we held dear.
Now the estate looks like a war zone—a half-fallen kingdom waiting for someone foolish enough to rebuild it.
My twin brother, Sandro, and his wife are foolish enough.
Honest enough.
Brave enough.
I just want revenge.
But our family estate is more than just a home.
It’s a symbol of our strength, so if we’re going to mend our image, it’s the right place to start.
I see my new wife take in the broken sight, eyes widening slightly.
She saw pieces of it during negotiations, the facade we’ve patched and painted over to mask our vulnerabilities, the war room, which was well enough intact to appear like a solid headquarters.
But no doubt, there’s something different about seeing it now that it belongs, in part, to her.
And the dark shadows of night only draw attention to the many fractured pieces of her new home.
“Jesus,” she murmurs, low but audible. “This place needs a lot of help.”
There’s a beat where I could choose to let it go. I don’t.
I snap, “Yeah. No thanks to your family.”
Her head turns. Slow. Precise. That glacier-cut stare I remember far too well from our last night together.
“Don’t pretend your family was innocent in all this,” she says, voice like a blade. “You made enemies. You treated the world like a throw rug. It’s no surprise the world fought back.”
I laugh. Sharp. Bitter. “Always loyal, aren’t you?”
“To my family?” She shrugs. “Religiously.”
Of course she is. I clench my fists until my knuckles pop. I’m not used to this—someone outside of my brothers challenging me without fear, without hesitation, without trying to impress or manipulate or seduce.
She doesn’t want anything from me except honesty.
Maybe blood.
“I thought we were supposed to be playing nice now,” I say, trying for dry humor.
She folds her arms. “That was before you blamed my family for your shitty house.”
I glance at her, and for the first time tonight, her face isn’t a mask.
It’s full of fire.
Defiance.
The same fire that hooked itself under my ribs the first time I ever laid eyes on her.
Five years ago.
Before everything went to hell.
She has no idea that her smell alone has the power to split me wide open.
Perfume and whiskey and citrus rind with undertones of something soft, warm, like the childhood I never had.
The driver kills the engine, but we don’t move right away.
Eventually, I open the door, stepping out. Aisling hesitates only a moment before gathering her dress and following, heels crunching over gravel with confidence despite the stilettos’ impressive height.
Her dress swishes as she walks—a whisper of silk and lace trailing behind her like a ghost.
She stares at the ruins, gaze sweeping over shredded walls and cracked stone.
The front door is new, heavy, industrial, because the old one was splintered into matchsticks when they stormed the place.
But she doesn’t say a word as we step across the threshold.
Inside, the house smells like industrial cleaner and sawdust. Construction equipment lines the entry hall.
Someone left a coffee thermos on a marble pedestal that used to hold priceless art.
A tarp covers the doorway leading back to the west wing.
“Welcome home,” I say dryly.
She huffs out a short breath. “It’s… something.”
“Save your compliments. I know it’s shitty.”
“I wasn’t going to compliment it.” She shrugs, then softens. “But I wasn’t going to insult it either.”
Something unsettles in my chest again at the rare gentle note in her voice.
We walk down the hallway that leads to the east wing, where the house is still functional, though scarred by fire and bullet wounds.
Half of it is still wrecked—walls gutted, windows boarded up, floors stripped.
But tucked away at the very back is the half-renovated section where we’re staying—me, Sandro, Evi, and any of the guards and staff who need to sleep on the premises.
I nod toward the far door. “That one’s yours. Ours.”
She glances at me but says nothing.
I open it and flip a switch.
The room is clean, sparse, and functional. It smells like fresh paint and cedar.
Not a home. Just a placeholder.
The bed is new, with fresh sheets, the furniture minimal because Evi thought I might want to choose my own décor, but I haven’t gotten around to it.
The white walls wait for color, but that too I’ve put on the backburner.
I don’t care what my room looks like.
Unless I have the opportunity to paint the walls with Tanaka blood, perhaps.
Aisling interrupts the dark thought as she steps inside and runs her fingers along the dresser. “So, this is where I’ll be sleeping.” She doesn’t sound thrilled.
“We’ll be sleeping,” I correct. “Unfortunately.”
She stiffens. “Is there no other bed in the house that one of us could use?”
A spark of irritation hits. “None that aren’t occupied by family or staff. And it’d start rumors if we slept apart. Rumors are already starting to spread about why we wed so quickly. We can’t afford to give people more reason to gossip—not if we want this to look real.”
“And forcing me into your bed will do that?” she mutters almost to herself.
There’s a hit of truth in it that makes me flinch.
“This”—I gesture between us—“is temporary.”
Her jaw tightens. “Believe me, I’m counting the days.”
A beat passes between us—sharp, hot, and electric.
I don’t know why everything we say to each other feels like a knife fight.
Maybe because it’s easier than feeling anything else.
With a huff, Aisling turns her back to me and starts to undress.
Tension floods my body, and I turn away to give her some privacy.
But from the corner of my eye, I can’t help noticing her struggle.
It would appear the buttons on her dress are rather tricky, and after undoing the first few at the back of her neck, she fails to catch the one resting between her shoulder blades.
Trying again, she adjusts her position, her slender arms straining to get a good angle.
Then she swears under her breath. “Can you help me with my dress? These buttons are impossible.”
The request nearly knocks the wind out of me.
While the skirt is ivory satin, fitted flawlessly to her body, the bodice is a fine lace, the fabric that covers her arms and back so delicate, I can see the creamy color of her skin beneath.
It practically glows against the fabric.
Pale. Soft. Vulnerable.
Every button is like a pearl down her spine—and there are far too many of them.
My mouth goes dry.
I step forward, hand hovering before I touch her.
She smells like champagne, sweat, and roses, so I hold my breath as I undo the first button.
Then another.
Slowly.
Each pop of fabric is a sin.
Her breath stutters, just a fraction.
My fingers graze her spine.
Warm. Smooth.
And entirely too familiar.
Five years didn’t erase muscle memory, and my cock hardens as goosebumps rise across her perfect flesh.
I shove the unwanted reaction down, gritting my teeth as I work downward, each button releasing a breath of heat.
I shouldn’t notice the shiver that runs through her.
I shouldn’t feel my own pulse spike.
It brings back painful memories of a different wedding night—one full of laughter and soft lips and promises made with reckless faith.
Genevieve.
I swallow her name before it kills me.
“We could’ve hired someone to do this,” I mutter.
“And broadcast to the entire staff that I don’t want my husband to touch me on our wedding night? Is it really so hard to just be civil?”
A mirthless laugh escapes me. “Civil? You’re the one who called my family tyrants.”
“If the shoe fits,” she fires back, but the heat has left her voice. It’s quieter now. Sadder. “I don’t hate you because you’re a Chiaroscuro.”
The room tightens. I keep unbuttoning, careful, methodical.
“Why do you hate me, then?”
She sucks in a breath. “You know why.”
I do.
And I don’t. Because even if I was the one who walked away, she betrayed me long before I left her.
I undo the last button, and the dress loosens, baring the line of her spine, all the way down to the dimples that frame it just above her tail bone.
She grips the fabric to her chest so it doesn’t fall.
“Thanks,” she whispers, stepping away like my touch burned her. Maybe it did.
She disappears into the bathroom.
I strip out of my suit, folding each piece with military precision—a habit Genevieve thought was cute, a habit that kept me sane when everything else fell apart.
The sound of water running from the bathroom makes my brain flicker to places I don’t want it to go.
To wet skin wrapped in steam and bodies pressed close. I shut it down. Hard.
I might be married to Aisling, but I’m not her husband.
Not her lover.
Not anymore.
She reemerges wearing cotton shorts and a tank top, her nipples tenting the soft fabric and daring me to look at them.
But I keep my eyes trained on her damp hair, her clean face.
She’s washed off all her makeup but is just as beautiful in that effortless, infuriating way she’s always been.
Her freckles stand out more prominently against her skin now, and my lips ache with the memory of kissing them, worshiping each one—once upon a time.
Aisling hesitates at the foot of the bed. “Which side do you want?”
I shrug. “Pick one.”
She crawls in, staying near the edge, and I slide in next to her, keeping as much distance as possible.
But the mattress dips.
Sheets rustle.
Her warmth is right there.
Her scent—floral and human and maddening—wraps around me like a chokehold.
The room goes dark when I switch off the lamp, and the silence thickens again.
After a minute, she whispers, “Raf?”
“Hmm?”
“Thank you for agreeing to this alliance.”
I stare up at the ceiling, heart pounding.
“Why did you agree to this?”
Silence.
Then, “Because I’d do anything to protect my family.”
At least she’s honest.
Even if she hates me.
Something I can’t say for myself.
Because I can feel the truth hammering behind the walls I’ve erected in my mind.
The truth about my feelings toward the woman lying beside me—and what they would mean about my feelings toward my late wife.
I exhale, long and shakily.
The guilt is a monster tonight, crawling under my ribs, whispering that I betrayed the only woman I ever promised forever to.
But attraction is another monster entirely.
Aisling shifts again.
Her thigh brushes mine, and electricity shoots through me so sharp that I flinch.
This is going to be a disaster.
A war I should never have signed up to fight.
And I can’t tell if I’ll survive it.
Every breath tastes like regret and want.
Genevieve is dead.
My heart is buried with her.
And yet, lying next to Aisling feels like balancing on the edge of a blade.
This marriage might save our families.
But sharing a bed with the woman I have such a history with, after swearing I’d never want a woman again, after promising forever to someone now rotting in the ground…
Yeah.
This is going to be a painful alliance.