Chapter 6 Aisling
AISLING
The warmth that wraps around me as I slowly rise to consciousness feels dangerously safe and comforting.
For the briefest of moments, a smile tugs at my lips, a sense of contentment and belonging so rich, it seeps deep beneath my skin.
But as the fog of sleep drifts away, reality starts to sink in, memories of the previous day—my wedding day—flashing before my mind’s eye as if in fast forward.
Then my eyelids fly wide as my brain belatedly registers the position I’m in.
The strong arm wrapped around me like a shield, wrist resting between my breasts, a masculine hand cupping one in an absent, possessive way that makes me forget how to breathe.
There’s heat along my spine—body heat that definitely isn’t my own—and then something harder, more insistent, pressing against the curve of my ass.
Oh, God. Raf.
At some point in the night, he must have rolled over, pulled me against him, and started to spoon me—with his palm on my breast and his erection tucked perfectly against me like he belongs there.
My heart takes off in my chest, thundering, betraying me. I don’t want this. I don’t want him.
I definitely don’t want to want him. But my body must not have gotten the memo.
I hate Raf Chiaroscuro.
I hate what he did to me.
I hate that five years later, every wound still aches when I prod it.
But my body?
My body remembers the way we fit together.
His heat.
His smell.
The iron strength of his muscles—even if they’re larger than before.
Something selfish and cruel inside me whispers, You could wake him like this. You could grind back against him, feel that slow, low groan vibrate against your neck the way it used to.
I stiffen, horrified by thought—by the way my core throbs at the memory of that sound.
Before I can decide if I should elbow him in the ribs or carefully disentangle myself, Raf stirs.
Breath whispers across the back of my neck, a sleepy, unguarded sound.
His fingers twitch over my breast, like muscle memory.
Then he stills.
A sharp, instant awareness ripples through him as he seems to realize where his hand is—and what part of him is pressed against me.
He goes as rigid as a statue, then slowly, carefully lifts his palm away, inch by inch, like removing evidence from a crime scene.
The tip of his finger brushes, featherlight, across my nipple, and my body lights up like a live wire.
It takes every ounce of my will power not to shudder.
I force my breathing slow.
Even. I don’t move as I fake sleep, because I don’t know what else to do.
Raf eases away, slow and controlled, tension coming off him in waves.
Then the mattress dips as he sits on the edge of the bed.
I don’t open my eyes, but I can tell he puts his face in his hands because I hear a low, vicious swear, spoken under his breath, like he’s furious with himself.
And it makes my stomach knot.
The mattress shifts, the floor creaking as he rises.
Then his footsteps cross the room.
The bathroom door whispers open.
The moment the bathroom door clicks shut, I roll onto my back and stare up at the cracked ceiling.
Jesus.
Sharing a bed with Raf is going to be a slow, lingering hell.
A beat of silence, then the sharp metallic hiss of a shower turning on allows the tension in my chest to release, my breath escaping along with it.
But when I close my eyes, the feeling of him in bed beside me comes rushing back—warm weight, callused palm, that thick, hard press of him against me.
I can feel it so precisely, I could trace the shape of him in my mind with perfect clarity.
I squeeze my thighs together, mortification pooling in my belly.
What is wrong with me?
I must be some dark shade of masochistic to feel anything for Raf after the pain he caused me—after the sledgehammer he took to my life.
But I can’t lie to myself.
I shift, and the wet heat between my legs is unmistakable.
The need is sharp and humiliating, a pulse low in my belly that has everything to do with my new fake husband.
Without thinking, I reach between my thighs, fingers sliding over damp, swollen flesh, and my body jolts with need.
A broken sound slips from my throat, soft and hungry, and I bite down on my lip as the ghost of a memory plays out across my skin.
The brush of warm, thick fingers parting my folds, gathering my arousal to swirl it over the sensitive bud at my apex.
My fingers mirror the motion, and electrifying relief rushes through my veins, warming my body in an instant.
My nipples harden, my back arching as a quiver ripples through my thighs.
God, I miss sex.
I haven’t felt a man’s touch since Raf, and now, I can’t get it out of my head.
For one insane second, I almost do it—almost chase the pleasure, almost let myself come thinking about his hand on my breast, his body against mine, that guttural noise he makes when he’s inside me…
Heat surges through me, chasing away my caution as a soft whimper breaks free from my chest.
And the sound brings reality crashing back down like a slap.
My hand yanks away like I’ve been burned.
I sit up, furious with myself, nails digging into my palms.
Raf had power over my body once. He turned it inside out, made me addicted, made me weak. But never again.
I scramble out of the bed, grabbing the silk robe I find hanging on the back of the closet door, and shrug it on with jerky movements.
I don’t even bother tying it before I’m moving once more. I just need distance.
Space.
Air.
Coffee—and lots of it—to clear my mind.
I yank open the bedroom door, stepping into the hallway half-blind with anger and embarrassment.
The wing is still dark, early-morning shadows stretching long over half-finished plaster and scaffolding.
The renovations everywhere—exposed beams, dust, drop cloths, taped-off doorways.
The Chiaroscuro estate used to be known as the pinnacle of luxury.
Now it looks like a war zone trying to dress up as a home.
I breathe in sawdust and paint.
It helps—sort of.
Navigating the hall barefoot—because I refuse to go back into the room and risk running into Raf—I ignore the biting cold floor under my feet and pull my robe more snugly around me.
I can hear work beginning outside—the thud of equipment, muffled voices, the revving of a truck engine.
Construction starts at dawn here, it would seem. These people don’t waste time.
I suppose they can’t afford to.
Descending the stairs, I cross into what used to be a dining room. There’s still a massive table, untouched by damage, long enough to seat an army—or a Mafia council.
Someone has abandoned a sketchbook, a coffee mug with cold sludge at the bottom, and a stack of blueprints detailing security reinforcements.
Chiaroscuros don’t do cozy domestic mornings.
They do strategized survival.
Asking one of the household staff for directions, I head to the kitchen—one of the few areas of the house that seem to be fully functional.
People move around efficiently, going through motions wired by routine.
One of the staff members sees me and startles, nearly dropping a plate.
I forgot it might be weird to show up half-dressed in a house full of criminals and employees.
In the Murray house, the staff is considered more an extension of the family than hired help—and I often joined in on the menial tasks of cooking and cleaning because, like my mother, I don’t enjoy idle hands and certainly don’t consider myself above the work.
But here, it would seem my presence is neither expected, nor appreciated.
And I fumble to recover as I consider the best way to move forward with my temporary living circumstances. “Coffee. Please,” I murmur, running a shaky hand through my hair. My voice comes out hoarse. Raw. Not at all like someone who has their shit together.
“Yes, Signora Chiaroscuro,” the woman replies nervously.
The title hits like a slap, and I want to correct her—want to tell her not to call me that, because it’s not my name—but the words stick.
Because I did marry Raf.
And everyone here will see me as his.
The woman sets a mug down on the small table in front of me, steam rising.
Taking a seat with a word of thanks, I wrap my hands around it like it’s the only warm, steady thing in my life.
I take a long sip. Bitter, perfect. My head clears a little.
The house vibrates with life and conflict and ghosts.
I can feel the weight of it—the death that happened here, the violence that tore this place apart. The grief embedded in the walls.
The Chiaroscuros lost their father, their empire, everything they built.
And for the first time, it sinks in that it wasn’t just the Chiaroscuro brothers whose lives were torn apart the day my family helped the Tanakas tear apart their home.
These workers must have suffered from the violence, the trauma of losing their place of work, their employment, maybe even their home.
Guilt churns in my gut at the thought.
I can’t imagine they’re too happy with their new Don for marrying me.
But they keep their eyes averted, their expressions neutral as they go about their day, not giving anything away.
I take another swallow of coffee.
A door upstairs opens, footsteps sounding on the stairs. Which means the peace of this moment is on borrowed time.
My stomach knots, stupidly fluttery at the thought that it might be Raf coming down to join me—anticipation tangled with irritation, desire tangled with disgust.
I stare into the dark swirl of my coffee.
How long will this marriage last?
How long until he slips past my defenses just by existing too close?
How long before proximity becomes familiarity, and familiarity becomes temptation, and temptation becomes a mistake?
Footsteps approach from behind me—measured, steady—and my pulse spikes, but I refuse to turn around. Instead, I lift my mug to my lips and brace for company.