Chapter 18
RAFAEL
The pain hits so fast, it feels physical, like a blade sliding between my ribs to pierce my heart.
Genevieve.
Hearing Aisling say her name rips something open inside me that I’ve spent far too many hours trying to cauterize shut.
I turn my face toward the ceiling, because if I look at Aisling right now, I might break in a way I can’t afford. My jaw locks. My hands curl into the sheets.
For a long second, I say nothing, and the silence stretches, heavy and expectant.
If she doesn’t know, I owe her the truth.
“I assumed it was common knowledge,” I finally say. My voice sounds steady, which feels like a lie. “I never tried to hide the marriage—or how she died. Then again, my father never supported our relationship, so it wouldn’t surprise me if he took efforts to sweep it under the rug.”
Aisling shifts beside me. I feel the movement more than I see it, the mattress dipping, her attention sharpening as she scoots closer. “I didn’t know,” she says quietly.
Of course not. I almost wish she did because just thinking about Genevieve twists like a knife.
Talking about her might be more than I can endure. But I won’t keep secrets from Aisling.
We’re in this pact together—fake marriage or not—and she deserves all the gritty details of what brought us to this point.
Blowing out a breath, I push my back up against the headboard, then drag a hand down my face. My fingers tremble, so I lace them together to hide it.
“I met her at Portentia’s,” I start simply.
Aisling stiffens, and I know it’s bringing back memories of how we met.
“Years after you and I were finished,” I clarify, though it doesn’t feel like I’m softening the blow much at all. I swallow. “She was my sub. For a while.”
The words sit between us, raw and unvarnished. I don’t look at her. I can’t. I keep my gaze fixed on the far wall, on the faint crack near the corner of the ceiling that I’ve never noticed before.
“What’s a sub?” Aisling finally asks, breaking the uncomfortable silence.
I glance toward her, the corner of my lip curling ruefully. Of course Aisling would be so naive that she wouldn’t know.
I don’t know how I ever missed the signs that first night with her.
And though we did a lot of things in those three nights together, it didn’t take me long to figure out that she was far less practiced than the girls I usually took to my bed.
I’d shown her lots of things—but we never made it so far as to cover dominance and submission on a more permanent level.
“It’s the closest thing to a relationship I’d ever desired before,” I continue. “Clean. Consensual. No deeper attachments—but something in my life that I could control.”
Aisling is watching me carefully, not judging. Just listening.
“But Genevieve was just so easy to talk to.” A huff of something almost like a laugh escapes my throat. It dies quickly. “I started seeing her outside the club as well. She didn’t care who I was—or she did, but she decided it didn’t scare her.” My chest tightens. “I fell in love with her.”
The words land like a confession and a condemnation all at once, and it feels like Aisling is holding her breath as she waits for me to keep going.
“My father hated her,” I go on. “Hated that she was a girl from our club. Hated that I’d chosen someone without blood or strategy or leverage.
” I glance down at my hands, knuckles pale where they’re locked together.
“I don’t know. Maybe part of me loved her because I knew how much it pissed him off.
He tried to get me to break up with her on multiple occasions.
But the harder he pushed, the more I wanted to call her my own. So we eloped.”
Aisling sucks in a quiet breath.
“We’d known each other less than a year,” I say.
“Were married less than six months.” I shake my head slowly, the memory sour and sharp.
“He still let her move into the house after that. He let her live here rather than letting me walk away from the family. I don’t know if it was mercy or control—probably both.
No doubt, he figured he could keep our relationship quieter if he kept a close eye on us. ”
My voice drops. “The worst of it is that part of me wonders if I married her just to spite my father.” The admission tastes bitter.
“I told myself it didn’t matter. That I loved her and that was enough.
Besides, what did my motivations matter when I could give her a good life, I could protect her?
” I finally turn to look at Aisling, the guilt and remorse overwhelming. “I couldn’t.”
The room feels colder suddenly, like the memory can suck the heat from everything it touches.
“When the Yakuza came—the Irish, the Bratva. They tore through our front gates so quickly, I didn’t even know we were under attack.
” My throat tightens, and I swallow hard, my eyes closing against the memory of Genevieve’s scream—her plea for help.
“Kenji’s men grabbed her while she was trying to find me. ”
Aisling’s hand lifts halfway, then stops, like she doesn’t know if she’s allowed to touch me.
Slowly, she drops it back to the bed, her blue eyes round with unspoken sympathy.
“By the time I realized what was happening, that my wife was in danger, it was too late.” The words come out flat, stripped of inflection. “They slit her throat. Right in front of me.”
Aisling’s face pales, her freckles standing out starkly against her white skin.
“I was fighting,” I continue. “I could see her. I just couldn’t reach her in time.
” My breath shudders, and I clench my jaw, fighting back the wave of emotion that threatens to swallow me whole.
“I held her while she died, just bled out in my arms in a matter of seconds.” I can still see the blood on my hands in my mind’s eye, the way she stared up, terrified, looking to me as if I could save her.
“She tried to speak.” I shake my head. “But they cut her throat so deeply, she couldn’t make a sound.
I don’t know what she wanted to say. I’ll never know. ”
The room is silent except for my breathing. I stare down at my hands, still seeing crimson that stains my hands, remembering the lifeless way Genevieve watched me even after she released her last breath.
“It’s my fault,” I say, the weight of my guilt crashing down on me with brutal force. “I brought her into my world. I failed to protect her.”
Aisling’s eyes shine, but she doesn’t interrupt, the soft hitch in her breath the only sound that escapes her.
“I intended to stay with her,” I say quietly.
“To die with her that night.” My fingers curl into the sheets, and I shake my head more violently this time.
“Sandro wouldn’t let me. The place was still crawling with enemies, so he dragged me out of the house while it burned.
Told me I didn’t get to follow her. Told me I owed her more than that.
” My jaw tightens. “He told me we would avenge her.”
The promise still hums in my bones, a low, unrelenting note.
Aisling reaches for my hand then.
Her fingers are warm and steady as they wrap around mine, and it cracks something inside me, a small fissure allowing emotion to leak through—like steam escaping from a pressure cooker.
She holds me like she understands that if she squeezes too hard, I might splinter.
She hesitates, then says, “I never knew Genevieve, but I don’t think she wouldn’t have wanted you to die with her.”
I close my eyes. “No,” I agree. “She was always kind. Understanding.” I stare down at where our hands are joined. “That doesn’t change what I owe her,” I say. “She stood by me, loved me. Despite my name. Despite my family.”
I feel Aisling tense, her spine straightening, and she starts to draw back, tension flickering through her fingers. I know why as my words echo back to me.
Despite my family.
They hit too close to home—because I refused to be with her when I found out who her family was. And before she can put space between us, I tighten my grip on her fingers, anchoring her hand to mine.
Her gaze snaps up, her azure eyes meeting mine, and I can see the pain flickering behind them, fresh and bitter.
“Aisling,” I say, turning fully toward her. “I’m sorry. What I did five years ago was wrong.”
Her eyes widen.
“I ended things badly,” I continue. “Abruptly. Cruelly. I know that.”
Her jaw tightens, but she doesn’t look away.
“When I found out who you were, I panicked,” I explain.
Then I huff out a breath, my lips curving into a sour smile.
“Your family and mine already had enough friction. I thought, if the Murrays found out I was sleeping with their daughter—who was supposed to be untouched—it would end in conflict. I didn’t want to be the spark that turned things violent.
” I give her hand a firm squeeze, willing her to understand, to believe that it wasn’t my intention to hurt her, to use her, like she thinks I did.
“But that doesn’t excuse how I handled it.
I should have trusted you, explained myself. ”
“I get it,” she says finally, her voice quiet when she speaks. “And I… I didn’t hide who I was to intentionally deceive you. I had no idea what…” She sighs, her eyes dropping. “I waited to tell you who I was because I wanted one thing in my life that wasn’t already decided for me.”
The honesty in it hits me harder than any accusation, and her words resonate deep inside me, forming a sense of commiseration in the fact that our paths in life were not our own to choose.
She came to Portentia’s looking for an adventure she could claim as her own—much like I chose to be with Genevieve to prove I could take something for myself.
“I know,” I murmur. “I didn’t get it then. But I do now. And I’m sorry.”
The word sits between us, fragile and overdue.
She studies my face like she’s searching for something. Whatever she finds, it makes her nod. “Thank you.”
It’s not forgiveness, but it feels like a door cracking open after years of being sealed shut.
We sit in silence for a long time, hands still joined, the air between us thick with truths we haven’t dared to voice before.
Several times, Aisling’s lips part, as if she wants to say something more, but she doesn’t.
And finally, with a gentle squeeze, she releases my hand to retreat to her side of the bed.
“Good night, Raf,” she murmurs, settling beneath the covers.
Rolling onto my side, I click off the bedside light, my chest feeling heavy, and yet, my heart feels lighter than it has in a very long time. “Good night.”