Chapter 9
Eavan has been hiding out in Cillian’s room most of the morning, only coming down once for coffee and toast. At this point, I’m growing certain she lives on a diet consisting solely of bread and jelly.
I haven’t seen much of her, but still, she hasn’t left my thoughts since she walked away from the island last night.
And it’s fucking maddening. Her sweet floral scent is still nestled in my lungs.
That big, hearty laugh of hers is playing on a loop in my ears.
And I swear, I can still feel her skin brushing against mine.
She finally wandered downstairs about two hours ago, dressed in a T-shirt and still wearing those too-tight leggings I can’t pull my eyes from—stomping around with heavy feet and even heavier sighs.
After aimlessly perusing the kitchen cabinets and fridge, then tidying up an already pristine apartment, she finally settled on grabbing a book to read.
The mid-afternoon light shifts across the hardwood floor, drawing my attention from my newspaper back to her.
She’s sprawled on the couch and looks like she’s seconds away from combusting from sheer boredom.
Her legs are dangling over the armrest, and the book she was reading is resting on her chest—although I can fully understand how Cillian’s boring philosophical drivel isn’t holding her attention.
She exhales another exasperated sigh. “Seriously,” she whines, sitting up and pushing her hair out of her face. “Is there anything to do around here? Who doesn’t even own a television? Or a laptop? Board games, even?”
“I’ve got something that’ll keep you occupied,” I taunt, suggestively arching my brow.
Her eyes narrow instantly. “Nope.” She draws out the word and pops the P as she rolls her eyes. “Do you ever get tired of hearing yourself flirt?”
I don’t answer. Instead, I cross the room and stop in front of her.
She leans back into the couch as I bend over her until we are close— too close .
I reach out and slip a finger under her chin, lifting her face until those gorgeous emerald eyes meet mine.
Her breath catches—the tiniest hitch—and that adorable pink flush creeps over her cheeks.
With my voice a deep, gravelly whisper, I ask, “Can you promise to be a good girl and listen to me? ”
Her eyes go wide—a mixture of shock, need, and intrigue staring back at me. She swallows hard, the gulp audible, and I feel her pulse kick under my fingertip.
“Yes,” she chokes.
I lean a fraction closer—any further and my lips would be on hers. “Grab your shoes, princess.”
Her eyebrows scrunch together, and confusion floods her features. I can practically see a question forming on her tongue. “Cillian said I can’t leave the apartment,” she mutters, cautiously.
I shrug. “Cillian isn’t here.” That’s all it takes. She dips under my arm and launches herself from the couch like a kid who’s been told they’re going to Disney World. Her excitement is palpable, bouncing up the stairs two at a time with her long red locks swaying behind her.
Within minutes, she comes back down in a pair of heeled booties that make her legs look a mile long and a short denim jacket tossed over a knee-length floral dress that hugs every curve she’s got. Fuck, she looks good.
One hand on the knob, I pause at the front door and stare down at her. “Don’t make me regret this. You will not leave my side for a second.” She sassily bats her eyelashes and flashes me a coy smile in response. “Say it,” I demand.
She sighs dramatically. “I will not leave your side for a second,” she parrots, a devilish grin pulling at the corner of her mouth. “Because you’re totally overbearing and completely obsessed with me . ”
Taking a deep breath—and struggling not to roll my eyes—I pull open the door. As we step into the elevator, I glance at her sideways. I’m so going to regret this.
“Where are you taking me?” she chirps as I push the button for the lobby.
“There’s a bookstore down the street. You clearly like to read. I figured you would like something that doesn’t involve your brother’s taste in existential dread.” She laughs, and her face momentarily lights up. I fucking love that sound.
The short walk is casual and comfortable.
As promised, she keeps pace beside me, occasionally brushing against my arm like she doesn’t notice she’s doing it.
This temporary change in scenery has come with a matching change in her attitude.
She’s smiling, bubbly, and I haven’t caught so much as a glimmer of her usual bratty defiance.
By the time we reach the bookstore, she’s practically buzzing.
She walks with purpose between the shelves, following the signs straight to the romance section.
Of course. I hang back, arms crossed and leaning against the end of the shelf, watching as she picks up book after book with ridiculous covers—shirtless, muscular men and titles full of suggestive plays on words. Okay, some of them are pretty clever.
“I see you have a type,” I tease when she picks up a book with a dark-haired man wearing nothing but sunglasses and a six-pack.
She glares at me, putting the book back on the shelf. “What? Strong, emotionally available men who pine for their women for hundreds of pages. ”
“That sounds horrible.” I feign disgust.
“It’s vulnerable,” she corrects, playfully sticking out her tongue. “Maybe you should try it sometime, instead of being an arrogant flirt.”
I shake my head at her, but I’m smiling uncontrollably.
By the time we leave the bookstore, she has three books tucked under her arm and a satisfied glimmer in her eyes.
Her happiness alone was worth paying for.
We’re about a quarter of a block from the apartment, nearing a busy intersection, when a couple with a stroller accidentally cuts in front of me.
I pause to avoid colliding with them. And just like that, Eavan is ahead of me. Too far ahead.
“Eavan!” I call, watching her step off the curb. Slipping between cars stopped at the traffic light, she glances over her shoulder and shouts, “It’s fine! The building is right there. I’ll meet you upstairs.”
“No!” I shout, my pulse surging. “Wait!” But she doesn’t stop. By the time my foot hits the curb, she’s disappearing into the crowd on the other side. A stream of speeding cars separates us, and I teeter between the sidewalk and approaching cars—jaw tight and heart hammering.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
The second the light flicks yellow, I step into traffic. Cars honk. Brakes screech. I dodge between stopped and slowing cars—my only focus is getting across the fucking street.
By the time I make it into the building’s lobby, my chest is heaving. Not from running. From the red-hot anger currently coursing through my veins. “Eavan!” I shout her name, spinning in a slow, desperate circle as I scan the large open lobby. Nothing. It’s quiet. Empty. Too empty.
I bolt toward the elevator bank and slip into a cab just as the doors start to close. Ignoring the woman inside, I slam the button for my floor. My reflection in the metal doors looks like a stranger. Wild eyes. Tight jaw. Struggling to contain my fury.
She didn’t listen.
She never listens.
But this time, it wasn’t cute. It wasn’t bratty in a way that gets under my skin. This was reckless. Dangerous. She walked away from me without a thought—without any hesitation—like the entire city isn’t a threat to her.
She promised she would listen. But, then again, she also promised she would stay by my side.
She doesn’t get it—the responsibility her brother gave me to keep her safe.
They were simple rules to make sure she was protected from all the threats she doesn’t know about and can’t see coming.
But she thinks she’s clever—that this is a game.
It’s fun for her to push boundaries and test my limits. But her life isn’t a game to me.
This time, she went too far.
With every floor that passes, my anger bubbles more, fiery and sharp, behind my ribs. Because this isn’t about control. It’s not even about rules. It’s about her. About giving her what she needs. Someone to teach her how to listen. How to behave.
I rub my clammy palm against the thigh of my pants as I watch the final few floors pass. By the time the elevator dings and the doors slide open, every cell in my body is bristling, tense with frustration and… need.